Flash Stories

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. …

The Unseen March

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 6:15 p.m.

In the quiet town of Pine Ridge, where the roads were dusted with memories of a slower time, the protest felt out of place. Pine Ridge was a town that barely made it onto maps, let alone news headlines. But when the world’s rage over police brutality ignited, it didn’t stop at the boundaries of the big cities. It seeped into small towns too, to places like Pine Ridge, where people might not always raise their voices, but when they did, it was hard to ignore.

Samantha was the first to show up, walking alone toward the town square. Her sneakers kicked up the dirt as she glanced at the empty street. It felt like an impossible thing to do in a town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. She wasn’t sure how this would go, but after months of scrolling through the news, watching videos of people whose lives …

The Silent March

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:50 p.m.

Evelyn Harris stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the wide-brimmed hat atop her head. The reflection staring back at her wasn’t quite the woman she used to be. The face had the same sharp cheekbones, the same dark eyes, but beneath the surface, it had transformed. The soft, demure woman who once kept to the domestic sphere had been replaced by someone with fire in her heart, someone willing to stand up and fight.

The suffrage movement had grown in strength, its roots digging deeper into the soil of the country, but still, so many voices remained silent. As the 1917 protest loomed, Evelyn could hear the voices of doubt creeping into her mind. “What if they arrest you?” her mother’s voice echoed, heavy with worry. “What if they hurt you? What will happen to us?”

But Evelyn’s resolve had hardened. She had lost count of how many times …

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 …

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 …

something to fight for. someone to live for.

ziamaiko Feb. 10, 2024, 9:33 a.m.

ما تنهایی می‌رقصیم. فقط تنهایی یک پسر، مرد می‌شود. از فقدان‌هایش عبور می‌کند و آن‌ها را ناچیز می‌شمارد.
اگر فقط مردم نگاه‌شان را از زندگی مردم برمی‌داشتند، آن‌گاه همه چیز آسان‌تر می‌شد.
کسی که عروج می‌کند انسان است. کسی که سقوط می‌کند نیز انسان است!
«تو، معذرت‌خواهی کن.»
در برابر تمام گناهان و کارهای اشتباهی که انجام داده بود، معذرت‌خواهی زیاد از حد ناچیز بود.
«جور دیگه مجازاتم کنید.»
فکر می‌کرد یک‌نوع حقارت است که بخواهد از دشمنش معذرت بخواهد.
«شخصی که جرات معذرت‌‌خواهی نداره، حق اشتباه کردن هم نداره. این چیزیه که باید یاد بگیری.»
گاهی اوقات لجاجت چیزی جز حقارت نبود.
پا فشاری بر چیزی که از هر طرف اشتباه است بی‌نهایت احمقانه است. آدم‌های لجباز از دیدگاه من، قوی و محکم نیستند. در صورتی که بر چیز نادرستی لجبازی می‌کنند، فقط احمق‌های حقیر هستند.
«توجه کن، تو نمی‌تونی همه رو نجات بدی.»
«اینکه می‌تونم یا نه رو وقتی می‌فهمیم که تلاشم رو بکنم. حتی اگه آسمان‌ها بگن …

The Gharial's Tears

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:25 p.m.

The river, ancient and winding, carried its story through the heart of India, flowing steadily beneath the sky where the stars whispered secrets to the moon. In its depths, hidden by the silver ripples of the Ganges, lived two souls whose love had endured beyond the barriers of time.

In their past lives, they had been human—he, a fisherman who had loved her with a quiet passion, and she, a village girl whose laughter had filled the air like the sweetest song. Their love had been forbidden, pulled apart by the cruel hand of fate. She had drowned, swept away by a storm while trying to escape the world that would never accept their union. He had died shortly after, heartbroken and lost.

But love, as it often does, refused to die.

When the river’s flow met their spirits, they were reborn—twisted into the forms of creatures that would forever …

The Astonishing Light Of Your Own Being

hafiz Jan. 10, 2024, 8:23 p.m.

I wish I could show you
When you are lonely or in darkness
The astonishing light
Of your own being.

Hafiz

Story:

She had always felt lonely and lost in the world. She had no friends, no family, no purpose. She wandered the streets, looking for a place to belong, but found none. She felt like a shadow, invisible and insignificant.

One day, she saw a poster on a wall. It advertised a poetry reading at a nearby cafe. She felt a strange curiosity and decided to go. She entered the cafe and sat in a corner, watching the people around her. They seemed happy and lively, chatting and laughing. She felt even more alone.

Then, a man came to the stage. He had a gentle smile and a warm voice. He introduced himself as a poet and said he would read some of his favorite poems by Hafiz. He opened a …

The Garden’s Song

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:33 p.m.

Lena sat on the balcony, staring out over the sprawling city. The skyline glimmered with the buzz of a thousand lights, each one a heartbeat in the relentless pulse of urban life. Her phone vibrated on the table, a reminder of another meeting, another deadline. The weight of it all pressed down on her chest. It had been a long week—no, a long month—and she felt it, every inch of the stress wrapping tighter around her.

She needed a break. But the city didn’t offer many escapes.

Her gaze wandered down to the small garden below, a patch of green in the concrete jungle. A few flower beds, some potted plants, and a wooden bench. It had become her refuge in the past few weeks, a place to breathe, a place where she could let go of the constant noise.

Tonight, however, something was different.

A soft fluttering sound caught …

The Hobbyist

hamed Jan. 7, 2024, 12:49 p.m.

He had poured his heart and soul into his start-up, a revolutionary app that would change the way people communicate. He had worked tirelessly for years, sacrificing his health, his relationships, and his sanity. He had invested all his savings, borrowed money from friends and family, and even mortgaged his house.

But it was all for nothing. His app failed to attract users, his competitors stole his ideas, and his investors pulled out. He was left with nothing but debt, despair, and depression. He had to declare bankruptcy, sell his house, and move into a tiny apartment. He had no job, no income, no future.

He had only one thing left: his hobby. He loved to paint, ever since he was a kid. He had a small collection of brushes, paints, and canvases that he kept in a corner of his apartment. He painted whenever he had some free time, …