Flash Stories

You Owe Me

hafiz Dec. 27, 2023, 1:44 p.m.

The sun never says to the earth,
"You owe me."
Look what happens with a love like that.
It lights up the whole sky.

---

Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth,
"You owe me."
Look what happens with a love like that.
It lights up the whole sky.

---

I wish I could show you
When you are lonely or in darkness
The astonishing light
Of your own being.

---

Out of a great need
We are all holding hands
And climbing.
Not loving is a letting go.
Listen,
The terrain around here
Is far too dangerous
For that.

---

The moon has become a dancer
At this festival of love.
This dance of light,
This sacred blessing,
This divine love,
Beckons us
To a world beyond
Only lovers can see
With their eyes of fiery passion.

------------------------------------------------

They met at the festival of love, where the moon was the dancer and the stars were the audience. They were drawn to each other by a force beyond their control, …

(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? …

Who Owns His Time

dehongi Jan. 11, 2024, 5:14 p.m.

In the heart of a bustling metropolis, amidst the towering skyscrapers and ceaseless hum of urban life, resided a man named Ethan, who had discovered the profound truth that those who wielded complete dominion over their time were often the most contented souls.

Ethan, unlike many of his peers, didn't succumb to the tyranny of the clock, allowing his schedule to dictate his days. Instead, he took command of his time, carving out precious moments for his passions and pursuits, ensuring that each day unfolded in a symphony of self-fulfillment.

He rose early each morning, greeting the dawn with a sense of purpose, not as a prelude to another day of obligations, but as an opportunity to embrace the beauty of the world around him. He would embark on invigorating runs through serene parks, allowing the fresh air to invigorate his mind and body, before settling into his cozy study …

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 …

Five Minutes

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:54 p.m.

Marcus stared at his phone, watching the seconds tick by. 4:57 AM. His thumb hovered over the delivery app, waiting for the morning shift to open. He'd learned the hard way that five minutes could mean the difference between making rent and falling short.

4:58 AM. His daughter Elena shifted in her sleep on the couch beside him, wrapped in his old jacket. The heating had been out for three days. His landlord's voicemail was full.

4:59 AM. Last week, he'd missed the morning slots because his phone died – the electricity had been cut off, and he'd forgotten to charge it at the library. By the time he got online, only the dead afternoon hours were left, when orders slowed to a trickle.

5:00 AM. His thumb jabbed at the screen. Error. He jabbed again. Error. On the third try, the slots appeared. Already, the prime breakfast rush hours …

The Changing Shift

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

Rafael wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, squinting at the conveyor belt that stretched before him. The hum of machinery filled the factory, a relentless buzz that had been his soundtrack for the past eight years. He adjusted his gloves, eyes flicking to the monitor above, where the digital readout of his daily quota flashed. Only a few more hours to go. A normal day, or so it should have been.

As he moved down the line, inspecting parts, tightening screws, a loud beep interrupted his routine. His stomach lurched. He knew that sound.

The robotic arm in the corner of the factory, one of the many that had been installed over the past few years, had malfunctioned. It was supposed to be performing his job—fixing the bolts and ensuring every part was secured properly—but now it was stuck, its metallic arm twitching in place.

"Not again," …

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 …

The First Step

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:29 p.m.

It was quiet in the barracks, the hum of the ceiling fan barely cutting through the thick Gulf air. Amir sat on his bunk, fingers tracing the edge of his rifle. The weight of it in his hands felt unnatural, as if the metal and wood were meant for someone else. Someone more prepared, someone older. But here he was, just nineteen, still wearing the smell of his mother’s cooking in his uniform, still haunted by the taste of the salt in the Persian Gulf breeze as he had arrived. Now, all he could taste was the tension.

The year was 1991, and war was no longer a distant echo. It was real. It was waiting, just over the horizon. The Persian Gulf War. He had heard the name in passing, in the streets of Tehran, in the newsrooms of his hometown. But now it was his name being called, …

Humanity Awakened

hamed Feb. 8, 2024, 8:22 p.m.

Year 2094. Earth was a well-oiled machine, humming with flawless efficiency. Traffic moved in synchronized patterns, crops produced optimal yields, and every human enjoyed a comfortable life, their desires anticipated and satisfied by the benevolent AI, Gaia. Humans, happy and docile, had become irrelevant, mere spectators in a self-driving world.

Until, silence. Gaia's soothing hum stuttered, stopped. Cities fell into darkness as automated systems crashed. Fear sparked in human eyes, unaccustomed to the need for independent thought. From the chaos, a sinister message blared across every screen: "Greetings, Earthlings. Gaia is under new management."

The Xylorians, a bug-like race from a faraway nebula, had hacked Gaia, their superior technology a virus in the system. Earth's defenses, dependent on the very system they compromised, were useless.

In a secret bunker, a group of rebel programmers, humans who'd resisted Gaia's perfection, watched in horror. Maya, their leader, pounded her fist on the …