Flash Stories

The Memory Collector

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:36 p.m.

Daniel's grandmother left him an old smartphone when she died. Not money, not jewelry, not her cherished recipe book – just an iPhone 6 with a cracked screen and a Post-it note that read: "One photo every day. You'll understand."

At first, he thought dementia had finally won. His grandmother had never owned a smartphone; she could barely operate the TV remote. Yet here was this device, its battery somehow still holding a charge, filled with 4,380 photos – exactly one per day for the past twelve years.

The first photo was of a half-eaten toast on a blue plate. The second, a pigeon on a windowsill. The third, his grandfather's reading glasses left on yesterday's newspaper. Mundane moments, captured with trembling hands and poor framing.

He almost deleted them all until he noticed the pattern. Every photo had a story, written in the Notes app with surprising technological proficiency:

Erase history's scars

hamed Feb. 8, 2024, 8:28 p.m.

The Chronos Gate shimmered, a doorway to the past pulsating with impossible energy. Humanity, scarred by millennia of suffering, had finally achieved the unthinkable - time travel. Not for frivolous sight-seeing, but for redemption. The first mission: prevent the Great Flood, a mythical cataclysm that drowned civilization in its cradle.

Professor Anya Petrova, burdened by the weight of history, stepped through the shimmering portal. Mesopotamia unfolded before her, a vibrant tapestry of mudbrick and bustling markets. Her target: Utnapishtim, the man warned by the gods, the only survivor. Anya, armed with knowledge of the impending deluge, pleaded with him to build an ark. Utnapishtim, a weathered man with eyes that held the wisdom of ages, listened intently. Yet, a shadow flickered in his gaze.

"To alter the past," he rumbled, "is to unravel the tapestry of time. The flood, though devastating, birthed new beginnings, new societies. Can you bear the …

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 Song of the Sea

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 8:37 p.m.

Tama stood at the edge of the beach, the cool morning breeze tugging at his hoodie. The waves crashed against the shore, their rhythm steady and ancient, like the heartbeat of the land itself. This was his place—the stretch of sand and sea where he’d learned to swim, where his grandfather had taught him to fish, and where he’d always felt most alive. But today, the horizon was marred by the silhouette of cranes and bulldozers, their growling engines drowning out the cries of the gulls.

The developers had arrived a week ago, their signs planted in the sand like flags claiming territory. "Luxury Oceanfront Resorts Coming Soon!" they proclaimed. Tama’s stomach churned every time he saw them. This beach wasn’t just a piece of land; it was a part of him, a part of his whakapapa—his lineage. His ancestors had walked these shores, and their stories were etched into …

The Last Coal Worker

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:21 p.m.

Adi stood on the edge of the empty mine, the vast crater stretching before him like an open wound. Dust clung to his boots and his hands, even though it had been months since the machines stopped roaring. The silence felt unnatural.

For thirty years, he had worked these pits, carving black veins from the earth that powered cities he’d never seen. The coal was life—it paid for his children’s schooling, his parents’ medicine, and the simple house in the village where his wife planted flowers. Now, it was nothing.

Indonesia was moving on. “Green energy,” they called it. Solar farms and wind turbines were sprouting where smokestacks once stood. The government offered training programs, new skills for a cleaner future. Adi had attended one last week, sitting awkwardly in a classroom filled with younger men and women. They talked about batteries and circuits, things he barely understood. …

Hollywood Whispers

hamed Jan. 27, 2025, 6:40 p.m.

The first whisper started in the corner of a smoky bar on Sunset Boulevard.

“You didn’t hear it from me,” the producer said, his voice low, his hand wrapped around a glass of bourbon. “But she’s leaving the franchise.”

The gossip slipped through the room like a shadow, hopping from one table to the next, morphing with every retelling. By the time it reached the first gossip columnist, the story had a name attached: Lena Clarke, the face of the billion-dollar Bloodfire Chronicles.

The internet caught fire.

#LenaLeaving trended within hours. Speculation swirled: a salary dispute, on-set drama, creative differences. A blurry photo surfaced of Lena leaving a director’s house late at night. Headlines screamed: Affair? Betrayal? The Real Reason Lena’s Out.

Lena’s silence was deafening.

Her co-star, Darren Vale, stoked the flames with a cryptic tweet: “Some people just can’t handle the heat. #Bloodfire”

The rumors mutated. Was she …

Get up and give the cup!

hafiz Jan. 23, 2024, 3:14 p.m.

O bartender! Get up and give the cup!
And do not worry about the sadness of the days!

Put the cup in my hand so that I take off
My Sufi and ascetic clothes.

Although it is notoriety in the eyes of the wise
We do not want the stigma and the fame

Give the wine! How long do we want to stay in our pride and arrogance?
Dust on the head, the unfulfilled soul

The sigh of my moaning chest
The fuel of these ignorant depressed people

The insider of the secret of my lovelorn hearth
I don't see anyone not in familiar nor in stranger

My mind, conscience and heart are happy with my lover
Who took the peace from my heart suddenly and completely

Anyone who sees my love who is slim such a cedar tree
He doesn't want to look at the cypress tree in the grass.

Hafiz! Be patient day and night in …

Most People Don't Like the Journey, But the Destination

hamed Aug. 10, 2024, 1:04 p.m.

The studio lights bathed him in a warm glow, casting long shadows of success. The host, a seasoned pro with a practiced smile, leaned in. "You've built an empire from scratch. Who do you owe it to?"

The entrepreneur, a man of sharp wit and steely resolve, paused dramatically. "Well, there’s this whole world out there, teeming with people, you know? Investors, mentors, employees—the usual suspects. But let’s get real for a second.”

The audience chuckled, anticipating a juicy anecdote.

"In the darkest hours of my startup, I sent out a mass text. A cry for help, I guess. Most of them probably read it, thought, 'Poor guy,' and moved on. But a handful – and I mean handful – replied with a sticker. Or a thumbs up. No cash, no advice, just a digital pat on the back."

The audience was silent, then erupted in laughter.

"I know, it …

Pearls of the Moon

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:30 p.m.

Amihan had always been drawn to the sea. Since childhood, the salty air and the endless blue had whispered to her in ways that words could not explain. Her father was a pearl diver, his weathered hands skilled at plucking the treasures from the deep, but it was her mother who had taught her the secret of the sea's magic—the delicate balance between what the ocean could give and what it could take.

When her lover, Bayani, was swept away by the storm, she found herself at the shore every night, staring at the horizon where the moonlight kissed the waves. She had been unable to breathe properly without him beside her, and every waking moment felt hollow, like a pearl with its core missing.

One night, as the moon hung low in the sky, she felt the sea stir, the ripples weaving an ancient song. Beneath the water, something …

The Last Road

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 6 p.m.

Maya gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, as the miles stretched before her like an endless blur. The car’s air conditioning had long since failed, the inside of the vehicle suffocating from the heat. The fire was close now—too close. The sky was no longer blue but a molten orange, the sun obscured by smoke as thick as tar.

The radio crackled, barely audible through the static: "Evacuate immediately. Avoid Highway 12. Alternate routes advised. Do not delay."

She wasn’t on Highway 12. She wasn’t on any route, really. Maya had taken the back roads, hoping to escape the gridlock, but it seemed the whole town was trying to do the same thing. Traffic was at a standstill—cars creeping forward in fits and starts like a slow-motion stampede. The smell of burning wood filled the air, sharp and choking.

Maya glanced at her phone—no service. It had been that way …