Flash Stories

Code Gray

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:58 p.m.

The hospital hallways hummed with chaos—overcrowded ER bays, patients on gurneys lining the walls, and the faint smell of antiseptic failing to mask desperation. Nurse Clara Morales darted from one room to the next, her clipboard tucked under her arm, exhaustion etched into her face.

The memo had arrived that morning. A new “pilot policy” from the private equity firm that now owned the hospital. “Focus resources on high-value patients,” it read. In other words, prioritize those with the best insurance or the deepest pockets.

Clara had stared at the memo for a full minute before crumpling it in her fist.

Now, as she checked on Mr. Bennett, an elderly man with no insurance and a failing heart, the injustice gnawed at her. “They’ll move him out,” the charge nurse had warned her earlier. “Can’t afford to keep him here.”

Clara adjusted his oxygen mask. "How are you feeling, Mr. …

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. …

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 …

Echo Chamber

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 7 p.m.

Leila’s podcast had a loyal following. Mindful Moments, with its soothing tone and calming affirmations, had gained a cult status in the world of digital wellness. She talked about breathing exercises, the power of presence, the importance of gratitude. Every episode was designed to make her listeners feel at peace, as though the chaos of the world outside could be tamed if only they listened closely enough.

But lately, she’d begun to wonder if her content was truly making a difference. The messages of calm, while appreciated by her audience, felt like they were floating on the surface, untouched by the depth she longed for. The irony wasn't lost on her—she was surrounded by people seeking mindfulness, but she felt increasingly disconnected, as though her words were mere echoes in a chamber that never stopped reverberating.

One evening, after an episode on finding stillness in a noisy world, Leila met …

Lost in Translation

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 6:09 p.m.

Amina had always been the quiet one, the one who kept her thoughts tucked away, neatly folded like the silk scarves her grandmother had sewn for her. She moved through life with grace, always respectful of tradition, never stepping too far outside the lines her family had drawn for her. So when she met Ryan, the charming expatriate with the easy smile, she hesitated, but only for a moment.

He was kind, patient, and seemed to understand her in ways she hadn’t expected. He respected her space and her values, never pushing too hard for things she wasn’t ready to give. He listened when she talked about her family’s expectations, her dreams of becoming a teacher, her fears of losing herself in a world that often felt foreign.

But there was something about Ryan that always felt... too perfect. She would tell herself it was just her insecurities, her …

Seams of Power

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:31 p.m.

Isabella Martinez slammed her sketchbook shut as her assistant rushed in with the news. "Did you hear? The First Lady-elect chose Dominique for the inauguration gown."

Three months of sketches, sleepless nights, and carefully orchestrated "chance" meetings at charity events—all wasted. Isabella glanced at the red silk draped on her mannequin, a dress that would now never see the lights of the National Mall.

Her phone buzzed: a message from Sophie Chen at Vogue. "Need comment re: Dominique announcement. Deadline 1 hour."

Isabella's fingers hovered over the keyboard. She had dirt on Dominique—everyone did. The "ethically sourced" fabrics that actually came from sweatshops, the designs suspiciously similar to young indie creators. One phone call to the right blogger...

But then she remembered last year's Designers Guild dinner. Dominique had pulled her aside after Isabella's divorce hit Page Six. "The vultures are circling," she'd warned. "Watch your back." That night, three …

The Threads of Fate | Chapter 3: A Mother’s Love

dehongi Jan. 25, 2025, 4:04 p.m.

The old man sat silently by the window, his hands resting gently in his lap. The soft evening light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. His mind wandered, as it often did these days, to another critical choice—a choice that had once seemed so straightforward, so inevitable. Yet, in hindsight, he now saw how deep the divide had been, how far-reaching the consequences.

It was many years ago, a time when his children were still young and full of laughter, their voices echoing through the house like a melody. They were the heart of his world, and his wife, Samira, was the steady force that held them all together. He had been on the brink of another decision, a turning point in his life. The company he worked for had offered him an incredible opportunity: a promotion, an advancement that would take him to a …

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 …

The Last Ember

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 6:07 p.m.

Dani’s car rolled down the narrow, winding road toward her neighborhood, her hands clenched on the steering wheel. The air was thick with smoke, still hanging in the valley like a dark cloud, but the flames had moved on. She didn’t know if that was a blessing or a curse.

The fire had taken everything in its path, and she had to see it for herself. No phone calls, no texts. Just the endless waiting. Her chest tightened with each mile. She wasn’t ready, but there was no more avoiding the truth.

Her house had always been her anchor—the place where she’d come back to after every heartache, where the sound of her children’s laughter echoed through the walls. It was where her mother had lived before her, where she’d raised her kids. Home.

The street was empty. There were no signs of life, no neighbors standing by their driveways. …

The Poet and the Dervish

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:34 p.m.

Nina sat at the edge of the park, her notebook open but empty. The fountain before her splashed lazily, the early morning mist curling around the stone like a whisper. The world was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city stirring awake, but her mind was as loud as ever. She could hear the weight of every word she hadn’t written, the echoes of frustration curling into a knot in her chest.

For months now, the words had eluded her, slipping through her fingers like sand, leaving her empty. She had once been certain that poetry was her calling, that the lines would come as naturally as breathing. But now, the page was just a mirror of her struggle, a reflection of all she couldn’t express.

It was the same every morning—sitting in the park, staring at the same view, hoping for some divine spark. But nothing.

She …