Flash Stories

The Last Filing Cabinet

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 5:06 p.m.

Rose watched the maintenance crew wheel away the last filing cabinet, its metal drawers rattling like loose teeth. For thirty-two years, she'd known exactly which drawer held which files – third down, left side for active accounts; top right for special cases. Now everything lived in the cloud, a concept that still felt as intangible as morning fog.

"You'll love the new system," Trevor from IT had promised during training, his fingers dancing across the keyboard. "It's like having a thousand filing cabinets in your pocket." He'd smiled the way her grandson did when explaining TikTok – that particular blend of patience and mild amusement reserved for the digitally challenged.

The office looked strange now – all glass and screens, stripped of the paper trails that had once marked the passage of time. Her desk, once fortress-like with its walls of folders, felt exposed. The dual monitors reflected her face, …

The Alarm

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

The Alarm

Every morning, the alarm goes off at 6:00 am. Every morning, he has to get up, put on his uniform, and report to his assigned station. Every morning, he has to smile and greet his neighbors, who are also wearing the same uniform and going to the same station. Every morning, he has to pretend that he is happy and normal.

He hates it.

He hates the alarm, the uniform, the station, the neighbors, the smile. He hates the society that expects him to conform to their standards of normalcy. He hates the fact that he can't express his true self, his true feelings, his true thoughts.

He is different.

He likes to read books, listen to music, watch movies, play games. He likes to explore new ideas, learn new things, create new things. He likes to be alone, to be free, to be himself.

He is not …

Currency of Survival

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

Tariq tightened his grip on the bag of potatoes, his knuckles white against the coarse burlap. Around him, the market buzzed with desperation. Sellers shouted prices that changed by the hour, their voices tinged with panic. Buyers haggled with a fierceness born of necessity. Everyone’s eyes carried the same shadow: fear of tomorrow.

He glanced at the crumpled bills in his pocket, the brightly colored notes that used to mean something. This morning, he had exchanged a week’s worth of wages for them, only to find that by noon, they barely covered dinner. Hyperinflation was the word economists used. To Tariq, it was a slow unraveling of his life.

“Five kilos,” the vendor barked, eyeing Tariq’s hesitation. The woman behind him in line shifted impatiently, clutching a handful of wilted greens.

“Can you take less?” Tariq asked, his voice hoarse.

The vendor’s face hardened. “Less? Tomorrow …

(still not there.)

ziamaiko Dec. 26, 2023, 6:46 p.m.

مسئله‌ای که زیاد ذهنم را مشغول می‌کرد این بود که چرا هیچ‌کس اهمیت نمی‌دهد. برای هیچ‌کس مهم نبود ما مانند زندانی‌ها در این مکان زندگی می‌کنیم؟ از دنیای بیرون، تنها چند کتاب و دست نوشته داشتیم. جز چندین بچه‌ی کوچک، هیچ انسان دیگری آنجا نبود. تمام کودکان هشت سال به بالا بودند. والدینی نداشتند. خاطراتی هم نداشتند. حتی دلیلی برای زندگی هم نداشتند. فقط توسط رباط‌ها برای آینده آماده می‌شدند. کدام آینده؟ هیچ‌کداممان نمی‌دانستیم.
بی‌هوا در حال گشتن در محوطه بودم که پاترونی با سرعت از کنارم گذشت.
پاترون‌ها رباط‌های باهوشی بودند که مارا بزرگ می‌کردند. ما انسان بودیم. از آنها باهوش‌تر بودیم. پس چرا تمام زندگی ما دست آنها بود؟
پاترون را دنبال‌ کردم و در همان حین گفتم :
「به نظرت می‌تونم نویسنده بشم، بیست و هشت؟」
او فقط بی‌هوا از کنارم گذشت.「اوه نه. تو نمی‌تونی برای خودت شغل انتخاب کنی. 'اون‌ها' تصمیم‌گیرنده‌اند.」
'آن‌ها' هرکسی می‌توانستند باشند. کسانی که برای آینده‌ی ما تصمیم می‌گیرند. …

Ronaldo and Messi, The Last Time They Played in Europe

dehongi Jan. 27, 2024, 4:57 p.m.

Ronaldo: Hey Messi, how are you feeling after joining PSG?
Messi: I'm feeling great, thanks. How about you? How's life at Manchester United?
Ronaldo: It's amazing. I'm back to where I belong. I'm the king of Old Trafford.
Messi: Well, good for you. I'm also enjoying my time at Paris. I'm playing with some of the best players in the world.
Ronaldo: Like who? Neymar? Mbappe? They are good, but they are not on my level.
Messi: Oh, really? What about you? Who are you playing with? Fernandes? Pogba? They are decent, but they are not on my level.
Ronaldo: Come on, Messi. You know I'm the best player in the world. I have more goals, more assists, more trophies, more awards than you.
Messi: That's not true, Ronaldo. You know I'm the best player in the world. I have more skills, more creativity, more vision, more magic than you.
Ronaldo: Skills? Creativity? Vision? Magic? What are those? …

She needed herself

hamed Jan. 21, 2024, 5:39 p.m.

She lost her parents in a car crash, her brother in a war, and her best friend to cancer. She was alone, broken, and hopeless. She had nothing left to live for, except a notebook and a pen.

She poured out her pain, her grief, and her memories on the pages. She wrote about the happy times, the sad times, and the times in between. She wrote about her dreams, her fears, and her regrets. She wrote about her love, her loss, and her longing.

She wrote until she had no more tears to shed, no more words to say, no more stories to tell. She wrote until she felt a spark of hope, a flicker of joy, and a glimmer of peace.

She sent her manuscript to a publisher, not expecting anything. She was surprised when they offered her a contract, a generous advance, and a marketing plan. She …

The Memory Collector

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:36 p.m.

Daniel's grandmother left him an old smartphone when she died. Not money, not jewelry, not her cherished recipe book – just an iPhone 6 with a cracked screen and a Post-it note that read: "One photo every day. You'll understand."

At first, he thought dementia had finally won. His grandmother had never owned a smartphone; she could barely operate the TV remote. Yet here was this device, its battery somehow still holding a charge, filled with 4,380 photos – exactly one per day for the past twelve years.

The first photo was of a half-eaten toast on a blue plate. The second, a pigeon on a windowsill. The third, his grandfather's reading glasses left on yesterday's newspaper. Mundane moments, captured with trembling hands and poor framing.

He almost deleted them all until he noticed the pattern. Every photo had a story, written in the Notes app with surprising technological proficiency:

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 …

After the Storm

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:18 p.m.

The morning after the storm, the Great Smoky Mountains stood shrouded in a ghostly mist, as if mourning the devastation below. Entire trees lay uprooted, power lines tangled like webs, and the small town of Cedar Hollow, nestled in a valley, was barely recognizable.

Clara stood in what used to be her front yard, holding a shattered photo frame. The glass was gone, but the picture—a faded snapshot of her late husband holding their infant son—remained intact. She clutched it to her chest, her breath fogging in the cold mountain air.

“Clara!” a voice called. She turned to see Jake, the local mechanic, jogging up the muddy road. His jeans were soaked, and his hands were caked with dirt.

“We’re meeting at the church,” he said. “Figured it’s the best place to coordinate.”

Clara nodded. “I’ll be there soon.”

By noon, nearly the entire town had gathered at the church, …

Get up and give the cup!

hafiz Jan. 23, 2024, 3:14 p.m.

O bartender! Get up and give the cup!
And do not worry about the sadness of the days!

Put the cup in my hand so that I take off
My Sufi and ascetic clothes.

Although it is notoriety in the eyes of the wise
We do not want the stigma and the fame

Give the wine! How long do we want to stay in our pride and arrogance?
Dust on the head, the unfulfilled soul

The sigh of my moaning chest
The fuel of these ignorant depressed people

The insider of the secret of my lovelorn hearth
I don't see anyone not in familiar nor in stranger

My mind, conscience and heart are happy with my lover
Who took the peace from my heart suddenly and completely

Anyone who sees my love who is slim such a cedar tree
He doesn't want to look at the cypress tree in the grass.

Hafiz! Be patient day and night in …