Flash Stories

sweet gaze.

ziamaiko Feb. 3, 2024, 7:44 a.m.

چاقوی زرین‌نگارش را محکم در دست گرفت. انگار قرار بود لیز بخورد و نابود شود. خودش هم اطمینان کامل را به خودش نداشت. انگار در همین لحظه چیزها قرار بود نابود شوند.
دختر‌ک ضعیف رو به رویش روی زمین افتاده بود. دیگر تکان نمی‌خورد. نه اینکه نمی‌توانست تکان بخورد، دیگر نمی‌خواست که تکان بخورد!
«این.. خنجر پدرمه.»
«می‌دونم. اون قبلا کسی رو باهاش نکشته، اینطور نیست؟»
او اخم می‌کند. «پس با چیزهای دیگه مردم رو کشته.»
«هنوز در گوشه‌ای از ذهنم این باور وجود داره که اون مرد خوبی بوده.»
داد می‌زند. «هیچ‌کدوم از مردم خوبی اون رو نمی‌گن!»
هرگاه مردم می‌گفتند کسی خداست، حتما بود. و اگر می‌گفتند آن شخص لجن است، حتما بود. هرچه مردم می‌گفتند شخص همان بود. و انسان همان می‌شد. روال طبیعی همین بود!
دخترک به چشم‌های تاریکش نگاه کرد. «من وقتی بچه بودم تلاش می‌کردم با شیطان صحبت کنم تا شاید فرد خوبی بشه‌‌. من می‌تونم تورو هم آدم بهتری کنم.»
«شیطان با …

The Voice on the Line

hamed Jan. 23, 2025, 6:25 p.m.

Sophia stared at her phone, the screen flashing with her mother’s name. Her thumb hovered over the answer button.

It wasn’t the first time she’d gotten a call like this.

“Hi, Mom,” she said cautiously, pressing the phone to her ear.

“Sophia, honey,” the voice said, trembling with urgency. “I need your help. I’m stuck at the bank, and they’ve frozen my account. I don’t know what to do.”

The voice was perfect—her mother’s slight rasp from years of smoking, the familiar cadence of her words. But Sophia’s stomach churned.

“When did this happen?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

“This morning. I didn’t want to bother you at work, but it’s getting worse. I just need you to send some money to clear things up.”

Sophia’s pulse quickened. The fear in her mother’s voice was convincing, but something was off.

“Where are you right now?”

“I just told you, …

The Catalyst

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:49 p.m.

The storm outside howled like a wounded beast, slamming rain against the reinforced glass of Dr. Elena Vega's underground lab. Power flickered, but the hum of the emergency generators kept her machines alive. On her desk, a small glass vial shimmered faintly in the dim light, its contents a liquid so iridescent it looked like captured starlight.

She called it The Catalyst.

Years of research had led her here: a synthetic compound capable of reversing atmospheric carbon levels at an unprecedented rate. Not just slowing the crisis—undoing it. A single droplet, when deployed, could trigger a chain reaction in the air, neutralizing greenhouse gases and stabilizing the planet's climate.

Elena’s fingers trembled as she secured the vial in a portable case. She had to get it to the launch site before it was too late. Outside, floodwaters rose, and the city’s air was thick with smoke from wildfires raging hundreds …

The Pulse of Pomegranate Valley

hamed Jan. 23, 2025, 6:28 p.m.

In Pomegranate Valley, every tree had a voice. Sensors embedded in the ancient orchards whispered to the village network, updating humidity levels, soil health, and even the ripeness of the fruit. The valley was alive in ways Farhad could never have imagined when he’d first returned from the city.

“Another tree’s stressed,” his sister Aylin said, glancing at her tablet as they walked through the grove. “Sector 12, row 8. Probably irrigation again.”

Farhad nodded, swiping his wristband. The smart irrigation system hummed to life, delivering a precise stream of water directly to the roots of the tree in question.

“You know,” he said, “I used to hate this place.”

Aylin smirked. “We know. You complained non-stop about how backward it was. Now you’re Chief Data Farmer.”

“Things changed.”

They walked past the solar array that powered the entire village, its panels gleaming under the midday sun. The community had …

The Voices That Rise

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:51 p.m.

Maya stood at the edge of the crowd, her heart pounding in her chest, a mix of fear and defiance. The protest stretched out before her like a river of humanity, its currents alive with chants and signs that carried messages of pain and hope. She had never done anything like this before, never stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers in the streets, demanding change. But when she heard the news about George Floyd, when she saw the footage, it was as if the weight of the world had pressed down on her chest. Her whole life felt like a series of small injustices, like cracks in the pavement she had learned to step over. But this—this was different. She could no longer step aside.

"Say his name!" the crowd roared in unison, their voices a powerful wave of collective grief.

"George Floyd!" Maya shouted, the words tearing from her …

The Crossroads

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:26 p.m.

The morning sun streamed through the lace curtains, casting patterns on the kitchen table. Ruth Simmons sat with her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, the aroma doing little to calm the storm in her chest. On the table beside her, two letters lay side by side like rivals in a duel.

One was the flyer for tonight’s meeting at the church—a gathering of organizers planning the next steps for the Montgomery Bus Boycott. The other was a note slipped under her door last night, its scrawled warning still fresh in her mind: “Stay quiet, or your family pays.”

From the other room came the sound of her daughter, Clara, humming a tune as she braided her hair. Ruth’s husband, Marcus, had already left for the factory, unaware of the note or the weight it carried.

Ruth closed her eyes. She could see the faces of those who had …

The Vanishing Feed

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:36 p.m.

Sienna woke up to the same ritual she had followed for years: reaching for her phone before her eyes fully opened. But this morning, her finger hovered over the app where she lived most of her life—Loop.

Except the icon was gone.

She blinked, panic immediately replacing her sleepiness. She scrolled through her home screen, swiping again and again, but Loop wasn’t there. A quick search confirmed it wasn’t just her phone. It was trending everywhere—or, rather, nowhere. Loop had vanished. No warning, no explanation.

Sienna’s first instinct was disbelief. Then grief. She’d spent years curating her life for her 1.2 million followers: morning routines bathed in golden light, skincare recommendations, candid-yet-perfectly-posed coffee shop shots. Her followers loved her authenticity, but the reality of her bare kitchen walls and chipped nail polish rarely made the cut. Without Loop, she wasn’t sure who she was anymore.

Her inbox flooded with frantic …

A Day in the Life

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 5:18 p.m.

It used to be that Marta’s mornings began with the sound of the rooster crowing, just as the first light of dawn broke over the mountainside. She would rise from her small, modest home in the village, step outside to feel the coolness of the earth beneath her bare feet, and tend to her crops. The soil was her world, the fields her second home. There was rhythm to it, a simplicity in the steady march of seasons. She knew the land. It gave back what she put in. And the days were long, but not without purpose.

She remembers those days—before the land became more of a burden than a blessing.

Now, her alarm rings at 6:00 a.m. like it always has, but the sound is jarring in a way that the rooster never was. She’s no longer outside with the soil beneath her fingers; instead, she’s in a …

The Changing Desk

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 5:20 p.m.

In the early years, Ellen’s desk had been a small, solid oak fixture by the window. It was a place where she could feel the sun streaming in during the morning, warming her as she sorted through the day's tasks. Her files were stacked in neat rows, a small picture of her family on the corner, a few potted plants for decoration. The desk was hers, personalized—an anchor in an otherwise uniform office. The walls around her were beige, the carpet a muted shade of gray, but it didn’t matter. The routine was hers to control.

But over time, things started to change. The fluorescent lights above her desk buzzed more insistently, as if in sync with the shifts happening beneath them.

It started subtly—new colleagues, young faces with bright eyes and a certain energy she couldn’t quite name. Then, the open-plan office layout arrived. The walls came down, literally. …

Still coming to your wedding, though

hamed March 23, 2025, 7:32 p.m.

The man leaned against the chipped edge of the breakroom table, glancing at the clock. Lunch break was ticking by, and his childhood best friend was late—same old Jake, always running on his own time. They’d been inseparable since kindergarten, classmates through college, two sides of a coin. But life had flipped that coin long ago. He’d married young, had three kids, watched gray creep into his hair and lines carve his face. Jake, though, stayed a bachelor, free as ever.

The door swung open, and there he was—Jake, 43, striding in like he’d just stepped out of their senior yearbook. His skin was smooth, his hair still dark and thick, a grin splitting his face. The man felt a pang, suddenly aware of his own sagging shoulders, the weight of years Jake seemed to defy.

“Hey, man!” Jake clapped him on the back, the old familiar rhythm of their …