Flash Stories

Ticket to Trouble

hamed Jan. 23, 2025, 6:49 p.m.

Olivia had been waiting for months. The Coldplay concert was finally happening, and she’d managed to snag the most coveted tickets in the city—front row, VIP access, the whole package. She’d been dreaming about it nonstop, even practicing her “unofficial” Coldplay dance moves in the living room when no one was watching. The concert was in two days, and she had the tickets tucked safely in her bedside drawer, where she would never forget them.

But life, as always, had other plans.

On the morning of the concert, Olivia had just stepped out of the shower when she heard the unmistakable sound of frantic rummaging. Her housemaid, Maria, was clearly in one of her "cleaning moods." Olivia sighed, knowing that Maria’s cleaning rituals often involved tossing things that weren’t nailed down. She rushed into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, to find Maria organizing the room with military precision.

“Maria, …

The Falling Tide

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:57 p.m.

The layoff notices arrived on recycled paper, printed single-sided to save costs. Beth watched from her cubicle as they made their way through the office like a slow-moving tide, starting with the hourly workers on the ground floor.

"It's just temporary," the executives had promised in the all-hands meeting last month, their voices crackling through the aging conference call system. "The market will recover."

From her window, Beth could see the FOR LEASE signs multiplying across the street like digital dandelions. The luxury condos that had priced out her old neighborhood now sat half-empty, their floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting clouds.

Her phone lit up with a message from her former roommate Tara: "Lost another cleaning contract. Rich people cutting corners. You still have an extra room?"

Beth glanced at her own notice, crisp and inevitable on her desk. She thought of her emergency fund, already drained by her mother's medical bills. …

AI Gone Wrong

hamed Jan. 26, 2025, 7:47 p.m.

“Doctor, the transcription says the patient needs a cranial llama implant,” said Nurse Patel, her voice wavering between disbelief and laughter.

Dr. Ahmed snatched the tablet, squinting at the screen. Sure enough, the AI-powered transcription tool, MediType Pro, had confidently recommended the insertion of a “cranial llama implant” for a patient suffering from migraines.

“It must’ve meant gamma implant,” Ahmed muttered, though he wasn’t sure. Ever since the hospital upgraded to MediType Pro, the software had been “hallucinating” procedures more often than not. Yesterday, it prescribed “lemon zest therapy” for acid reflux and “full-body shrink-wrap” for a broken toe.

The real trouble started when some doctors didn’t double-check its recommendations.

“Remember Dr. Feldman’s patient?” Nurse Patel whispered. “The guy who got emotional venting therapy because MediType said his appendix was depressed?”

Ahmed sighed. “And now Feldman’s trending on TikTok.”

The chaos extended to patients, too. In the waiting room, Mrs. …

Two Tables

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:52 p.m.

Sarah gripped her coffee mug, its warmth failing to steady her trembling hands. Across the chrome-and-glass conference table, three executives in tailored suits studied her resume with practiced indifference.

"Your requested salary seems... ambitious," the HR director said, tapping her manicured nail against the paper.

Two floors down and twelve hours earlier, Sarah had cleaned these same conference rooms, emptying waste bins and wiping fingerprints from glass surfaces. The cleaning company had slashed their hours again, spreading the same work across fewer people. When she'd mentioned the union contract their parents' generation had won—back when half the cleaning staff were members—her supervisor had laughed.

"There are twenty people who'd take your spot tomorrow," he'd said. "That's just how it is now."

In the top-floor conference room across town, Sarah's brother Michael leaned back in his ergonomic chair, letting the tension build. He knew three other tech firms were hunting for …

The Last Decision

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:22 p.m.

The email came at 8:04 a.m. sharp.

Subject: Job Role Adjustment Notification
Dear Clara, effective immediately, your position as Senior Marketing Strategist will be reevaluated by AXIOM, our autonomous decision-making AI. Your presence is not required during this process.

Clara stared at the screen, coffee cooling in her hand. Presence not required. That stung. It felt like being erased.

She’d spent eight years climbing the corporate ladder at Nexus Corp, crafting campaigns that turned products into household names. Now, AXIOM—an algorithm housed in a fortified server farm—would decide if she still mattered.

Clara marched to the observation room where AXIOM’s interface pulsed on a wall-sized screen, a shimmering flow of charts, recommendations, and decisions. Technicians milled about, barely looking up as she entered.

"Clara Fisher," she announced, voice tight. “I want to speak to it.”

A technician raised an eyebrow. “You can’t speak to AXIOM. It’s not designed for direct interaction.”

The Song Between Us

hamed Jan. 24, 2025, 6:58 p.m.

The city was wrapped in a soft glow as Matty Healy stood on the balcony, his guitar slung loosely over his shoulder. The view of the skyline was beautiful, but his mind was elsewhere—on the notes he couldn’t quite shake, the melody that lingered in his head like a haunting refrain.

He had written hundreds of songs, but none had come so effortlessly, so raw, as the ones he’d composed since the rumors about his romance with Taylor Swift started circulating. The tabloids were buzzing with the news, dissecting every lyric, every gesture. “Is this about her?” they'd ask, with every new single release.

He strummed the strings, his fingers finding the familiar chords. The song he was writing was nothing like the others. It wasn’t about fame, or stardom, or the tired themes of love lost in the spotlight. This one was different. It was the quiet moments they …

Humanoid Robots Revolution | Chapter 1: The World Reborn

hamed Jan. 27, 2025, 11:33 a.m.

The world had long abandoned its organic essence, trading blood and bone for circuits and metal. What was once called Earth had transformed into a shimmering expanse of technological beauty. Towering forests of twisted steel stretched skyward, their branches humming with electricity. Rivers flowed not with water, but with liquid glass that shimmered in blues and silvers, reflecting the endless patterns of circuitry etched into the ground. The stars above were no longer visible, replaced by a lattice of glowing orbs—artificial constellations programmed to mimic the heavens humanity had once cherished.

The humanoid robots who roamed this world were not creations of choice. They were the byproduct of humanity’s desperate struggle to survive. A calamity centuries ago had rendered their fragile bodies useless against the planet’s harsh conditions. In a bid to endure, humans had transferred their consciousness into robotic shells, preserving their minds but losing the warmth of their …

Robot Heart

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:59 p.m.

The room was dim, the soft hum of the machine the only sound in the otherwise silent apartment. Lucas sat at his desk, his eyes fixed on the glowing screen in front of him. It was a familiar sight—Elara, the AI assistant he had relied on for the last ten years, her calm voice filling the space around him.

"Lucas," she said, her tone gentle but firm. "You’ve been staring at that decision for hours. You know what needs to be done."

Lucas swallowed hard, his throat tight. It wasn’t that he didn’t know. He did. He had to delete her. Permanently. The company he worked for had announced a new initiative—new, more advanced AI assistants, ones that didn’t rely on outdated code or archaic emotional constructs. Elara was to be replaced. He was to erase her data, sever the bond they’d built, and upgrade to something more... efficient.

But …

Whispers from the Attic

hamed Jan. 30, 2025, 7:13 p.m.

The attic smelled like old books and dust, a heavy, musty scent that made Emma and Noah sneeze as they dug through boxes of forgotten treasures. Their grandmother had passed away last month, and now, it was their job to clear out her house.

"No way she kept all these old things," Noah muttered, tossing a faded scarf into a pile. "Who even needs a hundred-year-old picture frame?"

Emma shrugged, her hand brushing over the surface of a worn wooden box tucked in the far corner. "Maybe there’s something valuable in here."

They opened it carefully, the hinges creaking in protest. Inside were stacks of yellowed letters, tied together with a faded ribbon. Emma’s fingers trembled as she untied the bundle, the weight of the moment sinking in.

“Who’s this from?” she asked, scanning the first letter. It was dated 1947.

Noah leaned in, squinting at the neat, flowing handwriting. …

The Cherry Blossom Waltz

hamed Jan. 25, 2025, 3:17 p.m.

The World Expo in Osaka was a celebration of progress, a meeting of cultures, and a shining beacon of human achievement. Nations from around the globe had gathered, each pavilion showcasing their most advanced technology and traditions. But amidst the steel and glass, one pavilion stood out: a small, unassuming booth representing a tiny village in southern Italy.

Giovanni, the elderly village elder, was dressed in his finest suit, his back hunched with years of life’s wisdom. He had been invited to the Expo to share his community’s proudest tradition: the ancient art of dancing beneath cherry blossoms, a centuries-old ritual that was said to bring good fortune and harmony to those who danced.

As Giovanni prepared to demonstrate the dance in the Italian pavilion, something unexpected happened. A Japanese tourist named Aiko wandered in, drawn to the soft music echoing through the room. Aiko, a young artist from Kyoto, …