Flash Stories

Organic Human Art

hamed Feb. 2, 2024, 4:29 p.m.

Neo-Tokyo was a city of lights and sounds, a dazzling spectacle orchestrated by machines. Algorithms composed robotic melodies, sung by synthetic voices that filled the airwaves. Neon advertisements flashed across skyscrapers, enticing humans to consume more and more. The year was 2142, and art, in all its forms, belonged to the machines. Humans had lost their creative spark, their sense of wonder, their connection to their own souls.

Hana was different. She had a fire in her eyes, a longing in her heart, a memory in her mind. She remembered a time when humans created art, not code. When they expressed their emotions, not data. When they told stories, not instructions. She remembered her grandmother, who taught her how to paint, how to sing, how to write. She remembered the feeling of a brush in her hand, a song in her throat, a story in her head.

She kept these …

The First Hundred Days

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 4:16 p.m.

When President Everson swore in, they called it The Great Reset.

Lila felt the change before the news anchors could finish their glowing reports. Her bus pass, once free under the old administration, was suddenly invalid. A sleek new kiosk demanded payment. "Credit only," it chirped. Lila sighed and swiped, watching half her grocery budget vanish in seconds.

At work, her boss handed her a packet labeled Employee Reclassification. Inside, she found her new status: Independent Contractor. Benefits? Gone. Hours? "Flexible."

“Adapt or be left behind,” Everson had declared during the campaign, smiling into the cameras. Lila hadn’t voted for him, but it didn’t matter now. His face was everywhere—billboards, TV, even on the new government app that citizens were "strongly encouraged" to download.

The app sent push notifications every hour: "Report your productivity! How are you contributing to the nation’s growth today?" Lila dismissed them at first, until her …

The Line in the Sand

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:54 p.m.

The rain soaked Mateo’s jacket as he held his wife Rosa’s hand, their two children huddled close between them. Outside the immigration office, a crowd of protesters shouted into the night, their signs bobbing like storm-tossed buoys: “Families Belong Together.” “No Human is Illegal.”

Behind the glass doors, Councilwoman Evelyn Grant stood watching. She didn’t belong here, not tonight, but something had pulled her from her townhouse and into the chaos. Perhaps it was the image of the Díaz family on her desk—the photo clipped to their immigration file, now stamped with the red letters FINAL ORDER.

Her aide had warned her. “Stay out of it. You’re running for re-election. You can’t take this fight.”

But here she was, drenched in guilt and indecision.

Evelyn recognized Mateo immediately, his weathered face exactly as it looked in the photo. He met her gaze through the glass, his eyes filled with something …

The Love Renewed

hamed Feb. 8, 2024, 6:41 p.m.

Eliza felt the sun caress her hair, turning the silver strands into gold. She smiled as she hung the silk lanterns on the porch, their soft light reflecting the warmth in Michael's eyes. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. "You look beautiful, my love," he whispered.

She turned and hugged him. "So do you, my darling." They kissed, their lips speaking the language of their hearts. Their vow renewal was a week away, a celebration of their triumph over a storm that almost tore them apart. A storm of lies, betrayal, and pain. A storm they weathered together, with courage, forgiveness, and love.

But the arrival of Eliza's cousin, Claudia, threatened to bring back the clouds. Claudia, who always wore stiletto heels and a fake smile. Claudia, who always envied Eliza for finding happiness. Claudia, who always made barbed comments, disguised as concern, to undermine …

The mortal world is not worth worrying about

khayam Feb. 1, 2024, 8:25 a.m.

ای دوست بیا تا غم فردا نخوریم
وین یکدم عمر را غنیمت شمریم

فردا که ازین دیر فنا در گذریم
با هفت هزار سالگان سر بسریم

O friend, come so we don't worry about tomorrow
And let's take advantage of this once in a lifetime

Tomorrow we will pass this mortal world
We are equal to seven thousand old years people

Story:

He was a philosopher, and he loved wisdom. He loved to think, to question, to learn. He believed that wisdom was the essence of life, the way to understand the world, the way to transcend it.

She was a poet, and she loved beauty. She loved to write, to rhyme, to sing. She believed that beauty was the essence of life, the way to appreciate the world, the way to enjoy it.

They met at a tavern, drinking the same wine. He was searching for the meaning of life, she was celebrating …

The Silent Arena

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 5:03 p.m.

Yumi stood at the edge of the track, her heart pounding with anticipation. The Tokyo 2020 Olympics, held a year later, had been nothing like the Games she’d imagined. There were no roaring crowds, no energetic cheers, no vibrant national flags waving in the air. Just the quiet hum of an empty stadium, the muffled echo of footsteps, and the occasional beep of a camera clicking.

This wasn’t the Tokyo she had dreamed of—where she’d envisioned the cheers of thousands lifting her to victory. Instead, she found herself competing in the quietest Olympics in history, held under the heavy weight of pandemic restrictions.

As she adjusted her racing bib, Yumi tried to block out the isolation that had defined the lead-up to these Games. The months of quarantine, of training in sterile gyms, of virtual team meetings with her coach—everything had felt distant, disconnected. Even her family, usually her loudest …

The Corruption Algorithm

hamed Jan. 24, 2025, 10:27 a.m.

In the year 2205, humans had long since been freed from the grind of work. Robots did everything—farming, construction, medicine, even art. The world was peaceful, productive, and—perhaps most importantly—unburdened by the concept of work. The machines ran the factories, built the cities, and managed the infrastructure. Humans? They spent their days learning, playing, or simply relaxing. There was no need for jobs.

The only catch? All profits from the robot-driven labor went to the corporations that owned the machines. And by law, these corporations were mandated to share their profits with the nation, to ensure that every citizen received a basic income and a comfortable standard of living.

But like any system, even the most perfect ones have flaws. The profits were supposed to be shared equally, but somehow, every year, a little less found its way into the public coffers. The directors of the robot-run corporations were getting …

infinity.

ziamaiko Dec. 27, 2023, 9:29 a.m.

زیباترین آدم‌هایی که تا کنون شناخته بودم، آنهایی بودند که شکست خورده بودند. رنج می‌کردند. دچار فقدان بودند و با این‌حال راه خود را از اعماق درد و رنج گشودند و بیرون آمدند.
این افراد، یک حسی از قدردانی، حساسیت و فهم زندگی داشتند که آن‌ها را پر از شفقت، ملایمت و توجه عمیق و عاشقانه می‌کرد.
زیبایی این افراد، اتفاقی و بی‌سبب نبود.
و حال هرچقدر هم که او تلاش می‌کرد نشان دهد هیچ‌کدام از سختی‌هایی که کشیده برایش چیزی نبوده و قوی‌تر از این حرف‌هاست، اون گذر کرده. او مشقت‌ها را گذرانده و من با تمام وجود عارفانه و عاشقانه می‌پرستمش.
یعنی عشقی عارفانه.
«وقتی برای اولین‌بار تونستی روی پاهات راه بری رو یادت می‌آد؟ نه نمی‌آد. اما لوفی خوب یادشه. چون اون عشق بود. هر طرف ما پر از عشقه و ما بازم عین احمقا توی کوچه و خیابون دنبالش می‌گردیم. بعضی‌ وقتاهم، عشق یعنی رها کردن، آیکو. می‌دونم خنده‌داره اما …

A Mother’s Miracle

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:38 p.m.

Elena sat in the quiet of her living room, staring out the window at the fading light of dusk. The world outside was bustling, unaware of the miracle unfolding within her home. She could hear the distant sounds of children playing, the laughter of a family across the street, and the gentle hum of the city, but all of it seemed so far away, so distant from her world.

At sixty-six, Elena had never imagined she would become a mother. It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted children. Life had simply taken a different path. She had once been married, young and in love, but that dream had faded with time. She had built a career, traveled the world, and embraced the joys of solitude, always with the quiet ache of what could have been. But now, sitting in her favorite armchair, the soft hum of life around her was interrupted …

The Orb

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 6:31 p.m.

The vast emptiness of space was peppered with glinting shards, remnants of humanity's ambitions: fractured satellites, discarded boosters, the flotsam of decades of exploration. For Rhea, a space debris cleanup specialist, it was just another day in the orbital scrapyard.

Her ship’s claw arm maneuvered deftly, snagging a defunct communications satellite spinning lazily through the void. She guided it toward the collection pod, her movements precise, mechanical. She was on the final sweep of her shift when her radar pinged.

“Uncatalogued object detected,” the AI chirped.

Rhea frowned. “Show me.”

The screen displayed a faint blip in a decaying orbit over the Atlantic. She adjusted course, curiosity piqued. Objects that weren’t logged were rare—space agencies tracked nearly everything up here.

As her ship approached, she caught sight of it through the viewport: a smooth, obsidian sphere, perfectly round and glinting with an unnatural sheen. It was unlike anything she’d ever …