Flash Stories

azriel is lost. again..

ziamaiko Jan. 12, 2024, 4:30 p.m.

i feel lost. everyone feels lost at times.
and now i do.
it's feels like.. i don't belong to nothing and nobody.
aky is not like me. he is the bearer of the word of freedom. he belongs to everything and everywhere.
sometimes i get too angry with him. he is very reckless. he always makes the stupidest decisions.
«i don't know if you have ever heard the word "future" or not.»
boundless happiness shines in his eyes. «yea.. zayn always say it.»
i sigh. «you should have goals. like i do. and try hard for them.»
«we can achieve it together.» he says, smiling innocently.
«i can do it myself.»
«but you'll reach your limits. i guess i did.»
«i have no limits.»
he frowns. and it's the first time i see aky like that. but still, he's so harmless. «at the end of the day, we have our friends! and they'll help me if i was tired.» he smiles again. …

The Scent of Home

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:17 p.m.

Maria's corner office on the thirty-fifth floor overlooked Manhattan's skyline, a view that still amazed her twenty years after arriving with nothing but a single suitcase and her mother's recipe book. The leather chair, the awards on the wall, the framed MBA from Columbia – all testified to the American Dream fulfilled. Yet every evening, as the city lights began to twinkle, her thoughts drifted back to the dusty streets of her childhood village.

She thought of mangoes ripening on the tree outside her grandmother's kitchen window, their sweet perfume floating through the afternoon air. No matter how many times she bought mangoes from Whole Foods, they never smelled quite the same. They were like photographs of the fruit she remembered – perfect on the surface but missing something essential.

Her assistant knocked, bringing papers to sign. "Another record quarter, Ms. Rodriguez. The board is thrilled."

Maria nodded, signing automatically …

The Water of Life

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:25 p.m.

The late shift at the hospice always brought quiet moments laced with a strange intensity, like waiting for something unseen to arrive. For Leila, it was the time she felt most connected to her patients, their whispered fears and confessions filling the void of the night.

Mr. Aram was her favorite. At 92, his body was frail, but his mind burned sharp, filled with stories of a life that spanned wars, revolutions, and empires. He often spoke of his youth in the Alborz Mountains, his voice soft and wistful, like a breeze brushing against worn pages.

That night, as Leila checked his vitals, he caught her wrist with surprising strength. "Sit," he said, his hazel eyes gleaming like polished amber.

She hesitated but pulled up a chair beside his bed. “What is it, Mr. Aram? Are you in pain?”

He shook his head. “No pain. Just time.” He glanced at …

One Thousand Clay Birds

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:26 p.m.

Aiko’s hands were raw, the tips of her fingers covered in the dust of clay. The studio, usually filled with the soft hum of life and color, had become her sanctuary of silence. Only the sound of the clay breaking as it fell into shape, then the rhythmic pressing of her thumb against each delicate wing, filled the space. She would hold each bird to the light, inspecting it for flaws, before setting it down to dry.

Her partner, Haruto, lay in the room across the hall, his body still, trapped in a coma that had lasted nearly a year. Doctors said there was no hope. They told her that it was a waiting game now, a matter of time before his body would give way. But Aiko refused to listen.

She believed in the old stories, the ones her grandmother had whispered to her when she was young. One …

The Late Bloomer

hamed Jan. 21, 2025, 4:20 p.m.

Elliot had always been a dreamer. As a child, he wanted to be an astronaut, a scientist, and a novelist—all at once. In his twenties, he dabbled in startups, wrote a blog about renewable energy, and even tried his hand at documentary filmmaking. But no matter how hard he worked, success always seemed just out of reach. By his late forties, Elliot was exhausted. He had a modest job in IT, a small apartment, and a mountain of regrets. He felt like he had failed to make the impact he had always dreamed of.

One rainy afternoon, while cleaning out his closet, Elliot stumbled on an old journal. Flipping through its pages, he found a list of goals he had written at 22: Change the world. Inspire others. Leave a legacy. His chest tightened. He hadn’t done any of those things—at least, not in the way he had imagined.

That …

The Rosewater Vials

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:56 p.m.

Lila had always been enchanted by the delicate art of perfume making, learning from her master in the small, fragrant shop tucked away in the heart of the old bazaar. The air was always filled with the sweet, heady mix of jasmine, saffron, and rose. But it was a certain vial—a small, intricately carved bottle of rosewater—that had always caught her eye. It sat on a dusty shelf in the corner of the workshop, forgotten, its glass dull and its cap sealed with age-old wax.

Her master, Karim, had never spoken of it, and when she asked, his eyes would darken. “Some memories are best left in the past, Lila,” he would say, his voice softer than usual. But as the days passed, Lila couldn’t shake the pull of the vial. There was something about it—something she couldn’t resist.

One evening, as she was cleaning the shelves, her hand brushed …

The Last App Store

bastaki Jan. 25, 2025, 5:30 p.m.

In the year 2042, the world had moved beyond the walled gardens of app stores. The concept of downloading an app from a centralized marketplace felt as archaic as renting DVDs. The shift had been gradual but inevitable. Progressive Web Applications (PWAs) had become the universal standard, and developers no longer had to cater to the whims of platform giants. Apps were now installable on any device, from smart glasses to neural implants, with a single click.

Mara stood on the rooftop of her apartment, staring at the holographic skyline of New Cascadia. Her wristband buzzed softly, projecting a notification into her field of vision. It was a reminder from her PWA, LifeFlow, to meditate. She swiped it away and sighed. LifeFlow was one of the last apps she had built before the Great Decentralization. Back then, she had spent months navigating the labyrinthine rules of app stores, optimizing for …

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 …

Clickocracy: The Future of Governance

hamed Jan. 24, 2025, 10:14 a.m.

In the year 2135, the nation of Novara had achieved what most could only dream of: a fully digital democracy where every citizen had a say in every decision, instantly. Gone were the days of slow, cumbersome parliaments and long-winded speeches by out-of-touch politicians. Instead, Novarans decided everything with a simple click—on their smartphones, at work, or while waiting in line at the coffee shop.

The government structure? Nonexistent. Who needed one when you could just vote online?

A major crisis had erupted when the last “traditional” government position—the Minister of Breakfast Foods—was unceremoniously voted out by a tweet poll. The country was in disarray.

"You can’t just click to remove the Minister of Breakfast Foods!" cried Darryl McEgghead, a respected food historian. "This is an outrage! How will we ever have coherent legislation about cereal, pancakes, and the deep cultural significance of the croissant?"

But it was too late. …

She had a masterpiece, but she hated it

dehongi Feb. 1, 2024, 8:18 a.m.

She was a painter, and she loved colors. She loved to mix, to blend, to create. She believed that colors were the essence of art, the way to express herself, the way to touch others.

He was a musician, and he loved sounds. He loved to compose, to play, to perform. He believed that sounds were the essence of music, the way to communicate himself, the way to move others.

They met at a gallery, admiring the same painting. She was captivated by his voice, he was enchanted by her eyes. They exchanged compliments, and then contacts. They agreed to meet again, for dinner and conversation.

They liked each other, and soon they fell in love. They shared their passions, their inspirations, their creations. They complemented each other, admired each other, inspired each other. They sang together, painted together, danced together.

They wanted to be together, but fate disagreed with …