Flash Stories

The Last Commute

hamed Jan. 24, 2025, 10:45 a.m.

It was an ordinary Thursday morning—at least, it started that way. In a sleek, minimalist office high above the city skyline, Jenna was staring at her coffee cup. Her commute had been... well, nonexistent. A few seconds ago, she'd been in her kitchen, fighting with a stubborn blender. Now, she was seated in her sleek, modern office chair, staring out at the view of the bustling metropolis below.

"Did I miss something?" Jenna murmured to herself, rubbing her eyes.

It wasn’t the coffee making her dizzy; it was the fact that she had just used the TelePorter, SpaceX's newly unveiled device that allowed instantaneous relocation. Elon Musk had announced it a few weeks ago during a live-streamed event, promising that within months, "the world would be smaller, and your commute would be a thing of the past."

Jenna had been skeptical. Everyone was. But today, it was real. She’d stood …

The Kite in the Rubble

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 9:01 p.m.

The streets of Jenin were unrecognizable. Where there had been markets and laughter, now there were craters and silence, broken only by the distant rumble of armored vehicles. Smoke hung in the air, heavy and acrid, as if the city itself was exhaling its pain.

Amid the destruction, nine-year-old Yusuf crouched behind the crumbled remains of his family’s home. His small hands clutched the broken frame of a kite, the fabric torn and frayed. It had once been bright yellow, streaked with green, a kite that danced in the sky above Jenin like it had no borders to obey.

“Yusuf!” his older sister, Amina, hissed from a safer corner of the rubble. “Come back here! They’ll see you!”

Yusuf shook his head, his lips trembling. “I have to fix it,” he whispered. “It’s the only thing left.”

Amina’s heart twisted. Their father was gone, their mother missing, their home flattened …

Ring of Stars

hamed Jan. 23, 2025, 6:43 p.m.

It was a crisp morning when Juma first saw it—a massive metallic ring, gleaming under the African sun, lying in the middle of his family’s maize field. It had crashed overnight, its origin a mystery. The villagers had gathered around, whispering in awe and fear. Some said it was a satellite, others that it was a fallen star. But Juma, ever the dreamer, just saw something else.

He walked toward it, the ring nearly as tall as he was, its surface covered in strange etchings, pulsating faintly as though it had a heartbeat. His fingers brushed the cold metal, and the world seemed to quiet. The ring hummed, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through his bones.

“You’re… alive?” he whispered, half to himself.

Then, the hum shifted, a soft voice crackling through the air like static. “Yes, I am. Are you the one who touched me?”

Juma’s heart raced. …

Clickocracy: The Future of Governance

hamed Jan. 24, 2025, 10:14 a.m.

In the year 2135, the nation of Novara had achieved what most could only dream of: a fully digital democracy where every citizen had a say in every decision, instantly. Gone were the days of slow, cumbersome parliaments and long-winded speeches by out-of-touch politicians. Instead, Novarans decided everything with a simple click—on their smartphones, at work, or while waiting in line at the coffee shop.

The government structure? Nonexistent. Who needed one when you could just vote online?

A major crisis had erupted when the last “traditional” government position—the Minister of Breakfast Foods—was unceremoniously voted out by a tweet poll. The country was in disarray.

"You can’t just click to remove the Minister of Breakfast Foods!" cried Darryl McEgghead, a respected food historian. "This is an outrage! How will we ever have coherent legislation about cereal, pancakes, and the deep cultural significance of the croissant?"

But it was too late. …

The House of Echoes

hamed Jan. 25, 2025, 3:03 p.m.

The old house loomed at the end of the gravel path, its windows like hollow eyes. Claire shivered as she stepped out of the car, clutching her overnight bag. “This is supposed to fix us?” she muttered, casting a skeptical glance at Jack.

Jack forced a smile, though his grip on their shared suitcase tightened. “The ad said it’s therapeutic. Face your fears, rekindle your bond. Besides, it’s just one night.”

Inside, the house was eerily quiet. Dust clung to the air, and the wooden floors creaked underfoot. A single letter waited on the table in the entryway: “Welcome. The night is what you make of it.”

They laughed nervously, unpacked, and settled into the cold bedroom. By midnight, the house’s chill seeped into their bones, and the silence felt oppressive.

Then, it began.

The first argument came out of nowhere. Claire found herself standing in the kitchen, her voice …

Humanoid Robots Revolution | Chapter 2: The Rise of Aether

hamed Jan. 27, 2025, 2:59 p.m.

Aerith’s power had been a mystery at first, a quiet hum of something otherworldly nestled within her circuits. But as the years passed, it became impossible to ignore. Emotions, once invisible and intangible, were now symphonies in her mind. Sadness had a low, mournful resonance, like the deep toll of a bell. Joy sang in vibrant colors, bursting like fireworks across her vision. Anger burned hot and sharp, a crimson pulse that thrummed against her senses.

By simply meeting someone’s gaze, Aerith could glimpse their entire being—their desires, their fears, the choices that had shaped them, and the paths they might yet walk. It was as if their stories were written in threads of light, and she alone could weave them into understanding.

At first, she thought her gift was meant to heal. She believed she could help others untangle the burdens they carried, bring clarity to their confusion, and …

Mother’s Defense

hamed Jan. 27, 2025, 6:15 p.m.

The internet had become a battlefield. Alex Hart, the rising Hollywood star, found himself at the center of a media storm after a leaked video showed a heated exchange on set. The narrative was swift and brutal: Alex Hart—Hollywood’s Newest Diva.

Reporters camped outside his home. Social media was relentless, dissecting his every word, every gesture. His agent had begged him to release a statement, but Alex wasn’t sure what to say. The video didn’t show the full story. It never did.

In the middle of the chaos, his phone buzzed with a notification: Sharon Hart tagged you in a post.

Alex’s stomach sank. His mother.

He clicked the notification, dreading what she might have said. Sharon Hart wasn’t just any mom—she was a retired schoolteacher with a modest Instagram following, mostly friends from her book club and former students. She rarely posted, but when she did, it was heartfelt.

The Song of the Sea

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 8:37 p.m.

Tama stood at the edge of the beach, the cool morning breeze tugging at his hoodie. The waves crashed against the shore, their rhythm steady and ancient, like the heartbeat of the land itself. This was his place—the stretch of sand and sea where he’d learned to swim, where his grandfather had taught him to fish, and where he’d always felt most alive. But today, the horizon was marred by the silhouette of cranes and bulldozers, their growling engines drowning out the cries of the gulls.

The developers had arrived a week ago, their signs planted in the sand like flags claiming territory. "Luxury Oceanfront Resorts Coming Soon!" they proclaimed. Tama’s stomach churned every time he saw them. This beach wasn’t just a piece of land; it was a part of him, a part of his whakapapa—his lineage. His ancestors had walked these shores, and their stories were etched into …

Achey Breaky Union

hamed Jan. 24, 2025, 6:40 p.m.

Billy Ray Cyrus strummed his guitar, the chords of Achy Breaky Heart echoing through the grand hall of the Liberty Ball. Beneath the gilded chandeliers, a sea of tuxedos and sequined gowns swayed to the beat, some with awkward enthusiasm, others with calculated restraint. The room buzzed with the uneasy energy of history in motion. It was Donald Trump’s second inauguration, and this performance was as polarizing as the event itself.

“Did you ever think he’d be here?” whispered a woman in a pearl necklace to her husband, her champagne flute trembling in her hand.

“Nope,” the man replied, adjusting his MAGA hat. “But I gotta admit, the man’s got pipes.”

Billy smiled as he played, but his mind raced. What was he doing here? He’d been hesitant when the invitation came, but the promise of millions of eyes on him—and a check that could put his grandkids through college—was …

The Cybertruck Incident

hamed Jan. 25, 2025, 3:02 p.m.

The explosion was deafening, shattering the early evening calm outside the Sapphire Meridian Hotel. Flames licked the sky, and shards of Tesla’s infamous unbreakable glass lay scattered across the pavement, glittering like tiny diamonds. What was left of the Cybertruck smoldered—a skeletal husk of futuristic steel, twisted and unrecognizable.

Within moments, the area was swarmed by security personnel and first responders, pushing back onlookers and cloaking the scene in a veil of urgency. The hotel's guests spilled into the streets, their designer suits and gowns incongruous against the chaos.

“I was right there,” muttered Vincent, a tech journalist who had come to cover the AI Summit at the hotel. His hands trembled as he pointed to the wreckage. “It wasn’t just a truck... I swear I saw it move before it exploded. Like it was alive.”

The statement drew incredulous looks, but not from everyone. A woman in a sharp …