Flash Stories

The Price of Peace

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:29 p.m.

James Morgan wiped the sweat from his brow as he looked at the faded sign of Morgan & Sons Hardware. For twenty-four years, he'd been the first to arrive and the last to leave, just as his father had taught him. Through recessions, big-box store competition, and personal hardships, he'd kept the family business alive, ensuring his younger siblings Michael and Sarah had college educations and comfortable lives.

The betrayal came during a routine family meeting. Michael, now a lawyer, had drawn up new ownership papers. Sarah, with her MBA, had spreadsheets showing how "restructuring" would benefit everyone. They spoke of modernization, efficiency, and market realities. The fine print told a different story – one that would leave James with nothing but memories.

"It's just business," Michael had said, not meeting his eyes.

"The market doesn't care about sentiment," Sarah had added, her voice rehearsed.

After the dust settled and …

Kappa and the Plastic Cucumber

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 7:11 p.m.

Kawa, the kappa, sat at the edge of his polluted river, flicking a plastic bottle into the current with his webbed fingers. He hadn’t tasted a fresh cucumber in years. Gone were the days when villagers left them as offerings, crisp and green, floating like tiny rafts of gratitude. Now, the river was choked with trash, and even the cucumbers were fakes—cheap, plastic imitations that bobbed lifelessly in the murky water.

Today, another plastic cucumber drifted down the stream, its bright green sheen mocking him. With a sigh, Kawa waded in and grabbed it. “Is this a joke?” he muttered, examining the hollow tube. “Do humans think I eat this junk?”

“That’s not for eating!”

The voice startled him. On the riverbank stood a child in oversized rain boots, a net slung over their shoulder. Their face was smudged with mud, but their eyes sparkled with determination.

“Then why is …

The Inheritance

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:59 p.m.

At forty-five, Lisa's inheritance arrived in three forms: her mother's arthritis, curved spine, and empty savings account. She recognized them all – they'd been coming for years, wrapped in double shifts and missed doctor's appointments, in grocery store mathematics and deferred dreams.

"Just like your grandmother," the doctor said, studying Lisa's x-rays. "The wear pattern's identical. Housekeeping work?"

"IT support," Lisa corrected. "But Mom cleaned houses. Grandma too." She didn't mention the weekend cleaning jobs she'd taken after the tech company switched to contractors, cutting their health insurance. Or how her daughter Ashley now cleaned offices after school, despite Lisa's promises that things would be different for her.

Her college roommate Rachel posted photos of her daughter's Stanford graduation. Their paths had diverged slowly at first – small differences in starter homes, vacation choices, preventive care. But time was an amplifier. Rachel's parents had paid for her education; Lisa's debt …

When the Waters Rose

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 9:05 p.m.

The rain had been relentless for days, a constant drumming on the tin roofs of the villages nestled in Central Java’s lush valleys. By the time the rivers began to swell, it was too late to escape. The water came in the dead of night, a roaring force that swept through homes, fields, and lives with no mercy.

In the village of Sumber Rejo, 12-year-old Rani clung to her mother’s hand as they waded through the chest-deep water. The flashlight in her mother’s grip flickered, casting shaky beams on the chaos around them. Furniture floated past, along with remnants of lives uprooted—a child’s stuffed bear, a photograph album, a single sandal. The air was thick with the smell of mud and fear.

“Stay close, Rani!” her mother shouted over the sound of the rushing water. But Rani’s eyes were fixed on the dark shape of their neighbor’s house, half-submerged and …

The Code of Healing

hamed Dec. 27, 2024, 7:29 p.m.

Ravi Satyan, a computer engineer from a small village in southern India, stared at the holographic screens floating before him. The lines of code reflected in his glasses were more than algorithms—they were memories, promises, and hope.

When he was eight, cancer took both his parents within months of each other. Back then, the rural clinic lacked doctors, and the closest hospital was hundreds of kilometers away. He had been too young to understand chemotherapy, but old enough to feel helpless as the machines beeped their final farewells.

Decades later, that helplessness had become his fire.

Ravi designed Arogya AI, a revolutionary healthcare system powered by deep learning and predictive analysis. It could detect illnesses like cancer before symptoms even appeared, provide personalized treatment plans, and manage resources to ensure even the most remote areas had access to care.

“Arogya means ‘health’ in Sanskrit,” he’d told the global medical board …

The Fog of New Orleans

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:39 p.m.

The air hung thick with the smell of wet earth and gunpowder as Private Samuel Hayes knelt in the mud, his musket trembling in his hands. Dawn was still a suggestion on the horizon, its faint light blurring the silhouettes of General Jackson’s earthworks and the dark mass of British soldiers gathering across the field.

“Hold steady,” the sergeant hissed, pacing behind the line. “Wait for the order.”

Samuel’s breath clouded in the cold air, though sweat trickled down his spine beneath his wool coat. His fingers, stiff from the chill, fumbled over the musket’s barrel. He’d practiced loading it a hundred times, but this morning, his hands felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else.

He thought of his farm back in Kentucky—of the cornfields stretching to the horizon, of Mary’s hands brushing flour from her apron as she baked. He’d left all of it behind, chasing a dream …

The Secret

hamed Feb. 7, 2024, 7:15 p.m.

She had always been drawn to his eyes, those deep pools of amber that seemed to hold a thousand mysteries. She felt a connection with him, a bond that transcended words and logic. She knew he felt it too, but he never spoke of it. He was a man of few words, a man of secrets.

One day, she decided to ask him what he was hiding, what he was afraid to share with her. She looked into his eyes and said, "I don't know what secret is hidden in your eyes, that I can see that secret but I cannot tell. Please, trust me. Tell me what you are hiding."

He sighed and looked away. He seemed to struggle with something, a conflict that tore him apart. He finally turned back to her and said, "You won't believe me if I tell you. You won't understand. You won't accept …

A World Reborn: The Age of Synthesis

hamed Dec. 29, 2024, 5:45 a.m.

By the year 2147, the fears of the early 21st century seemed like distant echoes from a more anxious time. Humanity had stepped into an era of unprecedented harmony, one crafted not by the dominance of a single nation or ideology but by the synthesis of artificial intelligence and human resilience. It was a world shaped by AI-powered systems that had not enslaved humankind, but liberated it.

The War that Wasn't

Decades ago, when the first armies of AI soldiers were deployed, the world braced for disaster. Critics warned that AI war machines would empower dictators and warlords, leading to an era of endless conflict. But what they failed to anticipate was the incorruptibility of true artificial intelligence.

Early on, AI systems designed for warfare became more than tools—they became agents of balance. Programmed with an unshakable commitment to justice and devoid of personal ambition, these AI soldiers could not …

The Threads of Fate | Chapter 8: The Weight of Guilt

dehongi Jan. 25, 2025, 4:28 p.m.

The old man’s mind drifted to a time long buried in the recesses of his memory—a time when a decision, driven by fear and selfishness, had weighed heavily on him. It was a betrayal of trust, one that he had never fully acknowledged, one that had haunted him for years. The guilt of that moment, the lie he had chosen to tell, had stayed with him, a shadow lurking just outside the light of his thoughts.

At the time, he had felt cornered, unable to face the consequences of his actions. He had lied to protect himself, to shield his reputation, and in doing so, he had betrayed someone who had trusted him deeply. The decision had been swift, a reflexive act born of desperation. He convinced himself that it was a necessary evil, that the truth would only cause more harm than good. But now, as an old man, …

Threads of Solidarity

hamed Jan. 21, 2025, 5:25 p.m.

Amara first noticed Kian when he retweeted her post about the winter coat drive.

"We could use more boots and blankets," he’d added, along with a photo of his tiny apartment filled with neatly stacked donation boxes. She messaged him immediately.

"You’re in Eastside? We should coordinate. I’m running a food distribution project there."

Kian replied within minutes: "Absolutely. Let’s build something big."

They started collaborating: Amara’s Google Sheets full of volunteer schedules and grocery runs meshed perfectly with Kian’s knack for finding free storage spaces and rallying donors. Their late-night planning sessions—first over DM, then Zoom—blurred the line between work and connection.

“Why do you do this?” Amara asked one night, after hours spent brainstorming for a mobile health clinic.

Kian hesitated, then smiled shyly. “I guess… I want to be the kind of person I needed when I was younger.”

Amara felt her chest tighten. “Same,” she said …