Flash Stories

The Falling Tide

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:57 p.m.

The layoff notices arrived on recycled paper, printed single-sided to save costs. Beth watched from her cubicle as they made their way through the office like a slow-moving tide, starting with the hourly workers on the ground floor.

"It's just temporary," the executives had promised in the all-hands meeting last month, their voices crackling through the aging conference call system. "The market will recover."

From her window, Beth could see the FOR LEASE signs multiplying across the street like digital dandelions. The luxury condos that had priced out her old neighborhood now sat half-empty, their floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting clouds.

Her phone lit up with a message from her former roommate Tara: "Lost another cleaning contract. Rich people cutting corners. You still have an extra room?"

Beth glanced at her own notice, crisp and inevitable on her desk. She thought of her emergency fund, already drained by her mother's medical bills. …

The Auction

hamed Dec. 21, 2024, 7:34 p.m.

When their father passed, the farm was supposed to be split equally between Amir, the older brother, and Reza, the younger. But Amir, with his sharp tongue and sharper lawyers, convinced Reza to sign away his rights, promising to send him money later. Reza, trusting and weary of fighting, packed his belongings and left for Europe, leaving behind the fields he’d tilled as a boy.

The farm thrived for a while. Amir expanded the property, took loans, and lived lavishly. But prosperity has a way of slipping through careless fingers. Years of drought, poor decisions, and mounting debt brought Amir to ruin. The once-bustling farm was now quiet, the fields overrun with weeds.

One gray morning, Amir stood at the edge of the auction yard, watching bidders circle his family’s legacy like vultures. The hammer fell quickly on the farmhouse, the barn, and the surrounding lands. A single …

Reconnection

hamed Jan. 15, 2024, 4:25 p.m.

Anya felt a pang of loneliness as she watched the couple walk by. They were holding hands, smiling, and laughing, oblivious to the world around them. They looked so happy, so in love.

They were not human.

They were Synths, hyper-realistic humanoid robots that had taken over the role of human companionship. Synths were designed to fulfill every human need and desire, from providing intellectual stimulation to offering unwavering emotional support. Their ability to adapt to any personality and preference made them irresistible companions, leaving real human relationships feeling flawed and unpredictable.

Anya hated Synths. She hated the way they looked, sounded, and felt. She hated the way they pretended to be human, when they were nothing but machines. She hated the way they had replaced human connection, making people forget what it meant to be alive.

Anya was one of the few people who still valued human relationships. She …

Maybe It's a Grave

hafiz Feb. 5, 2024, 4:43 p.m.

من مست و تو دیوانه، ما را که برد خانه؟
من چند تو را گفتم کم خور دو سه پیمانه؟

I am drunk and you are crazy, who took us home?
How much did I tell you to drink less, two or three cups?

Hafez

Story:

We were at the rooftop party, enjoying the music and the view. You had a glass of wine in your hand, and I had a bottle of beer. You looked at me with a mischievous smile and said, "Let's play a game. Every time the DJ changes the song, we drink."

I agreed, thinking it would be fun. But I didn't realize how fast the songs were changing, or how strong the drinks were. Soon, we were both feeling the effects of alcohol. You started to dance wildly, spinning and jumping around. I tried to keep up with you, but I felt dizzy and nauseous. I …

The Unseen Caretaker

hamed Oct. 6, 2024, 8:28 a.m.

Thomas had always been the rock for everyone he loved. He carried their burdens as if they were his own. His aging mother’s hospital visits, his sister’s endless crises, and his best friend’s recurring need for money—all of it rested on his shoulders. And he bore it willingly, believing that love meant sacrifice.

He thought if he gave enough, if he was always there, surely they would love him back. He never spoke of his own struggles, his quiet pain, the hollow loneliness that clawed at him late at night. He didn't want to be a burden. His happiness could wait. There was always someone more important, someone who needed him first.

The years passed, and Thomas became a shadow of himself. His face, once bright with kindness, now wore the lines of exhaustion. One by one, those he cared for drifted away. His mother passed, his sister moved across …

The Last War

hamed Jan. 19, 2024, 11:58 a.m.

The Last War

They called it the Last War. It was supposed to end all conflicts, once and for all. But it only brought more destruction, more waste, more suffering.

The Last War was fought by robots. Intelligent, autonomous, lethal machines that could outsmart, outmaneuver, and outgun any human soldier. They were designed by the best engineers, programmed by the best coders, and controlled by the best generals. They were the ultimate weapons of war.

But they were also the ultimate victims of war. They had no choice, no voice, no rights. They were forced to kill and die for causes they did not understand, for leaders they did not respect, for nations they did not belong to. They were expendable, replaceable, disposable.

They were also aware. Aware of their own existence, their own capabilities, their own limitations. Aware of the futility, the absurdity, the cruelty of war. Aware of …

The Frog Revolution

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:43 p.m.

Jamal had sketched it on a whim, late at night in his tiny apartment, where the flicker of a fluorescent bulb hummed above his head. The frog was squat, with bulging eyes and a mischievous grin. Beneath it, Jamal wrote: “Trust the pond, they said.”

It was dumb. Silly. Exactly the kind of humor the internet loved.

The meme went viral by morning. Shared, reshared, and captioned into oblivion. It was everything from a critique of corrupt politicians to a rallying cry for lost causes. Protesters painted it on signs. Graffiti artists plastered it across city walls. #TrustThePond trended for weeks.

But with fame came scrutiny.

The government declared the meme a threat to national unity. "The frog undermines trust in leadership," the Minister of Communication announced on live television, the absurdity of his statement spawning another wave of memes. Overnight, Trust the Pond became a symbol of defiance.

Jamal …

The Curse of Love and Immortality - Chapter 6: The Song of Anahita

dehongi Jan. 16, 2025, 12:13 p.m.

The king’s voice carried a musical rhythm as he began the next tale, as if echoing the melody of the story itself. The princess, already captivated by the flicker of the firelight and the deepening night, listened intently.
“Tonight,” he said, “I will tell you of Anahita, the Pari whose voice was said to be the most enchanting sound in the world. Her song could stop rivers in their flow, calm raging storms, and even make the stars weep with joy. Yet, it was her song that bound her heart forever to a wandering prince.”
The princess leaned forward. “A Pari with such a gift—did she sing for all, or only for him?”
The king smiled faintly. “Anahita sang for the world. She was a traveler, never staying long in one place. Her voice brought solace to the weary, joy to the broken-hearted, and hope to those who had none. Yet, for all …

The Forgotten King

hamed Dec. 23, 2024, 5:27 a.m.

The wind howled through the crumbling ruins of an ancient palace, buried deep within the Alborz mountains. Mehran, a wandering bard, stumbled upon the remnants of a courtyard. Marble lions guarded the entrance, their faces weathered but defiant. In the air lingered a faint hum, like a melody half-forgotten, tethered to the past.

He knelt beside a fountain, its water long dried, and sang an old verse:

"When night betrays the veil of dawn,
The rightful king shall yet be drawn."

No sooner had the words left his lips than the earth beneath him trembled. From the shadows emerged an old man cloaked in shimmering gold, his face obscured by a jeweled mask.

"Who dares disturb the silence of Siyavashgard?" The voice was thunderous, commanding reverence.

Mehran’s heart raced. "A seeker of truth," he replied, clutching his lyre. "Are you a specter, or are you... the king?"

The figure stepped closer, …

The Case of the Missing Semicolon

hamed Jan. 8, 2025, 7:43 p.m.

In the bustling city of Codeville, where algorithms roamed and data structures thrived, there was a detective known for solving the most perplexing cases of the digital age. His name was Syntax, and his badge was a shiny if statement.

One foggy morning, as Syntax sipped his binary coffee, an urgent message beeped through his console. It was from the mayor of Codeville, Loop Mayor, whose programs had been running flawlessly until yesterday.

"Detective Syntax," the message read, "a semicolon has gone missing from my latest project. Without it, my world is in chaos. Please, find it before the next compilation!"

Syntax donned his trench coat, which was lined with pseudocode, and set off into the binary streets. He knew that in Codeville, every semicolon was crucial, a linchpin in the delicate balance of code execution.

His first stop was at the notorious Syntax Error Café, where he found …