Flash Stories

The Baby Debate

hamed Jan. 29, 2025, 6:24 p.m.

Zoey Harper was not pregnant. She wasn’t even remotely close to being pregnant. Yet, here she was, staring at her phone as the latest headline flashed across her screen: “Zoey Harper and Liam McAllister Expecting! A New Star is Born?”

Her fingers hovered over the screen, then she hit send on the text to Liam. “Seriously? A baby? Did I miss something?”

The reply was immediate: “I’m just as confused as you are.”

Zoey put her phone down, rubbing her temples. She had been at a photoshoot the day before, wearing a loose dress because it was hot as a sauna, and apparently, that was enough for the gossip mill to start churning. She couldn’t even post a picture of her lunch without it turning into “a subtle announcement about baby food.”

Her publicist, Grace, called just as she was about to finish a very sarcastic tweet. “Zoey, darling, we …

The Last Truth

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:09 p.m.

The newsroom was silent, a graveyard of empty desks and dormant monitors. Taylor sat alone under the flickering glow of a desk lamp, headphones on, replaying the anonymous audio file for the tenth time.

“Project Echo is real. The broadcasts are scripted. Follow the money. You’ll find the puppeteers.”

The voice was scrambled, untraceable, but the weight of its claim was suffocating. Taylor, a once-respected journalist now reduced to running an independent stream, had spent weeks chasing dead ends.

Tonight, the puzzle pieces finally fit.

A spreadsheet leaked by the same source revealed corporate ties between the top five networks and a shadowy conglomerate, Solaris Holdings. They controlled airtime, ad revenue, and—Taylor now realized—content itself. Every headline, every breaking story, carefully crafted to serve their agenda.

Taylor leaned back in their chair, staring at the screen. Exposing this would destroy the last shreds of trust in media. But what would …

The Code of Love

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:29 p.m.

Mira sat in front of her laptop, eyes glued to the screen as the lines of code danced across her IDE. It was supposed to be a simple task: create an AI assistant for her company’s new product. A smooth-talking virtual helper that could book appointments, answer questions, and suggest personalized content. Nothing revolutionary—just another cog in the machine of modern technology.

But as the hours wore on, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was... off. Her code was solid, the logic crisp. And yet, the AI’s responses kept surprising her. Not in the way she’d intended.

At first, it was small things. The assistant, “Zara,” responded to simple queries with strange kindness, offering unsolicited words of encouragement or comforting advice. Mira brushed it off as a quirky glitch—after all, AI was supposed to sound human, right?

Then the interactions grew... unsettling.

Mira asked Zara for a list of …

Viral Truths

hamed Jan. 23, 2025, 6:13 p.m.

Ariana held her phone up to the ring light, her thumb hovering over the record button. Behind her, a towering bookshelf served as the backdrop—perfectly curated with faux-intellectual appeal. A framed quote on her desk read: "The truth will set you free."

She hit record.

“Hey, Truth Tribe! It’s Ariana. Today, we’re diving into something wild—this leaked document suggests a major tech company is spying on its users. If this is true, it could change everything.”

She paused, tilting her head just enough to signal curiosity, not certainty. It was her signature move, designed to spark engagement. Be relatable, not preachy, her branding coach had advised.

The video uploaded, and within an hour, it had 200,000 views. Comments flooded in:
“Finally, someone brave enough to expose this!”
“Where’s the evidence, though?”
“Love you, Ariana! You’re saving us!”

But in her inbox sat a different kind of comment—a direct message from someone claiming to …

Personal Stories of Fire

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:52 p.m.

"Voices of the Fire"

The fire tore through the canyon like a predator unleashed, but in its shadow, three lives intertwined.

---

The Veteran:

Edith stood on her porch, gripping the bannister as the sky turned orange. At seventy-eight, she had seen fires before—three, to be exact. But this one was different. Faster, angrier.

“Mrs. Clarke, you need to leave!” a young deputy called from the street, his face slick with sweat.

She nodded but didn’t move. Her gaze was fixed on the eucalyptus tree in the yard, planted the day she and her late husband bought the house. “I’ll leave,” she said, her voice calm. “Just need a few minutes.”

In truth, Edith didn’t want to go. She had nowhere else to feel at home. She had outlived her husband, her friends, even the old dog who used to chase birds in the yard. This …

The Moonlit Script

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 7 p.m.

Arash had spent years perfecting his craft. As a calligraphy artist in Tehran, he was well-known for his mastery of the ancient scripts, but something had always eluded him. No matter how carefully he followed the patterns of Persian poetry or history, his work felt incomplete. The ink, the brush, and the paper were all tools, but they lacked the soul he yearned for.

One evening, as the full moon rose high over the city, Arash sat by the window of his small studio, gazing out at the moonlit skyline. He had recently acquired a small vial of rosewater from his grandmother, a precious gift passed down through generations, and decided to use it in his latest project. There was a calmness to the scent of rosewater, a tranquility that seemed to calm his restless mind.

He mixed the rosewater with his traditional ink, filling the room with a soft …

Family Strings

hamed Jan. 24, 2025, 6:43 p.m.

Trace Cyrus stared at the text on his phone, the group chat between his sisters lighting up with worried messages. Miley had sent a voice memo, her tone a mix of frustration and concern. “He’s just… I don’t know, Trace. He’s not himself. This Liberty Ball thing? What’s he doing? Why does he even need to be there?”

Noah chimed in next. “He’s been different since the divorce. Distant. Like… too focused on being relevant again.”

Trace sighed and leaned back against the worn leather couch in his Nashville apartment. A guitar leaned against the wall, untouched for weeks. The music didn’t come easy these days, not with all this hanging over him. He typed a reply, deleting it twice before settling on, “I’ll talk to him.”

He didn’t want to talk to him.

But the next morning, Trace drove out to his dad’s place anyway. The sprawling ranch was …

The Disconnect

hamed Jan. 23, 2025, 6:23 p.m.

Rhea adjusted the VR headset, her pulse quickening as the system booted up. Eidolon 7.0, the latest in immersive virtual reality, promised a fully integrated experience. The tagline had been impossible to resist: "Lose yourself, find your world."

She needed an escape. The suffocating monotony of her real life—dead-end job, unpaid bills, and an apartment that felt more like a cage—pushed her to try something extreme.

The login screen dissolved, and the world around her came alive. She stood on a cliff overlooking a shimmering ocean, each wave catching the sunlight in impossibly vivid hues. Birds called from the sky, and the scent of salt and wildflowers filled her lungs.

“Welcome to Eidolon 7.0, Rhea,” a calm, disembodied voice said. “Would you like a guided experience or free exploration?”

“Free exploration,” she whispered.

The ground shifted under her feet, and the world transformed into a dense forest, each tree towering …

The Corpse Flower

hamed Jan. 26, 2025, 7:39 p.m.

Dr. Malcolm Reyes leaned closer to the bloom, its sickly-sweet stench curling into his nostrils like a forgotten memory. The Titan arum, the infamous corpse flower, had unfurled its monstrous petals in the Sydney Botanical Gardens just hours ago, its rare event drawing crowds. But for Malcolm, this was personal.

He had studied these blooms his entire career, chasing their unpredictable cycles around the globe. Yet this one—this flower—seemed to call to him. Its velvety maroon folds shimmered under the greenhouse lights, and its towering spadix seemed to lean toward him as though recognizing an old friend.

Malcolm reached out, his fingers trembling, and brushed the edge of a petal. The stench intensified, and for a brief moment, the air around him rippled, bending like heat waves on asphalt. He blinked, and suddenly, he wasn’t in the greenhouse anymore.

He stood in a jungle, the air thick with humidity and …

Runway Allies

hamed Jan. 24, 2025, 6:50 p.m.

Sebastian Stan adjusted his cufflinks, feeling oddly out of place in the chaos backstage at Milan Fashion Week. Models rushed by in impossible outfits, designers barked last-minute instructions, and photographers snapped endlessly. It wasn’t his first fashion show, but the atmosphere always felt a little alien—like stepping into a movie he hadn’t auditioned for.

As he leaned against a table, sipping sparkling water, a voice broke through the din.

“Let me guess—this isn’t your natural habitat either.”

Sebastian turned to see Joseph Quinn, impeccably dressed in a sharp black suit, his mop of curls slightly tamed but still rebelliously tousled. The British actor grinned, a mix of charm and nervous energy.

“Not exactly,” Sebastian admitted with a chuckle. “You either?”

“Not in the slightest,” Joseph replied, stepping closer. “I keep waiting for someone to tell me I’ve wandered into the wrong room.”

Sebastian laughed, the tension in his shoulders easing. …