Flash Stories

Paper Boats at Dawn

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:07 p.m.

The river was still, bathed in the pale light of dawn, its surface shimmering like a sheet of glass. Lan stood at the water’s edge, her fingers trembling as she folded the last corner of the delicate paper boat. The crease was sharp, precise—the way Bao had taught her. The boat would glide effortlessly, like a whisper across the river, if only the current would carry it to him.

Her heart beat fast in her chest, each pulse a drum she could not silence. She had not heard from Bao in weeks, not since the war had torn them apart. Since the soldiers came through their village, taking the men for the front lines, separating families as easily as they separated the earth from the sky. Bao was no longer the young man she had fallen in love with, standing beside her in the fields. He was now a soldier, …

Subway Sama

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:47 p.m.

Eli sat on the worn, cracked floor of the 2 train platform, his guitar resting in his lap. The bustle of New York City echoed around him—the rush of commuters, the screeching trains, the clattering footsteps. He strummed his chords with the rhythm of his thoughts, searching for the right tune, the one that would draw a few extra dollars from the crowd. He didn’t mind. Playing music in the subway was a means to an end—his dream was to play for crowds, for real stages. But for now, this sufficed.

A man in a long, dusty coat shuffled into view, his feet dragging like the weight of his years was too much to bear. His eyes, however, were sharp—like the glint of sunlight on a forgotten shard of glass. He stopped in front of Eli, not bothering to throw in any change, just staring at him intently.

Eli raised …

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 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 Water of Life

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:25 p.m.

The late shift at the hospice always brought quiet moments laced with a strange intensity, like waiting for something unseen to arrive. For Leila, it was the time she felt most connected to her patients, their whispered fears and confessions filling the void of the night.

Mr. Aram was her favorite. At 92, his body was frail, but his mind burned sharp, filled with stories of a life that spanned wars, revolutions, and empires. He often spoke of his youth in the Alborz Mountains, his voice soft and wistful, like a breeze brushing against worn pages.

That night, as Leila checked his vitals, he caught her wrist with surprising strength. "Sit," he said, his hazel eyes gleaming like polished amber.

She hesitated but pulled up a chair beside his bed. “What is it, Mr. Aram? Are you in pain?”

He shook his head. “No pain. Just time.” He glanced at …

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 …

Salt Flowers

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:23 p.m.

Jin-ah stood alone on the beach as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in hues of pink and orange. Her hands, weathered by years of toil, moved with practiced grace, sweeping grains of salt into delicate patterns on the sand. Each swirl, each petal, was a prayer. A promise.

It had been seven years since Minho, her lover, disappeared. The sea had claimed him—or so the villagers whispered, though no body had ever been found. Every year, on the anniversary of his disappearance, Jin-ah returned to this beach, to the place where they had first met, to the place where their love had blossomed like the delicate flowers in the fields of salt. She believed that the salt patterns, the ones she had crafted with hands full of memories, would guide his spirit back to her.

Salt flowers. The elders spoke of them in hushed tones—of how …