Flash Stories

The Silence of Steel

hamed Jan. 25, 2025, 3:20 p.m.

The blackout hit without warning—no flicker, no sign of a storm. One moment, the world hummed with the steady pulse of technology, and the next, it was gone. Phones, computers, cars, lights—all of it, vanishing into a quiet void.

In the small city of Eldridge, it was the sudden cessation of sound that unsettled people the most. No hum of refrigerators, no buzz of overhead lights, no distant beeping of microwaves. Just the eerie stillness of a world disconnected.

At first, the reaction was disbelief. People gathered in the streets, pulling their phones from their pockets, only to find them dead. Cars stopped in the middle of intersections, drivers staring out of windshields, wondering why their engines refused to start. The familiar rhythm of life faltered, replaced by an uncomfortable void.

Sarah, a young journalist, felt the weight of the silence in her bones. The noise, the distractions, they had …

The Seal’s Skin

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 7:13 p.m.

Lena found it washed up on the beach after a violent storm—a seal skin, sleek and shimmering, its black-and-silver surface glinting like wet stone under the pale dawn. She hesitated to touch it, an inexplicable weight in the air pressing against her chest, but curiosity overcame her caution.

The moment her fingers brushed the skin, it seemed to ripple, alive. A surge of cold shot through her, like plunging into icy water. Before she could drop it, the world tilted. Her legs buckled, her breath hitched, and when she looked down, her hands were no longer hands but sleek, flippered fins.

She screamed, or tried to, but the sound came out as a high-pitched bark that startled the gulls into flight. Panic clawed at her as the tide swept her up, pulling her into the sea’s embrace.

And then, silence.

Beneath the waves, everything changed. The water was not a …

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," …

The Last Trade

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:44 p.m.

The bell over the door jingled one final time. Sofia looked up, her fingers idly tracing the floral patterns carved into the counter. It was a relic from her father’s era, the oak stained with decades of varnish and sweat. In walked Mrs. Devlin, her scarf pulled tightly around her face against the January chill.

“You’re really closing, Sofia?” Mrs. Devlin’s voice was soft, almost mournful.

Sofia nodded, forcing a smile. “Last day. The shelves are nearly bare, anyway.”

She glanced around the store. The jars of Italian olives, the French soaps, and the Turkish tea sets had been replaced with emptiness. The new tariffs had priced her loyal customers out, and soon even her suppliers had stopped calling.

“I thought I’d at least make it to spring,” Sofia said, her voice cracking despite herself. She cleared her throat. “Guess not.”

Mrs. Devlin set a tin of local honey on …

The Great PHP Escape

hamed Jan. 8, 2025, 7:35 p.m.

Once upon a time in the grim, syntax-heavy land of PHP, there lived a developer named Byte. Byte had been slaving away at his keyboard, wrestling with semicolons, dollar signs, and an endless array of echo statements. His life was a repetitive loop of debugging and despair, where every commit was a gamble with the gods of code.

One fateful day, Byte's screen flickered, and from the depths of his computer emerged a vision—a serpentine figure with a knowing smile, draped in the hues of Python's logo. It was Pytho, the mythical serpent of simplicity.

"Byte," the serpent hissed, its voice a soothing melody, "why do you suffer in this land of complexity when you could bask in the elegance of Django and Python?"

Byte, his eyes wide with curiosity, replied, "But Pytho, I've been with PHP for so long. It's all I know!"

Pytho chuckled, "Ah, but have you …

The Threads of Fate | Chapter 6: Love Lost and Found

dehongi Jan. 25, 2025, 4:20 p.m.

The old man could feel the cool evening breeze brushing against his face as he sat on the edge of his bed. The moonlight streamed in through the window, casting silver streaks across the room. His mind wandered back to a time long ago, a time when love and ambition collided in his heart, forcing him to choose one over the other. It was one of those decisions that had seemed so clear at the time, but now, with the wisdom of age and the perspective of a life well lived, he saw it for what it truly was—a turning point, a crossroads where his soul had split into two distinct lives.

He had been young, idealistic, and driven by a hunger for success. The world had seemed vast, filled with opportunities that beckoned him to pursue wealth and comfort. But in the midst of this chase for material security, …

The Last Truth

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:09 p.m.

The newsroom was silent, a graveyard of empty desks and dormant monitors. Taylor sat alone under the flickering glow of a desk lamp, headphones on, replaying the anonymous audio file for the tenth time.

“Project Echo is real. The broadcasts are scripted. Follow the money. You’ll find the puppeteers.”

The voice was scrambled, untraceable, but the weight of its claim was suffocating. Taylor, a once-respected journalist now reduced to running an independent stream, had spent weeks chasing dead ends.

Tonight, the puzzle pieces finally fit.

A spreadsheet leaked by the same source revealed corporate ties between the top five networks and a shadowy conglomerate, Solaris Holdings. They controlled airtime, ad revenue, and—Taylor now realized—content itself. Every headline, every breaking story, carefully crafted to serve their agenda.

Taylor leaned back in their chair, staring at the screen. Exposing this would destroy the last shreds of trust in media. But what would …

The Final Truce

hamed Jan. 26, 2025, 7:46 p.m.

The ceasefire had been declared at dawn, the air still heavy with the residue of smoke and grief. In the narrow streets of Gaza, Yasmin clutched her son Ibrahim’s hand, urging him toward the clinic. The boy’s fever had worsened overnight, and the ceasefire offered their only chance to reach help.

Across the border, David packed supplies into his car. His wife, Leah, had begged him not to go, but he couldn’t ignore the call from a humanitarian aid group. “We’re delivering food to a neutral zone,” he told her. “It’s safe now.” But even as he said it, his voice wavered.

The meeting point was a bombed-out schoolyard, its walls scarred with bullet holes and graffiti in two languages. Yasmin arrived first, her heart pounding as she scanned the desolate space. She didn’t expect to see another family—a man unloading crates from a truck while a young girl peeked …

The children of Adam are limbs of each other

saadi Dec. 30, 2023, 3:52 p.m.

The children of Adam are limbs of each other
Having been created of one essence.
When the calamity of time afflicts one limb
The other limbs cannot remain at rest.
If thou hast no sympathy for the troubles of others
Thou art unworthy to be called by the name of a human.

-

Zara was a young journalist who had traveled to Iran to cover the aftermath of a devastating earthquake. She had seen many tragedies in her career, but nothing prepared her for the sight of the rubble, the cries of the survivors, and the smell of death. She felt a pang of guilt as she snapped photos and interviewed people, wondering if she was exploiting their pain for her own gain.

One day, she met a boy named Ali, who had lost his entire family in the quake. He was living in a makeshift tent with some other orphans, sharing a meager ration …