Flash Stories

Personal Stories of Fire

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:52 p.m.

"Voices of the Fire"

The fire tore through the canyon like a predator unleashed, but in its shadow, three lives intertwined.

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The Veteran:

Edith stood on her porch, gripping the bannister as the sky turned orange. At seventy-eight, she had seen fires before—three, to be exact. But this one was different. Faster, angrier.

“Mrs. Clarke, you need to leave!” a young deputy called from the street, his face slick with sweat.

She nodded but didn’t move. Her gaze was fixed on the eucalyptus tree in the yard, planted the day she and her late husband bought the house. “I’ll leave,” she said, her voice calm. “Just need a few minutes.”

In truth, Edith didn’t want to go. She had nowhere else to feel at home. She had outlived her husband, her friends, even the old dog who used to chase birds in the yard. This …

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 Gharial's Tears

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:25 p.m.

The river, ancient and winding, carried its story through the heart of India, flowing steadily beneath the sky where the stars whispered secrets to the moon. In its depths, hidden by the silver ripples of the Ganges, lived two souls whose love had endured beyond the barriers of time.

In their past lives, they had been human—he, a fisherman who had loved her with a quiet passion, and she, a village girl whose laughter had filled the air like the sweetest song. Their love had been forbidden, pulled apart by the cruel hand of fate. She had drowned, swept away by a storm while trying to escape the world that would never accept their union. He had died shortly after, heartbroken and lost.

But love, as it often does, refused to die.

When the river’s flow met their spirits, they were reborn—twisted into the forms of creatures that would forever …

A Flower in Space

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 6:05 p.m.

The hum of the spacecraft’s systems was the only sound as Commander Emma Harris and her crew drifted silently in the vast expanse of space. They were millions of miles from Earth, orbiting in the silence of the cosmos. The distant stars and the swirling blue of Earth below seemed to mock the stillness of their confined world.

Emma sat by the small hydroponic garden, her gloved fingers gently adjusting the life-supporting system that nurtured the tiny flower growing in its container. It was the first successful plant to bloom on the station, the culmination of months of experiments and failures. The flower, a simple zinnia, was the first testament to life flourishing in the vacuum of space.

“Can you believe it?” Lieutenant Marcos Alvarez’s voice broke through the quiet, his voice soft yet full of wonder. He floated nearby, his gaze fixed on the delicate petals that had slowly …

The Garden

rumi Dec. 29, 2023, 7:35 p.m.

He had always hated gardens. As a child, he would avoid them, fearing the insects, the dirt, the thorns. He preferred to stay indoors, reading books, playing games, watching TV. He thought gardens were boring, messy, and useless.

As he grew older, his disdain for gardens did not change. He pursued a career in finance, working long hours, making money, buying things. He had no time for nature, no interest in flowers, no appreciation for beauty. He only cared about himself, and his success.

He had no friends, no lovers, no hobbies, no interests. He only had himself, and his things. He thought he was happy, until one day, he met her.

She was a gardener, a lover of plants, a nurturer of life. She had a smile that brightened his day, a voice that soothed his soul, a touch that healed his wounds. She showed him the wonders of …

The Love Letter

hamed Feb. 8, 2024, 6:28 p.m.

She found the letter in her mailbox. It was written on a fine paper, with a delicate handwriting. It was addressed to her, but it had no name or stamp. It was a love letter.

She read it with curiosity and wonder. It was full of compliments and confessions. It said she was the most beautiful and charming woman in Paris. It said she had captivated the heart and the mind of the writer. It said he wanted to meet her and to make her happy. It said he loved her.

She felt a mix of emotions. She was flattered and intrigued. She was also confused and suspicious. Who was he? How did he know her? Why did he write to her? She had no clue. She had no admirers. She had no lovers. She had no friends. She was alone.

She was a Jewish woman living in Nazi-occupied Paris. …

The Last Dance

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:50 p.m.

The dance studio mirrors multiplied my humiliation by infinity. There was my best friend Mia, teaching my fiancé Tom the wedding dance I'd asked her to choreograph for us. Their bodies moved in perfect sync – too perfect for a first lesson.
I watched from the doorway as he dipped her, their faces inches apart, both laughing. The same laugh they'd shared at dinner parties, at game nights, at every moment I'd dismissed as friendly.
My phone still held the video I'd planned to share on social media: "First dance lessons with my amazing bestie and future husband! #WeddingPrep"
Instead, I pressed record on their private performance and typed: "Last dance lessons with my ex-bestie and ex-fiancé. #PlotTwist"
The sound of my phone's shutter echo made them freeze mid-turn. Their faces paled as I hit 'post.'
"Consider this my RSVP," I said, turning away. "I won't be attending."
Behind me, the mirrors captured their desperate scramble …

Hate And Love Are Too Close

sara Jan. 15, 2024, 6:47 p.m.

A few days ago, Sarah could not bear to be separated from him, his every word, every touch, igniting a flame of passion within her. His absence was a void, a gaping chasm in her existence. She thought she couldn't live without him, that her heart would shatter into a million pieces if he ever left.

But now, the memory of that incandescent love turned to a bitter, corrosive disgust. The flame that once burned so brightly had been extinguished, replaced by a cold, relentless hatred. She loathed him with every fiber of her being, every breath she took a testament to the poison he had injected into her soul.

How could she have been so blind? How could she have mistaken this nauseating feeling for love? The realization was a slap in the face, a harsh awakening from a delusional dream. The man she had so desperately adored was …

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 Tariff Tango

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 9:02 p.m.

At the International Trade Summit, held in a glitzy Vienna ballroom that smelled faintly of cigars and strained diplomacy, President Trumph strode to the podium. His signature red tie swung like a pendulum, warning of the chaos to come.

“I’m telling you,” Trumph began, pointing at the gathered delegates, “the EU’s been ripping us off for decades. Tariffs are coming, big ones. Huge ones. You won’t believe it!”

The French delegate, a silver-haired man named Jean-Claude, leaned over to whisper to his German counterpart. “Is he serious?”

“I think he is,” said Angela, sipping her mineral water with the calm of someone who’d seen worse. “Though I must admit, his economic theories are as unpredictable as his hair.”

Trumph jabbed his finger toward the Chinese delegation. “And you! Ten percent on imports if you don’t start playing fair!”

Ambassador Li smiled serenely. “Mr. President, we only play Go. You’re the …