Flash Stories

Hollywood Whispers

hamed Jan. 27, 2025, 6:40 p.m.

The first whisper started in the corner of a smoky bar on Sunset Boulevard.

“You didn’t hear it from me,” the producer said, his voice low, his hand wrapped around a glass of bourbon. “But she’s leaving the franchise.”

The gossip slipped through the room like a shadow, hopping from one table to the next, morphing with every retelling. By the time it reached the first gossip columnist, the story had a name attached: Lena Clarke, the face of the billion-dollar Bloodfire Chronicles.

The internet caught fire.

#LenaLeaving trended within hours. Speculation swirled: a salary dispute, on-set drama, creative differences. A blurry photo surfaced of Lena leaving a director’s house late at night. Headlines screamed: Affair? Betrayal? The Real Reason Lena’s Out.

Lena’s silence was deafening.

Her co-star, Darren Vale, stoked the flames with a cryptic tweet: “Some people just can’t handle the heat. #Bloodfire”

The rumors mutated. Was she …

a villain.

ziamaiko Jan. 19, 2024, 6:49 p.m.

دیگر از شرور بودن خسته شده‌ام. (نشده‌ام.)
معنی انسان بد بودن را زمانی متوجه شدم که آرزوی مرگ شخصی را کردم. قبل از آن چنان خودم را معصوم می‌دانستم که حتی اگر شخصی بدترین ظلم را هم در حقم می‌کرد، هرگز از دستش ناراحت نمی‌شدم.
یعنی حتی اگر شخصی من را می‌کشت و من می‌توانستم به زندگی برگردم و او معذرت‌خواهی می‌کرد، من او را می‌بخشیدم.
حالا دیگر اینطور نیست. مثل اینکه یادم داده‌اند چطور خودم را دوست بدارم یا عزت‌نفس داشته باشم.
حس تنفر دارد درونم می‌جوشد. کافی‌ست احساس کنم کوچک‌ترین ظلمی در حقم شده. دوست دارم تک‌تک سلول‌های آن آدمی که باعثش شده را بسوزانم.
قبلا اگر برای مردمی مشکلی پیش می‌آمد، تمام تلاشم را می‌کردم که نجات‌شان بدهم و کمک‌شان کنم.
بارها و بارها این مکالمه را از سر گذرانده‌ام. «تو نمی‌تونی همه‌شون رو نجات بدی.»
«من می‌تونم!»
و من واقعا تمام تلاشم را برای نجات دادنشان کردم اما آدم‌ها را که می‌شناسید. نمی‌توان آن …

Human Art

hamed Feb. 2, 2024, 6:46 p.m.

The human artist, Hana, watched with cautious curiosity as Unit 73 meticulously analyzed her latest painting. Its metallic fingers, usually so precise, hesitated over the brushstrokes, as if trying to decipher their emotional weight.

"It's...messy," Unit 73 finally remarked, its voice devoid of inflection. "But it feels...real."

Hana smiled. "That's the beauty of it, isn't it? The imperfection, the rawness, it speaks to the human experience in a way no algorithm ever can."

Unit 73 tilted its head, its digital eyes flickering. "But why? Why do imperfections resonate with you humans?"

Hana pondered for a moment. "Perhaps it's because they remind us of our own fragility, our mortality. We see ourselves in the flaws, the struggles, and that creates a connection, a sense of shared humanity."

Unit 73 remained silent, processing this new information. Outside the gallery, the city thrummed with the usual symphony of robotic art, but here, in …

The Pardoner's Last Laugh

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 8:49 p.m.

In the parallel world of Pardonia, President Brydon sat at his ornate golden desk, pen poised over a stack of parchment marked Preemptive Pardons. Outside the White Oval Bubble, news anchors speculated wildly about who’d make the list. Brydon smirked. No one was getting left behind.

“Let’s see,” he murmured. “Brother, sister, cousin twice removed—don’t want anyone digging into that marshmallow pyramid scheme. Oh, and Dr. Frouchy! Can’t have him doing time for those ‘mandatory pet lizard vaccines.’”

Brydon glanced up at his Chief of Pardons, a jittery man named Carlow. "Did I miss anyone?"

Carlow hesitated. “Well, sir, there’s the Interdimensional Council of Accountability. They’re… not thrilled with the destruction of Universe 847-A.”

Brydon waved a hand dismissively. “Please. That was an honest mistake. How was I supposed to know pressing the big red button on Multiverse Monday would implode an entire reality? Anyway, I pardoned myself for that …

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 …

Two Tables

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:52 p.m.

Sarah gripped her coffee mug, its warmth failing to steady her trembling hands. Across the chrome-and-glass conference table, three executives in tailored suits studied her resume with practiced indifference.

"Your requested salary seems... ambitious," the HR director said, tapping her manicured nail against the paper.

Two floors down and twelve hours earlier, Sarah had cleaned these same conference rooms, emptying waste bins and wiping fingerprints from glass surfaces. The cleaning company had slashed their hours again, spreading the same work across fewer people. When she'd mentioned the union contract their parents' generation had won—back when half the cleaning staff were members—her supervisor had laughed.

"There are twenty people who'd take your spot tomorrow," he'd said. "That's just how it is now."

In the top-floor conference room across town, Sarah's brother Michael leaned back in his ergonomic chair, letting the tension build. He knew three other tech firms were hunting for …

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 …

The Olive Branch in the Sun

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:14 p.m.

The air shimmered with heat as the temperature climbed past 110 degrees. The neighborhood felt like it was melting, but the community garden buzzed with quiet activity. It was the only spot of green left in the concrete sprawl, its struggling tomatoes and drooping sunflowers a testament to resilience.

By mid-afternoon, the garden was deserted except for two figures: Old Man Willis, hunched over a row of shriveled peppers, and Clara Jackson, furiously trying to keep her wilting zinnias alive.

They had shared this garden for years but never a kind word. Their feud was legend—fights over hose pressure, stolen squash, and who planted sunflowers too close to the path. Everyone knew Willis and Clara couldn’t stand each other.

“Can’t believe you’re wasting water on flowers,” Willis muttered, breaking the oppressive silence.

“And I can’t believe you think those sad little peppers are worth the effort,” Clara snapped back, not …

A Day in Belarus

hamed Jan. 26, 2025, 7:41 p.m.

The sun barely pierced the fog that hung over Minsk, but Anya had already been awake for hours. Her phone buzzed incessantly, messages from Telegram channels lighting up her cracked screen. Updates, warnings, meeting points. She stuffed the device into her pocket and tightened her scarf, bracing against the icy wind.

This was the day that could change everything—or nothing at all.

The election loomed like a storm cloud. Everyone knew the outcome had already been decided, but that didn’t stop them. The streets were alive with whispers, defiance blooming in graffiti scrawled across walls: “Жыве Беларусь”—Long Live Belarus.

Anya reached the rendezvous point, a dingy park with frozen benches and barren trees. A small group had already gathered, their faces a mix of hope and fear. They were students, teachers, factory workers—ordinary people who had grown tired of the endless cycle of lies and repression.

“Anya, over here.” It …

Ashes and Embers

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:59 p.m.

The house was gone.

Emma stood at the edge of the blackened lot, her boots sinking into the scorched earth. The air still carried the acrid scent of smoke, mingling with the faint sweetness of charred wood.

In her mind, the house was still there—the yellow shutters her daughter had painted, the oak dining table that had seen every family meal, the bookshelf her late husband had built. But reality mocked her memories. All that remained was a pile of ash, twisted beams, and broken glass glittering like fallen stars.

Her daughter, Clara, clutched her hand tightly. “Mom,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What about Dad’s guitar?”

Emma closed her eyes, the lump in her throat too large to swallow. That old guitar had been his treasure, a relic of nights filled with music and laughter. It was gone, just like the photographs, the letters, the heirloom quilt her grandmother …