Flash Stories

Ctrl+Alt+Delete

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 5:04 p.m.

The algorithm flagged Clara's work performance as "suboptimal" on a Tuesday. Seventeen years of customer service excellence, reduced to a red indicator on her supervisor's dashboard.

"The AI handles 90% of calls now," her supervisor said, not meeting her eyes. "But we're offering a retraining program. Six weeks. Digital customer experience design."

Clara touched the silver customer service pin on her lapel – "15 Years of Excellence" – and thought of all the elderly clients who'd specifically asked for her, who'd sent holiday cards thanking her for explaining their bills with patience, for remembering their grandchildren's names.

At home, her laptop displayed a jumble of job listings. Customer service positions: "AI proficiency required." Call center roles: "Bot management experience preferred." Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, muscle memory from decades of typing client notes suddenly useless.

Her daughter peered over her shoulder. "Mom, you're really good at explaining things. Remember …

The Last Game

hamed Jan. 26, 2024, 7:36 p.m.

The Last Game

She had one game left. She had played all the others, and she had mastered them. She had conquered every level, every challenge, every enemy. She had collected every trophy, every achievement, every reward. She had become the best gamer in the world.

She downloaded the last game, the one that everyone was talking about. The one that claimed to be the ultimate gaming experience. The one that promised to change her life.

She installed the game, and launched it. She created her character, and entered the game world. She saw a beautiful landscape, full of wonders and dangers. She heard a voice, welcoming her to the game.

She was ready. She grabbed her controller, and started playing.

She never stopped!

The Eternal Boredom

dehongi Jan. 31, 2024, 3:05 p.m.

The Eternal Boredom

He had lived for over two hundred years. He had seen everything there was to see. He had done everything there was to do. He had no more dreams, no more goals, no more passions. He was bored out of his mind.

He was not alone. The world was full of people like him. People who had stopped aging, stopped dying, stopped living. People who had nothing to look forward to, nothing to care about, nothing to feel. People who had become zombies, in all but name.

They had achieved immortality, thanks to the inventions in healthcare. They had cured all diseases, healed all injuries, reversed all aging. They had conquered death, but they had lost life.

They had also lost their children. The birth rate had plummeted, as people saw no point in reproducing. The few children that were born were treated as curiosities, as anomalies, …

Maybe It's a Grave

hafiz Feb. 5, 2024, 4:43 p.m.

من مست و تو دیوانه، ما را که برد خانه؟
من چند تو را گفتم کم خور دو سه پیمانه؟

I am drunk and you are crazy, who took us home?
How much did I tell you to drink less, two or three cups?

Hafez

Story:

We were at the rooftop party, enjoying the music and the view. You had a glass of wine in your hand, and I had a bottle of beer. You looked at me with a mischievous smile and said, "Let's play a game. Every time the DJ changes the song, we drink."

I agreed, thinking it would be fun. But I didn't realize how fast the songs were changing, or how strong the drinks were. Soon, we were both feeling the effects of alcohol. You started to dance wildly, spinning and jumping around. I tried to keep up with you, but I felt dizzy and nauseous. I …

Ali form Dehong

zaka Dec. 31, 2023, 7:01 a.m.

Ali had always wanted to be a pilot. He loved watching the planes fly over his village, leaving white trails in the blue sky. He loved reading books and magazines about aviation, learning the names and models of different aircrafts. He loved imagining himself in the cockpit, soaring above the clouds, exploring the world.

But Ali also loved his family and their farm. He loved the cows that gave them milk, cheese, and butter. He loved the Zaka brand that his father had created, named after his mother's maiden name. He loved the customers who appreciated their products, and the reputation they had built in the region.

Ali was torn between two dreams, two paths, two destinies. He wanted to pursue his passion for flying, but he also wanted to continue his family's legacy. He wondered if he could ever have both, or if he had to choose one over …

Ashes and Embers

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:59 p.m.

The house was gone.

Emma stood at the edge of the blackened lot, her boots sinking into the scorched earth. The air still carried the acrid scent of smoke, mingling with the faint sweetness of charred wood.

In her mind, the house was still there—the yellow shutters her daughter had painted, the oak dining table that had seen every family meal, the bookshelf her late husband had built. But reality mocked her memories. All that remained was a pile of ash, twisted beams, and broken glass glittering like fallen stars.

Her daughter, Clara, clutched her hand tightly. “Mom,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What about Dad’s guitar?”

Emma closed her eyes, the lump in her throat too large to swallow. That old guitar had been his treasure, a relic of nights filled with music and laughter. It was gone, just like the photographs, the letters, the heirloom quilt her grandmother …

The enemy is a friend whose story we have not heard

saadi Jan. 26, 2024, 12:54 p.m.

The Enemy!

He saw him lying on the ground, bleeding from his chest. He recognized him as the enemy soldier who had shot at him earlier. He felt a surge of anger and hatred, mixed with fear and relief. He had survived, but his enemy had not.

He walked towards him, holding his rifle. He wanted to make sure he was dead. He wanted to see his face, to look into his eyes and feel victorious. He wanted to avenge his fallen comrades, his friends who had died in this war.

But as he approached him, he noticed something. He noticed a small book in his hand, a book with a familiar cover. He bent down and picked it up. He opened it and saw the words he knew so well. It was a book of poems by Saadi Shirazi, his favorite poet.

He looked at the enemy soldier again, …

The children of Adam are limbs of each other

saadi Dec. 30, 2023, 3:52 p.m.

The children of Adam are limbs of each other
Having been created of one essence.
When the calamity of time afflicts one limb
The other limbs cannot remain at rest.
If thou hast no sympathy for the troubles of others
Thou art unworthy to be called by the name of a human.

-

Zara was a young journalist who had traveled to Iran to cover the aftermath of a devastating earthquake. She had seen many tragedies in her career, but nothing prepared her for the sight of the rubble, the cries of the survivors, and the smell of death. She felt a pang of guilt as she snapped photos and interviewed people, wondering if she was exploiting their pain for her own gain.

One day, she met a boy named Ali, who had lost his entire family in the quake. He was living in a makeshift tent with some other orphans, sharing a meager ration …

Election Day

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 6:02 p.m.

The line at the polling station stretched far beyond the entrance, a sea of people shifting in place, each clutching their ID like a badge of righteousness. Jenna stood at the back, her fingers tapping nervously on the strap of her bag. Her first election. She had registered in the summer, motivated by the viral campaign slogans and the promises of change. The signs were everywhere—on street corners, in windows, on every social media feed. Today was the day she would finally have a say.

The air was thick with tension, the murmurs of disagreement buzzing like static. Everywhere she looked, people were talking—arguing, debating, cheering for their candidate like their lives depended on it. Jenna had never been so invested in politics, but today felt different. The stakes were higher, they said. Too much at risk to sit this one out.

As she moved forward in line, a voice …

The Letters Between Us

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:10 p.m.

The first letter arrived the morning after Jake’s second injection.

He was lying in the hospital bed, trying to distract himself from the waves of nausea and the robotic beep of the heart monitor. A nurse handed him the envelope without a word, her face carefully neutral.

The handwriting on the front made him freeze: To Jake, Age 16.

His own messy scrawl stared back at him.

Jake ripped it open, his hands trembling. The note inside was short.

"Hey. It's you. Or me. The trial worked. That's all I’ll say for now. Write back—there’s a lot we need to talk about."

Jake blinked at the letter, then reread it three more times. He told himself it had to be a weird prank—some elaborate thing the doctors were pulling to test his mental state. But something about the tone, the way it felt so much like him, unsettled him.

The …