Flash Stories

The Coffee Shop Mystic

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:40 p.m.

Samir had lived in Silicon Valley long enough to know the routine. Get up, code, debug, deploy, repeat. His life had become a series of neatly ordered lines of code, each day blending into the next. His routine was simple: wake up, grab a latte from the corner coffee shop, and head to the office to face the ever-increasing demands of the tech world.

But lately, there was something about the barista, Kian, that made Samir pause. Kian was always quiet, a man of few words, but his presence had a calmness that seemed to seep into the very air of the shop. His movements were fluid, precise, as if each action was a prayer or meditation. Samir often found himself watching, intrigued by the way Kian would carefully grind the beans, time the pour, and smile at the steam rising from the cup as if he were witnessing something …

One Thousand Demons

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:38 p.m.

In the dusty glow of the weaving room, Mina ran her fingers over the half-finished carpet. The air smelled of wool and dye, a familiar comfort in her family’s workshop. The intricate pattern shimmered under the light—a labyrinth of vines and symbols that had been passed down for generations.

Her grandfather’s voice echoed in her mind: “Each thread, each knot, has a purpose. The pattern isn’t just for beauty—it’s a story, a shield.” As a child, she’d thought it was just superstition, the way her family whispered prayers as they worked. Now, at 19, it felt like a relic of a past too distant to matter.

But that changed the night she found the letter.

Hidden inside an old wooden loom was a brittle parchment covered in delicate Persian script. Mina held it carefully, reading by the dim light of an oil lamp. The words spoke of King Solomon’s divs—demons …

The Nine Pieces of a Kumiho's Heart

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 6:53 p.m.

Hyejin wandered through the village, her pale hanbok fluttering like mist. The villagers whispered as she passed, her beauty unearthly, her steps too quiet. They did not know what she truly was, but they sensed the truth in their bones: Hyejin was a Kumiho.

Once, centuries ago, she had been like her sisters, devouring the hearts of men to taste fleeting humanity. But something had changed. She had tasted enough pain to see its futility, watched countless lives extinguished by her hunger. One night, standing beneath the full moon, she vowed to live differently.

She discovered her gift by accident. The first man she saved was a boy, barely fifteen, who had been overcome by grief after losing his mother. Hyejin had felt the ache of his sorrow like a physical weight. She had reached into herself, pulling free a shard of her immortal heart—a glowing ember, warm and alive.

azriel is lost. again..

ziamaiko Jan. 12, 2024, 4:30 p.m.

i feel lost. everyone feels lost at times.
and now i do.
it's feels like.. i don't belong to nothing and nobody.
aky is not like me. he is the bearer of the word of freedom. he belongs to everything and everywhere.
sometimes i get too angry with him. he is very reckless. he always makes the stupidest decisions.
«i don't know if you have ever heard the word "future" or not.»
boundless happiness shines in his eyes. «yea.. zayn always say it.»
i sigh. «you should have goals. like i do. and try hard for them.»
«we can achieve it together.» he says, smiling innocently.
«i can do it myself.»
«but you'll reach your limits. i guess i did.»
«i have no limits.»
he frowns. and it's the first time i see aky like that. but still, he's so harmless. «at the end of the day, we have our friends! and they'll help me if i was tired.» he smiles again. …

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 …

The Last Generation

hamed Jan. 20, 2024, 7:25 a.m.

They called themselves the Last Generation. They were the ones who had stopped having children, opting instead for the eternal youth and health that science had promised them. They had seen the world change, wars and famines and pandemics and disasters, and they had grown cynical and selfish. They had no interest in leaving a legacy, only in enjoying their endless lives.

But they had not counted on the Resistance. A small group of rebels who still believed in the value of human life, who still cherished the miracle of birth, who still hoped for a better future. They had secretly preserved the ancient art of reproduction, hiding from the surveillance and persecution of the Last Generation. They had formed a network of underground communities, where they raised their children with love and courage.

One day, they decided to launch their final attack. They had hacked the system that controlled …

The Gathering

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 6:30 p.m.

The sun dipped low behind the mountains, casting a golden glow over the valley where the red earth met the tall trees. Mara sat on the edge of the fire pit, her fingers tracing the patterns of the ancestral symbols carved into the stone. Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her mind, as it often did in moments like this.

“Our stories are in the land, in the air, in the rivers. We are the land, and it is us.”

Mara closed her eyes, trying to summon the strength that had been passed down through generations. The fight for recognition, for justice, had been long and weary. But this... this was different. Something had shifted. People were listening now.

For decades, the land that her ancestors had cared for, nurtured, and fought for had been taken from them—first by colonizers, then by corporations, each one extracting resources, desecrating sacred sites, and …

The Rosewater Vials

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:56 p.m.

Lila had always been enchanted by the delicate art of perfume making, learning from her master in the small, fragrant shop tucked away in the heart of the old bazaar. The air was always filled with the sweet, heady mix of jasmine, saffron, and rose. But it was a certain vial—a small, intricately carved bottle of rosewater—that had always caught her eye. It sat on a dusty shelf in the corner of the workshop, forgotten, its glass dull and its cap sealed with age-old wax.

Her master, Karim, had never spoken of it, and when she asked, his eyes would darken. “Some memories are best left in the past, Lila,” he would say, his voice softer than usual. But as the days passed, Lila couldn’t shake the pull of the vial. There was something about it—something she couldn’t resist.

One evening, as she was cleaning the shelves, her hand brushed …

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 …

The Forgotten Engine

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:52 p.m.

Max Turner had always felt a certain magic in the mechanics of machines. As a child, his father’s garage had been a sanctuary, a place where engines hummed to life under his touch, and the scent of motor oil was a constant companion. But it wasn’t just the engines of today that intrigued him—it was the stories of the ones left behind.

While cleaning out the back corner of the dusty old garage, Max stumbled across a rusted frame, half-covered in an old tarp. He had never seen it before. Its shape was unusual, almost elegant in a way that seemed out of place amidst the usual steel-and-rubber beasts of modern automobiles. He bent down to inspect it more closely and froze.

A small plaque was barely visible, etched with the words: The Walker Prototype, 1917—Electric Drive.

Max’s heart skipped a beat. The name Walker wasn’t familiar to him, but …