Flash Stories

The New Secretary

hamed Jan. 26, 2025, 4:54 p.m.

The oak-paneled walls of the Pentagon’s Secretary of Defense office felt more like a bunker than a workspace. Pete Hegseth adjusted his tie, his reflection staring back from the massive mirror behind the desk. First day on the job, and the weight of the title pressed harder than the medals he once wore on his chest.

The morning briefing had been routine—updates on troop movements, supply chains, budget reallocations. But the last item slid across his desk by an aide named Sanderson caught his eye: Operation Ironfall.

The file was marked Eyes Only, its contents sparse. A few pages outlined a highly classified joint task force operation involving military bases in Eastern Europe. But something didn’t add up. The language was vague, almost deliberately so. And the signature authorizing the operation? General Mark Cavanaugh—retired six months ago.

Hegseth leaned back, tapping the edge of the file with his pen. “Sanderson,” …

The Threads of Fate | Chapter 9: The Final Confrontation

dehongi Jan. 25, 2025, 4:33 p.m.

The old man’s mind, worn and frail with time, was drawn to another chapter of his life, one filled with unresolved conflict, where pride had overruled the simple but profound power of forgiveness. He had once loved deeply, but in a moment of hurt and anger, he had let pride become his guide. The rift between them was sudden, sharp, and deep. No words of healing were spoken, and the wound had festered in silence for years, growing only more bitter with time.

It was a memory he had carried for far too long—the moment where pride had eclipsed the love he once felt. He could remember the exact words, the harshness in his voice, and the bitterness that had clouded his judgment. The decision had felt justified then—he had been wronged, or so he thought. The need to prove himself right, to maintain control over his emotions, had overridden …

The Curse of Love and Immortality - Chapter 3: Soraya, the Dancer of Flames

dehongi Jan. 16, 2025, 12:09 p.m.

The fire in the hearth flickered brightly, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. The princess watched the flames with quiet fascination, as though searching for the story her father was about to share. The king sat across from her, his gaze heavy with remembrance.
“Tonight,” he began, his voice steady yet tinged with melancholy, “I will tell you of Soraya, the Pari who danced with fire and set a prince’s heart ablaze.”
The princess turned her full attention to him. “She danced with fire?”
The king nodded. “Soraya was unlike any Pari before her. While many of her kind reveled in nature’s serenity—waterfalls, moonlight, and the whisper of the wind—Soraya found joy in the untamed beauty of fire. She was drawn to its warmth, its unpredictability, and the way it could illuminate even the darkest night. Her every movement was a reflection of its wild nature, and her dances were said to …

(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. …

Thirteen Nominations

hamed Jan. 24, 2025, 6:54 p.m.

The text from her agent came at 3:07 a.m., lighting up Carmen’s tiny Madrid apartment: “Emilia Pérez: 13 nominations. Call me ASAP.”

Carmen stared at the glowing screen, her heart pounding. Thirteen. Thirteen nominations. For the film everyone had called a long shot.

She sat up, swinging her legs off the couch. The script had come to her during the slowest year of her career—her inbox empty, auditions few and fruitless. Then came Jacques Audiard, the French auteur, casting for his first Spanish-language film. Carmen had nearly skipped the audition, convinced she’d never land the lead role.

But Jacques saw something in her that even she hadn’t.

On set, he’d pushed her, breaking her down and rebuilding her into Emilia Pérez, the gutsy, larger-than-life fugitive who faked her death to live openly as a woman. It was a role she didn’t think she could carry until the cameras rolled and …

Embers of the Earth

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 5:33 p.m.

Jenna had been a firefighter long enough to know that the crackling fire on the horizon was a harbinger of destruction, but nothing could prepare her for the enormity of what was coming. The sun, a fiery orb behind the smoke, painted the sky with the color of rage, its heat suffocating the land.

The fires had started as a whisper in the distance—an ember, a spark, a small flame. But by the time she and her team arrived, the inferno was a monstrous roar, devouring everything in its path. She gripped her hose tighter, her hands raw from the constant pressure. "We fight, we don’t run," she whispered to herself, but the words felt hollow.

As the fire raged, the thick, choking smoke made it hard to see, harder to breathe. The world around them was an endless sea of orange and black. Jenna’s mind flashed back to her …

The Last Shift

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:46 p.m.

Lena wiped the sweat from her brow as she worked the assembly line. The familiar hum of machines filled the factory floor, a sound she had grown accustomed to over the years. She had been here for almost a decade, assembling parts for the latest consumer electronics. The work wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills. She had a steady routine—wake up early, put in her hours, and go home. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep her small family going.

Her coworker, Greg, was a different story. He had been with her from the beginning, both of them starting as apprentices when the factory was first built. But Greg wasn’t like Lena. He had always been more tech-savvy, always tinkering with things in his spare time. He had taken night classes in automation and robotics, working hard to learn the skills that kept him one step …

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 Message

hamed Jan. 30, 2025, 7:02 p.m.

Liam’s phone buzzed at 2:13 a.m.

It was from Noah.

"I'm still here. Find me before they do."

Liam sat up, heart pounding. Noah had been missing for two weeks. The police had given up. His parents had stopped hoping. But here was a message—impossible, urgent.

He forwarded it to Harper and Zane. Within minutes, they were on a group call.

“This has to be a prank,” Zane whispered.

Harper disagreed. “Look at the message timestamp. It came from his number.”

They followed the only clue they had—Noah’s last known location, an abandoned radio station on the edge of town.

By 3 a.m., they were standing outside the rusting building. Liam hesitated before stepping in. The air was thick with dust and something else—something wrong.

Harper’s phone vibrated. Another text.

"Too late. They're coming."

The door behind them slammed shut.

Zane gasped. “What was that?”

Then, from the shadows, a …

Reboot

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 5:16 p.m.

Jamal’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, a moment of hesitation before he clicked “Submit” on the online course registration. He had spent hours staring at the screen, reading reviews of the “Introduction to Data Science” course. Was this really what he needed? Did he have time for this? He looked at the clock—5:30 p.m. His shift at the warehouse would start in a few hours, but it was his first day off in weeks.

He clicked it. Register. The words on the screen seemed to burn into him.

The job market was changing, everyone said so. And Jamal could feel it. A year ago, when the warehouse had invested in a new automated sorting system, it had seemed like a victory. Everything was faster, more efficient. The company had even promised bonuses for the workers who helped with the transition. But then came the layoffs. Slowly, like a creeping shadow, …