Flash Stories

The Boardroom Mirror

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:16 p.m.

“Next on the agenda,” Marcus said, tapping his pen against the glossy table. “The DEI program.”

The room fell silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning. Amelia watched as her colleagues exchanged loaded glances, their expressions a blend of impatience and resistance. She could already hear the undercurrent of what they wouldn’t say out loud: Here we go again.

She cleared her throat. “As you all know, the Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion initiative is designed to address long-standing disparities within our workforce and—”

“Cost us millions,” interrupted Charles, the CFO, his voice dripping with irritation. “Look, Amelia, no one’s saying diversity isn’t important, but these mandatory trainings and hiring quotas are alienating our top performers.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Amelia’s hand tightened around her coffee cup.

“This isn’t about quotas,” she said, her voice steady but firm. “It’s about creating a workplace where everyone—regardless …

The Second Oath

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 8:45 p.m.

The room smelled of paper and dust, the kind of smell only found in old courthouses. Elias sat on the cold wooden bench, staring at the judge who had spent the past year tossing his case around like an unwanted relic. At 26, he’d spent most of his adult life fighting for his father’s citizenship after an unjust deportation left their family shattered.

When Trump won again, Elias felt something shift inside him—not despair, not fear, but fire. The headlines blared everywhere: Trump begins second term as US President: Donald Trump was inaugurated as the 47th president of the United States, vowing to implement an immediate blitz of executive orders.

Elias thought of his father, who now lived in a single room in their old neighborhood in El Salvador, staring at a photo of his children every night. He thought of his mother, who scrubbed hotel floors to keep food …

A New Era Begins

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 6:10 p.m.

The weight of the crown was heavier than Philip II had ever imagined. As he stood in the dimly lit chamber of the Alcázar of Madrid, his hands trembled ever so slightly as he adjusted the heavy golden circlet that marked him as King of Spain. The room was silent, save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the faint clinking of armor from the guards stationed at the door. But within him, a storm was raging.

It was 1556, and the empire his father, Charles V, had left behind was vast and unruly, spanning continents and stretching across oceans. The Holy Roman Empire, the Netherlands, Italy, the Americas—he was now the steward of it all. But it wasn’t just the sprawling territories that weighed on him; it was the expectations. The delicate dance of politics, the balance of power, the fragile alliances, and the growing pressures …

The Book Beneath the Pomegranate Tree

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:52 p.m.

Lila had always loved the smell of old books. It was a scent she grew up with, the ink, the leather, and the parchment, all blending into something magical. Her father, the town librarian, would tell her stories about the books in the back of the library—the ones that weren’t checked out, the ones too fragile to touch. He always warned her not to go near them, but curiosity was in Lila’s blood, and it wasn’t long before she discovered the hidden section of the library where the rarest books were kept.

One evening, as the sky turned a dusky orange and the air was thick with summer heat, Lila sat under the pomegranate tree in her backyard, flipping through a leather-bound book she had found that afternoon. The pages were old and yellow, and the ink was fading, but the tales within were like nothing she had ever read. …

The Skinny Jeans Rebellion

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:29 p.m.

Emma didn’t even know the attic had a trunk until she stumbled over it, coughing through the dust. She was helping her parents clear out the old house, the one where she’d spent her angsty teenage years.

The trunk creaked open, revealing a kaleidoscope of the early 2000s: studded belts, band tees, and there, crumpled at the bottom—the skinny jeans.

Faded black, ripped at the knees, and still carrying the faint scent of some long-discontinued perfume. She held them up, smiling at how impossibly small they looked.

“Wow,” she whispered. “I used to live in these.”

Back then, those jeans had been everything—her armor against the world. She’d worn them to her first concert, where the bass had vibrated through her chest like a heartbeat. She’d worn them to the rooftop party where she’d kissed Jamie, the artsy kid who painted galaxies on their sneakers. And she’d worn them the …

Smoke Signals

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:33 p.m.

The evacuation order came at 3 AM, but Sarah Henderson had been awake since midnight, watching the orange glow creep closer to Pine Valley. Twenty years in California had taught her to read the signs: the shifting winds, the ash coating her windshield, the nervous rustling of animals in the canyon.

"The Martinez family still hasn't left," her husband Mark said, lowering his binoculars. From their hillside home, they could see most of their neighbors loading cars and securing homes.

"Rosa won't leave without her mother's ashes," Sarah replied. "And she can't find them."

What Sarah didn't say was that she'd seen Rosa's teenage son, Miguel, hiding something in the old Peterson shed last week. The same shed where their neighbor, Mr. Peterson, had stored his "collection" before his death last spring. Everyone knew he'd been a hoarder, but nobody knew what he'd hoarded.

The fire sirens wailed closer. Sarah …

The Simorgh’s Feather

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:23 p.m.

Arya sat in his cramped studio apartment, staring at the blank canvas that mocked him from across the room. A half-empty cup of cold tea sat beside crumpled sketches and a paintbrush caked with dried blue paint. For months, the ideas had stopped coming. He felt hollow, like a bird with clipped wings.

"Why bother?" he muttered, slumping back into his chair. He hadn’t sold a painting in over a year. His dreams of exhibitions and acclaim felt as distant as the stars he used to paint in his childhood landscapes.

That night, as he lay in bed tossing and turning, a sharp sound startled him awake. The clink of glass breaking. Arya sat up, heart pounding, and turned on the dim bedside lamp. The window was open, though he was sure he had closed it.

On the floor lay a feather.

It shimmered faintly in the light, shifting colors …

The Silk Painter

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:04 p.m.

Lian’s hands trembled as she dipped the brush into the ink. The delicate fibers of the silk stretched under her fingertips, responding to her touch like a living thing. She had spent decades perfecting her craft, painting portraits of the noble and the common alike, capturing the essence of those who sat before her. But this one, this portrait of Mei, was unlike any she had ever created.

Mei, her lover. The woman who had walked into Lian's life like a breeze, soft and unexpected, yet entirely unforgettable. Their love was an unspoken bond, a delicate thread that wove through the very fabric of their days. Yet, as Lian’s hands grew slower and her sight began to blur, she feared that the thread would unravel before she could capture Mei’s face for eternity.

The first time her vision began to falter, it had been so slight she thought it was …

Two Names, A Thousand Eyes

hamed Jan. 24, 2025, 6:52 p.m.

“Meet Aurora and Atlas,” the caption read, accompanied by a photo of two tiny hands curled around their mother’s fingers. The image radiated warmth, but the moment TV star Emily Hart hit “post,” she felt the familiar knot in her stomach tighten.

The response was immediate. Comments and likes poured in by the thousands, a flood of heart emojis, congratulations, and, inevitably, opinions.

“Beautiful names! So unique!”
“Atlas? Really? Poor kid.”
“Twins?! How does she look that good already?”
“She’ll probably hire ten nannies.”

Emily locked her phone and leaned back in the nursery’s rocking chair, her gaze drifting to the crib where her newborns slept. Aurora’s tiny lips twitched as if dreaming, while Atlas made the smallest of sighs, his hand brushing against his sister’s.

Her husband, Jake, peeked into the room, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. “How’s it going in here?” he whispered.

“They’re perfect,” she murmured, but her voice …

The Sound of Silence

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:58 p.m.

Olena crouched by the window, her eyes tracing the distant skyline where the city’s once-proud spires now stood jagged and broken against the pale, grey sky. The sounds of war were a constant presence now—booms in the distance, the faint crackle of gunfire, and the ever-present hum of sirens that had become as much a part of daily life as the hum of her own heartbeat.

She used to wake up to the sounds of birds outside, her children’s laughter, the chatter of neighbors exchanging morning greetings. But that was before.

Now, each day felt like a fragile thread stretched too thin, one tug away from snapping. The world had changed overnight, and the city she had loved so much was slowly crumbling, piece by piece.

Yet, amid the chaos, Olena still managed to find moments of peace. A bowl of warm soup shared with her mother, the brief comfort …