Flash Stories

One Thousand Clay Birds

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:26 p.m.

Aiko’s hands were raw, the tips of her fingers covered in the dust of clay. The studio, usually filled with the soft hum of life and color, had become her sanctuary of silence. Only the sound of the clay breaking as it fell into shape, then the rhythmic pressing of her thumb against each delicate wing, filled the space. She would hold each bird to the light, inspecting it for flaws, before setting it down to dry.

Her partner, Haruto, lay in the room across the hall, his body still, trapped in a coma that had lasted nearly a year. Doctors said there was no hope. They told her that it was a waiting game now, a matter of time before his body would give way. But Aiko refused to listen.

She believed in the old stories, the ones her grandmother had whispered to her when she was young. One …

The White Div's Daughter

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:44 p.m.

The cavern shimmered with frost, each crystal a fragile web of light. Shirin sat at the mouth of the cave, her pale hair spilling like moonlight down her back, her eyes fixed on the human camp far below. Smoke curled from their fires, faint against the starlit sky.

Her father’s voice boomed behind her, shaking the earth. “You’ve been staring at them again.”

Shirin didn’t flinch. “They’re fascinating,” she said softly, her voice like the wind threading through winter trees.

The White Div stepped into the moonlight, his massive frame cloaked in a mantle of snow and shadows. His eyes, as cold as glaciers, narrowed. “They are dangerous.”

“Perhaps,” Shirin replied, not looking away. “But they are also brave.”

“Bravery is the disguise of weakness,” her father growled. “Do not let their fires fool you. They will snuff out your light if you draw too close.”

Shirin said nothing, but …

The Silk Painter

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:04 p.m.

Lian’s hands trembled as she dipped the brush into the ink. The delicate fibers of the silk stretched under her fingertips, responding to her touch like a living thing. She had spent decades perfecting her craft, painting portraits of the noble and the common alike, capturing the essence of those who sat before her. But this one, this portrait of Mei, was unlike any she had ever created.

Mei, her lover. The woman who had walked into Lian's life like a breeze, soft and unexpected, yet entirely unforgettable. Their love was an unspoken bond, a delicate thread that wove through the very fabric of their days. Yet, as Lian’s hands grew slower and her sight began to blur, she feared that the thread would unravel before she could capture Mei’s face for eternity.

The first time her vision began to falter, it had been so slight she thought it was …

The Roc’s Egg

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:55 p.m.

Dr. Amir Rahimi had seen many things in his years of studying climate change, but nothing had prepared him for the discovery that lay beneath the shifting sands of the Persian Gulf coast.

It was the dry season, the sun hanging low in the sky like a burning coin. His research team had been out on a routine survey, mapping the effects of coastal erosion, when one of the workers, Morteza, had spotted something strange protruding from the earth. It looked like a massive rock—smooth, rounded, and impossibly large.

Amir knelt down, his heart quickening as he ran his hand over the surface. The fossilized shell was cold and textured, unlike any geological formation he had ever encountered. He dusted off the sand, revealing more of its shape, his mind racing with the possibilities.

“This can’t be real,” Morteza muttered, his eyes wide.

The others gathered around, but Amir was …

The Gharial's Tears

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:25 p.m.

The river, ancient and winding, carried its story through the heart of India, flowing steadily beneath the sky where the stars whispered secrets to the moon. In its depths, hidden by the silver ripples of the Ganges, lived two souls whose love had endured beyond the barriers of time.

In their past lives, they had been human—he, a fisherman who had loved her with a quiet passion, and she, a village girl whose laughter had filled the air like the sweetest song. Their love had been forbidden, pulled apart by the cruel hand of fate. She had drowned, swept away by a storm while trying to escape the world that would never accept their union. He had died shortly after, heartbroken and lost.

But love, as it often does, refused to die.

When the river’s flow met their spirits, they were reborn—twisted into the forms of creatures that would forever …

The Instagram Rumi

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:45 p.m.

Layla’s feed was everything: perfectly curated photos of sunsets, lattes, and glossy flat lays of her latest book finds. She had built a small empire around her “self-love” brand, offering advice on everything from skincare to soul-searching. But after one particularly grueling day of posting, she found herself at a crossroads. The likes, the comments—they were all so… hollow. She craved something deeper, but she didn’t know where to begin.

That’s when she stumbled upon a Rumi quote in her inbox. It came from an unfamiliar account—@Rumi_Whispers.

"You were born with wings, why prefer to crawl through life?"

She wasn’t a spiritual guru, but there was something about the simplicity and depth of it that felt like a sign. Maybe she could post it. Maybe this was the direction she had been subconsciously searching for.

She shared the quote to her story, paired with a soft sunset filter. She tagged …

The Forgotten Gate

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:41 p.m.

Dr. Parisa Shirazi stood in the biting wind, staring at the jagged ruin jutting out of the barren mountainside. The gray stones, weathered by centuries, bore intricate carvings—a language she didn’t recognize, yet somehow felt she had always known.

“It’s just a wall,” her assistant Navid muttered, kicking at a loose rock. “An old fort, maybe.”

Parisa shook her head, brushing dirt off one of the carvings with trembling hands. The swirling patterns were unmistakable. “This isn’t just a wall,” she whispered. “It’s the wall.”

Navid frowned. “You can’t mean—”

“Yes. Alexander’s Wall.” Her voice was reverent. “The barrier that held back Gog and Magog.”

The legend had been a fascination of hers since childhood: a gate forged by the Great Alexander to imprison ancient forces of chaos. It was dismissed as myth by scholars, but the unearthed carvings told a different story.

Parisa traced a line of script with …

The Last Incense

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:35 p.m.

In the heart of Chiang Mai, where the mist clings to the mountains and the golden spires of temples gleam against the sunrise, there lived an incense maker named Siriporn. Her shop, nestled at the edge of the old city, was filled with the rich scent of sandalwood, jasmine, and rare spices from across the land. Siriporn was known far and wide for creating incense so powerful that each wisp could stir memories long buried in the heart, transporting the soul to moments lost in time.

But there was one scent, a fragrance she had never dared to craft—until now.

For years, Siriporn had been in love with Panya, a scholar who would visit her shop daily, breathing in the delicate fragrances and sharing quiet conversations about philosophy, nature, and the beauty of life. His eyes were soft like the morning mist, and his voice was like a melody she …

The Last Lotus

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:21 p.m.

Niloofar stood in the doorway of her family’s antique shop, gazing at the delicate relics that had been passed down through generations. Each item had a story, each crack and tarnish a memory from a time long gone. The intricate Persian carpets, the gilded tea sets, the porcelain figurines—they were the essence of her family, the heart of her life. And yet, it was all now for sale.

Her fingers brushed the edge of a jade necklace that had belonged to her grandmother, the last piece of her inheritance. The weight of it, the history, felt too heavy for her to hold any longer. But the truth was, she had no choice.

Tariq, the man she loved, lay in a hospital bed, his body frail and ravaged by a rare illness. The doctors had been clear—without the treatment, he wouldn’t make it. And the money, the vast fortune she had …

Seven Trials

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:46 p.m.

The crowd roared as Arya stepped into the arena, her pulse pounding with the beat of a distant drum. The banners of the competition fluttered in the desert wind, each one emblazoned with the image of Rostam astride Rakhsh. This was no ordinary competition—it was The Trials, an event so steeped in mysticism and legend that no one knew where the challenges truly came from.

Arya adjusted her gloves and scanned the open plain. The announcer’s voice echoed from unseen speakers.

“Seven challenges. Seven tests. Only the brave survive.”

The first trial was announced: Lion's Fury.

A massive gate creaked open, and a roaring lion emerged, its mane wild as fire. Arya froze, her heart thundering. It looked too real to be theater. But the stories of Rostam flooded her mind—how he had slain a lion barehanded. Gritting her teeth, she snatched a spear from the sand and faced the …