Flash Stories

The Yellow Zone

hamed Jan. 23, 2025, 6:20 p.m.

The sky above the Yellow Zone shimmered unnaturally, like the air itself was holding its breath. Hana adjusted her respirator, the seals hissing as she tightened them. The Geiger counter strapped to her chest chirped in steady, ominous intervals.

“This was a park,” the guide said, his voice crackling through her helmet’s comms system. “You can still see the swings if you squint.”

Hana peered through the visor at the skeletal remains of a playground, half-buried in dust. The swings swayed faintly in the poisoned wind, their chains rusted, their seats cracked.

“How long until it’s habitable again?” she asked.

The guide chuckled bitterly. “You’re optimistic. With current levels? Maybe two thousand years. Unless your company has a miracle up its sleeve.”

Her company—ArkTech Solutions—had built its name on technological interventions, claiming to fix what humanity had broken. Smart domes, hydroponic skyscrapers, and now, personal radiation shields. But no amount …

The Pulse of Pomegranate Valley

hamed Jan. 23, 2025, 6:28 p.m.

In Pomegranate Valley, every tree had a voice. Sensors embedded in the ancient orchards whispered to the village network, updating humidity levels, soil health, and even the ripeness of the fruit. The valley was alive in ways Farhad could never have imagined when he’d first returned from the city.

“Another tree’s stressed,” his sister Aylin said, glancing at her tablet as they walked through the grove. “Sector 12, row 8. Probably irrigation again.”

Farhad nodded, swiping his wristband. The smart irrigation system hummed to life, delivering a precise stream of water directly to the roots of the tree in question.

“You know,” he said, “I used to hate this place.”

Aylin smirked. “We know. You complained non-stop about how backward it was. Now you’re Chief Data Farmer.”

“Things changed.”

They walked past the solar array that powered the entire village, its panels gleaming under the midday sun. The community had …

The Garden at Dusk

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:48 p.m.

Every evening, as the sun began to dip behind Tehran’s skyline, Layla sat by the window of her small florist shop, watching the world bustle outside. The city was noisy, filled with cars, honking horns, and people rushing from one place to the next. But inside, surrounded by the scent of roses, jasmine, and carnations, Layla found solace in her solitude. The flowers never judged her, never made her feel lonely.

One evening, as she watered a potted orchid, she noticed a street cat sitting on the sidewalk outside her shop. Its fur was patchy, and its eyes gleamed with a knowing, almost human quality. Layla had seen this cat around for weeks, but it always kept to itself. Tonight, however, it did something peculiar.

It stared directly at her through the window, and as the sun touched the horizon, the cat spoke.

"You’re not meant to be alone, you …

A Second Too Many

hamed Jan. 23, 2025, 6:27 p.m.

Ren adjusted the dials on the ChronoRing, the device humming softly against her wrist. She’d only ever used it for minor adjustments—skipping traffic jams, fixing a botched presentation, reliving a perfect date. But tonight, she was breaking all the rules.

She stood in the alley outside her apartment, heart pounding as she replayed the memory. Her brother’s face, pale and lifeless, the screech of tires, the sound of glass shattering. The accident had taken him two years ago. And tonight, it wouldn’t.

Ren took a deep breath and pressed the button.

The world around her shimmered, a wave of distortion washing over the alley. The air grew thick, her vision blurred, and for a moment, she felt like she was drowning in static.

Then it was over.

She stood on the same street, but it was daylight now, two years earlier. Across the road, she spotted her brother, Elias, headphones …

The Box in the Attic

hamed Jan. 23, 2025, 6:22 p.m.

The attic smelled of mothballs and old paper, a dense, musty reminder of lives long lived. Mina had been up here a hundred times before, but tonight felt different. The house was unusually quiet for one filled with three generations of her family.

The economic crash had driven them all under one roof—Mina, her parents, her grandfather, and her teenage son. Five people navigating lives on top of one another, trying not to suffocate.

She was looking for old tax documents, a tedious chore her mother had nagged her into. Instead, she found the box.

It was tucked behind a stack of yellowed newspapers, bound tightly with frayed twine. Written across the top in faded ink was a single word: Farokh. Her grandfather’s name.

Mina hesitated. She’d never known him to keep anything sentimental. He was a stoic man, his words clipped, his past shrouded in vague stories of "better …

The Gossip Girl Betrayal

hamed Jan. 27, 2025, 6:04 p.m.

The tension on set was palpable, thick as the fog machine’s artificial mist. The scene had been blocked, the lighting adjusted, but something—someone—was delaying the shoot. Again.

Sophia Hartley, star of Crown & Daggers, emerged from her trailer, a vision in silk and sequins. Her honey-blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, every strand meticulously arranged. She looked like royalty, which was exactly how she carried herself.

“Are we ready, or am I waiting all day?” she asked, her tone coated with saccharine civility.

The crew exchanged glances. No one dared answer. Sophia’s reputation preceded her—charming in interviews, adored by fans, but behind the scenes? A storm waiting to happen.

The assistant director, Jake, cleared his throat. “We’re ready, Miss Hartley. Just waiting on you.”

Her smile was a weapon. “Well, you’re welcome, then.”

The cameras rolled, and for a brief moment, Sophia was magic. Her voice carried the dialogue like …

Taurus Troubles

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 9:11 p.m.

Maggie had always taken her horoscopes seriously—maybe a little too seriously. As a proud Taurus, she knew she was supposed to be practical, grounded, and stubborn. But when she opened her astrology app that morning, her horoscope made her pause mid-sip of her matcha latte.

"Today, hidden challenges will test your resolve. Keep your wits about you."

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. Hidden challenges? What kind of challenges? Her mind raced. Was her boss planning to surprise her with a last-minute project? Was the barista going to forget her extra oat milk? Was Mercury retrograding again?

She threw on her "Taurus Energy" hoodie, grabbed her crystal bracelet (for protection, obviously), and set out to face the day, determined to uncover every "hidden challenge" before it could ambush her.

Her first stop was the coffee shop. She scrutinized the barista. “You didn’t forget the oat milk, right?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

The barista …

The Voice on the Line

hamed Jan. 23, 2025, 6:25 p.m.

Sophia stared at her phone, the screen flashing with her mother’s name. Her thumb hovered over the answer button.

It wasn’t the first time she’d gotten a call like this.

“Hi, Mom,” she said cautiously, pressing the phone to her ear.

“Sophia, honey,” the voice said, trembling with urgency. “I need your help. I’m stuck at the bank, and they’ve frozen my account. I don’t know what to do.”

The voice was perfect—her mother’s slight rasp from years of smoking, the familiar cadence of her words. But Sophia’s stomach churned.

“When did this happen?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

“This morning. I didn’t want to bother you at work, but it’s getting worse. I just need you to send some money to clear things up.”

Sophia’s pulse quickened. The fear in her mother’s voice was convincing, but something was off.

“Where are you right now?”

“I just told you, …

The Last Note

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 8:30 p.m.

When the news broke, Reza felt the air shift in the small Italian café where he worked as a dishwasher. Trump had won again. The chatter of locals turned uneasy, blending with the clatter of espresso cups and muttered curses in a language Reza still struggled to understand.

He didn’t care about politics—not really. His life had been simple once, back in Iran. But sanctions and whispers of war had turned simple into impossible, and Reza, like so many, left to chase a dream that felt like smoke in his hands.

That night, walking home in the drizzle, he felt the stares burn hotter than usual. “Foreigner,” a man hissed, shoving past him on the cobblestone street.

Reza’s heart sank. He knew what came next. He’d seen it the first time Trump rose to power—a surge of hate that bled across borders like spilled ink. Back then, he had hope. …

The Spotlight's Edge

hamed Jan. 24, 2025, 6:45 p.m.

Blake Lively sat in her kitchen, the glow of her phone screen casting sharp shadows on her face. The words "Megyn Kelly Critiques Blake Lively" blared across every news site, followed by snippets of Kelly’s biting commentary.

“This isn’t accountability,” Kelly’s voice echoed from a clip Blake couldn’t bring herself to watch again. “This is performative victimhood. If you’re going to name names, back it up with more than vague accusations.”

Blake set her phone down and stared at the cold cup of tea in front of her. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the distant hum of the fridge. She felt like the walls were closing in, the weight of the public’s gaze pressing down harder than ever.

Her husband, Ryan, walked in, his expression carefully neutral. He’d seen the headlines, of course. Everyone had. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”

“Define okay,” …