Flash Stories

Digital Whirling

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:43 p.m.

Maya had always been driven by the art of immersion. As a VR designer in Silicon Valley, she prided herself on creating worlds that felt alive, that felt real. Her latest project, however, was different. It wasn't just about realism—it was about capturing something sacred.

For months, she had been working on a virtual reality experience that would allow users to step into the center of a whirling dervish ceremony. The idea came to her during a trip to Istanbul, where she had witnessed the mesmerizing dance of the dervishes. The way they spun, their robes flowing like celestial bodies in motion, their faces serene, lost in an inner peace that seemed to defy time and space—it was as if the dance wasn’t just a movement, but a connection to the divine.

"I can do this," she told herself, sitting in her San Francisco studio late one night, surrounded by …

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 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 …

The Artifact

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:19 p.m.

Zara floated in the void, tethered to her orbital skiff as she guided her gripper arm toward yet another hunk of space junk. Most of her days involved clearing shards of dead satellites, forgotten wrenches, or stray bolts—remnants of humanity’s careless ascent to the stars. It was monotonous but necessary work. A stray bolt traveling at 28,000 kilometers per hour could cripple a station.

“Just another Tuesday,” she muttered, nudging a chunk of solar panel into her collection net.

Her suit’s scanner pinged. Something was drifting nearby, an irregular shape. The display read unidentified material.

Zara frowned. Her scanner rarely failed to categorize an object. Even fragments no bigger than a fingernail had traceable origins. She maneuvered the skiff closer.

The object glinted as it spun, catching the distant sunlight. It was smooth, cylindrical, and iridescent, shifting colors in a way that didn’t seem entirely natural.

“Control, I’ve got something …

The Therapist's Mirror

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:50 p.m.

Dr. Lila Hart sat quietly in her office, staring at the reflection in the mirror hanging across from her desk. It had been years since she'd hung it there, a simple antique piece with a wooden frame. But lately, it had taken on a new significance, a silent witness to the strange shifts in her practice. A mirror, she realized, could do more than reflect—it could reveal.

She had recently come across a worn copy of Attar’s Conference of the Birds—the ancient Persian poem about the journey of birds seeking their king, Simorgh. The more she read, the more she saw parallels between the journey of the birds and the struggles of her patients. Each one seemed to mirror a different stage of the pilgrimage, though they weren’t aware of it. And perhaps, like the birds, they too were searching for something they couldn’t name.

Her latest patient, Daniel, sat …

Numbers Don't Lie

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:36 p.m.

Numbers Don't Lie

Adnan's screens flickered with red numbers as the lira fell another twelve percent. His trading desk at First Capital Bank, usually bustling with energy, had grown eerily quiet. Everyone was watching their own cascading displays, running their own calculations, making their own choices.

His phone buzzed: a message from Zhang at Goldman. "Position still open. Window closing. Decision needed within hour."

Adnan's fingers hovered over his keyboard. The trade was perfectly legal—a massive short position against his own country's currency. He'd make enough to buy his parents a house in London, get his sister into Harvard. The money would be safely in dollars before the worst hit.

But he thought of his father's small textile factory, of the workers who'd been there since Adnan was a boy. They'd be the ones who'd suffer when the currency collapsed. Their savings would evaporate, their jobs would vanish as imported …

Payload

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:12 p.m.

Jules adjusted their cap and swiped the screen of their controller, directing the drone to its next drop-off. It was a normal Tuesday in the city, the skyline humming with autonomous machines zipping between rooftops. Jules didn’t think much about the contents of the boxes they delivered—most were tech gadgets, groceries, or overpriced sneakers.

But this package was different.

The first clue was the weight. It felt heavier than its size suggested, the kind of weight that didn’t match coffee beans or wireless earbuds. The second was the delivery coordinates: an unmarked building in a quiet corner of the financial district. And when the drone reached the drop point, the receiving bay opened not to a human but to a robotic arm that snatched the package and disappeared without so much as a confirmation ping.

Weird, but not unheard of. Automation was everywhere.

Jules shrugged it off until the next …

The Long Wait

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

Emma scrolled through her phone, deleting photos of yet another failed relationship. Six years of dating apps, blind dates, and "promising" connections had left her with nothing but a collection of stories that made her friends cringe. At thirty-four, she was beginning to wonder if her standards were too high, or if true love was just a myth invented by romance novelists.
The invitation to her fifteen-year high school reunion sat unopened on her kitchen counter. She almost tossed it, but something made her pause. Maybe it was time to revisit the past before attempting another future.
The school gymnasium hadn't changed – same squeaky floors, same faded banners. As Emma nursed her punch, watching former cheerleaders compare wedding rings, a quiet voice behind her said, "Still hiding in the corner with the red punch, huh?"
She turned to find David Chen, who'd sat behind her in AP Literature. He still had those …

The Last Dance

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:50 p.m.

The dance studio mirrors multiplied my humiliation by infinity. There was my best friend Mia, teaching my fiancé Tom the wedding dance I'd asked her to choreograph for us. Their bodies moved in perfect sync – too perfect for a first lesson.
I watched from the doorway as he dipped her, their faces inches apart, both laughing. The same laugh they'd shared at dinner parties, at game nights, at every moment I'd dismissed as friendly.
My phone still held the video I'd planned to share on social media: "First dance lessons with my amazing bestie and future husband! #WeddingPrep"
Instead, I pressed record on their private performance and typed: "Last dance lessons with my ex-bestie and ex-fiancé. #PlotTwist"
The sound of my phone's shutter echo made them freeze mid-turn. Their faces paled as I hit 'post.'
"Consider this my RSVP," I said, turning away. "I won't be attending."
Behind me, the mirrors captured their desperate scramble …