Flash Stories

Paper Boats at Dawn

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:07 p.m.

The river was still, bathed in the pale light of dawn, its surface shimmering like a sheet of glass. Lan stood at the water’s edge, her fingers trembling as she folded the last corner of the delicate paper boat. The crease was sharp, precise—the way Bao had taught her. The boat would glide effortlessly, like a whisper across the river, if only the current would carry it to him.

Her heart beat fast in her chest, each pulse a drum she could not silence. She had not heard from Bao in weeks, not since the war had torn them apart. Since the soldiers came through their village, taking the men for the front lines, separating families as easily as they separated the earth from the sky. Bao was no longer the young man she had fallen in love with, standing beside her in the fields. He was now a soldier, …

Invisible Walls

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:17 p.m.

Zeke adjusted the AR goggles on his face, his fingers flying over the holographic interface as he programmed the final touches. The alley buzzed with activity, but no one noticed him standing there, seemingly tinkering with thin air. That was the beauty of his work—it only appeared to those he chose to see it.

Tonight’s piece was called Broken Chains, an enormous sculpture of glowing digital links shattering into fragments. It would hover at the city’s busiest intersection, visible only to immigrants and refugees who had registered their augmented reality IDs.

Zeke had become a legend in underground circles, known as the "Ghost Painter." His art wasn’t about gallery shows or corporate commissions. It was rebellion. His pieces were bold messages tailored to the overlooked: a blazing phoenix for underpaid teachers, a field of flowers that only children in foster care could see, and a black hole swallowing coins that …

Subway Sama

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:47 p.m.

Eli sat on the worn, cracked floor of the 2 train platform, his guitar resting in his lap. The bustle of New York City echoed around him—the rush of commuters, the screeching trains, the clattering footsteps. He strummed his chords with the rhythm of his thoughts, searching for the right tune, the one that would draw a few extra dollars from the crowd. He didn’t mind. Playing music in the subway was a means to an end—his dream was to play for crowds, for real stages. But for now, this sufficed.

A man in a long, dusty coat shuffled into view, his feet dragging like the weight of his years was too much to bear. His eyes, however, were sharp—like the glint of sunlight on a forgotten shard of glass. He stopped in front of Eli, not bothering to throw in any change, just staring at him intently.

Eli raised …

The Catalyst

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:16 p.m.

The lab was quiet, save for the low hum of the quantum battery prototype in its containment chamber. Dr. Lin Wei adjusted her glasses, her eyes fixed on the monitor. The numbers were perfect—energy output beyond anything humanity had ever achieved. A single charge could power a city for a month.

“We’re ready,” she whispered into her headset.

In Brussels, Dr. Elena Marceau watched the same data stream on her screen. Her jaw tightened. “They’re ahead of us,” she said to her assistant, her French accent sharp with frustration. “We need that catalyst formula.”

Across the globe, in a high-rise in Seattle, Dr. Adam Carter leaned back in his chair, a smug grin spreading across his face as he scrolled through intercepted emails from Lin Wei’s team. His tech was close but not close enough. Not until now.

Lin’s lab was impenetrable, or so she thought. …

happiness.

ziamaiko Jan. 9, 2024, 10:49 a.m.

از آن ابتدا، مشخص بود که او بی‌نهایت باهوش است. در واقع از همان سنین پایین همه می‌دانستند که او نابغه است. اما هرگز توجه‌ای کافی نگرفت تا از آن موهبت در راه خوبی استفاده کند.
نامش را موروس گذاشتند. معنی سرنوشت می‌دهد. شخصی است که به بدترین چیزی که می‌تواند اتفاق بی‌افتد فکر می‌کند و بسیار منفی‌نگر است.
هرگز پدرش را ندید. مادرش به او می‌گفت پدرش برای پیدا کردن خوشحالی واقعی آن‌ها را ترک کرده است. تصور می‌کرد پدرش او را دلیل ناراحتی می‌دانسته.
زمانی که تنها سه سال داشت، مادرش جلوی او، درست جلوی چشمانش، خودکشی کرد و او هیچ‌کاری جز تماشا کردن انجام نداد‌.
او آنقدر از تغییر ناگهانی احساستش در یک لحظه ترسید که فقط لبخند زد. انگار لبخند زدن او را به دنیایی که مادرش هنوز زنده بود برمی‌گرداند.
او می‌دانست باید برای مادر عزیزش احساس دلسوزی و غم بکند. واقعا هم چنین احساسی داشت. اما باید حقیقتی …

The Nightingale’s Last Song

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:14 p.m.

The old woman sat in her weathered armchair, its floral fabric faded by decades of sunlight streaming through the window. Her name was Shirin, but to her granddaughter Laleh, she was simply Maman Bozorg. The aroma of brewed saffron tea lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of rosewater from the sweets they had shared earlier.

Outside, the city of Tehran hummed with its usual nighttime symphony—distant car horns, the faint wail of a street vendor, and the wind whispering through the leaves of the sycamore trees lining their quiet lane. But inside, there was silence.

Laleh sat cross-legged on the rug by her grandmother’s feet, cradling a small ceramic nightingale in her hands. “Tell me again about Rostam,” she whispered.

Shirin smiled, her face a map of lines etched by time and sorrow. Her voice, though soft, carried the weight of generations. “Rostam,” she began, “was not …

He Was Gone

hamed Sept. 12, 2024, 4:53 p.m.

One day, I sat at a bus station, feeling the weight of depression. An old man beside me seemed to sense it.

"What’s troubling you?" he asked gently.

"I see no meaning in life," I replied. "Not here, nor in any other life, if such a thing exists."

He chuckled softly. "Let me share a story," he said. "Perhaps you'll find meaning in this life—and maybe even in the next."

I nodded, and he began.

"I once lived on a twin-planet system. Both worlds were packed with billions of us. Every few days, they sent millions off on missions to escape the overcrowding. But only a few, after countless attempts, ever made it to the capsule in orbit. Most perished. I was one of the rare ones. After many failed attempts, I finally reached the capsule and embarked on a solitary nine-month journey through space. Alone, confined, unsure of what …

The Garden at Dusk

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:48 p.m.

Every evening, as the sun began to dip behind Tehran’s skyline, Layla sat by the window of her small florist shop, watching the world bustle outside. The city was noisy, filled with cars, honking horns, and people rushing from one place to the next. But inside, surrounded by the scent of roses, jasmine, and carnations, Layla found solace in her solitude. The flowers never judged her, never made her feel lonely.

One evening, as she watered a potted orchid, she noticed a street cat sitting on the sidewalk outside her shop. Its fur was patchy, and its eyes gleamed with a knowing, almost human quality. Layla had seen this cat around for weeks, but it always kept to itself. Tonight, however, it did something peculiar.

It stared directly at her through the window, and as the sun touched the horizon, the cat spoke.

"You’re not meant to be alone, you …

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 …

A Curtain Divides the World - Chapter 4: "Operation Opposite Gender"

dehongi Jan. 17, 2025, 6:40 p.m.

The wedding was the perfect opportunity. Or, at least, that’s how Arash had framed it to Kian as they rode together in the back seat of Kian’s dad’s car.
“You’re overthinking this,” Kian grumbled, adjusting his tie for the fifth time. “It’s just a wedding.”
“It’s not just a wedding,” Arash said with a mischievous grin. “It’s a rare chance to observe and maybe—just maybe—interact with the opposite gender.”
Kian gave him a sidelong glance. “You make it sound like we’re wildlife biologists studying a new species.”
“That’s kind of what we are,” Arash said. “Think about it. How often do we get to be in the same space as girls? This is our chance to see what they’re really like.”
“I already know what they’re like,” Kian muttered. “They’re terrifying.”
When they arrived at the venue, a sprawling garden decorated with fairy lights and elaborate floral arrangements, Arash’s excitement only grew. The air buzzed with …