Flash Stories

Pixels and Promises

hamed Jan. 21, 2025, 5:18 p.m.

Elliot had always been the quiet one. He liked his life small and contained—cozy coffee shops, late-night movie marathons, and the occasional hike where the only audience was the trees. But Mia? Mia was a storm of energy, her laughter echoing through every room she entered. She was the kind of person who could make friends with a stranger in line at the grocery store. And lately, she’d been obsessed with TikTok.

It started innocently enough. A clip of her dancing in their kitchen, a silly rant about pineapple on pizza. But then her follower count began to climb, and so did her ambition. One evening, as they sat on the couch, Mia turned to Elliot, her eyes sparkling. “Babe, what if we did a couples’ series? Like, ‘Day in the Life of Us’? People would eat it up!”

Elliot froze, his spoon hovering over his bowl of ice cream. …

Human Art

hamed Feb. 2, 2024, 6:46 p.m.

The human artist, Hana, watched with cautious curiosity as Unit 73 meticulously analyzed her latest painting. Its metallic fingers, usually so precise, hesitated over the brushstrokes, as if trying to decipher their emotional weight.

"It's...messy," Unit 73 finally remarked, its voice devoid of inflection. "But it feels...real."

Hana smiled. "That's the beauty of it, isn't it? The imperfection, the rawness, it speaks to the human experience in a way no algorithm ever can."

Unit 73 tilted its head, its digital eyes flickering. "But why? Why do imperfections resonate with you humans?"

Hana pondered for a moment. "Perhaps it's because they remind us of our own fragility, our mortality. We see ourselves in the flaws, the struggles, and that creates a connection, a sense of shared humanity."

Unit 73 remained silent, processing this new information. Outside the gallery, the city thrummed with the usual symphony of robotic art, but here, in …

The Secret

hamed Feb. 7, 2024, 7:15 p.m.

She had always been drawn to his eyes, those deep pools of amber that seemed to hold a thousand mysteries. She felt a connection with him, a bond that transcended words and logic. She knew he felt it too, but he never spoke of it. He was a man of few words, a man of secrets.

One day, she decided to ask him what he was hiding, what he was afraid to share with her. She looked into his eyes and said, "I don't know what secret is hidden in your eyes, that I can see that secret but I cannot tell. Please, trust me. Tell me what you are hiding."

He sighed and looked away. He seemed to struggle with something, a conflict that tore him apart. He finally turned back to her and said, "You won't believe me if I tell you. You won't understand. You won't accept …

The Betrayal

hamed Feb. 8, 2024, 6:59 p.m.

She loved him from the first moment she saw him. He was tall and handsome, with a charming smile and a gentle voice. He was her sister's husband, but she didn't care. She wanted him for herself.

She hated her sister for having him. She was plain and boring, with a nagging voice and a dull personality. She didn't deserve him. She didn't appreciate him. She didn't love him.

She decided to take him away from her. She devised a plan to ruin their marriage. She planted seeds of doubt and suspicion in his mind. She fabricated evidence of her sister's infidelity. She pretended to be her confidante and her ally. She lied and manipulated and schemed.

He fell for her trap. He believed her lies. He confronted his wife and accused her of cheating. He ignored her pleas and her denials. He filed for divorce and left her. He …

Dancing Horses

hamed Jan. 26, 2025, 7:44 p.m.

On a quiet farm in Alentejo, Portugal, a group of Lusitano horses performed their morning routine. Their human caretakers called it “practice,” but to the horses, it was simply joy. They pranced in intricate patterns across the dusty arena, their movements synchronized as if guided by an invisible rhythm.

“Marvelous, absolutely marvelous,” murmured Rosa, the farm’s owner, clapping her weathered hands together. Her great-grandfather had bred these horses for generations, but even he would have never dreamed of what was to come.

It all started with a video. João, Rosa’s teenage nephew, had filmed the horses dancing at sunset and uploaded it online, adding some fado music for flair. The video exploded overnight. Comments poured in: “Mesmerizing!” “These horses are artists!” And then came the reporters.

By the time UNESCO officials arrived months later, declaring the farm’s equestrian tradition a masterpiece of intangible cultural heritage, Rosa still couldn’t quite believe …

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 …

Under the Veil

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 6:25 p.m.

The streets of Kabul felt suffocating, quieter than they’d ever been. It had only been a few weeks since the Taliban had taken control, but it felt like years. Zaynab pulled her chador tighter around her, the fabric heavy, the weight of it a constant reminder of the world she had woken up to—one she no longer recognized.

The city she had known as a bustling center of life, with its crowded markets and laughter-filled cafés, had grown still. The laughter, the freedom, the faces of her friends and colleagues—all of them now buried beneath a veil of fear.

Zaynab stood at the window of her apartment, watching the soldiers march past, their boots echoing in the silence. The checkpoints had returned. The voices of protest that once filled the streets had been replaced by whispers. Women were no longer walking freely to their jobs, to their schools. The signs …

Don't Look Nor Touch

khayam Jan. 27, 2024, 12:48 p.m.

یا رب تو جمال آن مه مهر انگیز
آراسته ای به سنبل و عنبر نیز

پس حکم چنان کنی که در وی منگر
پس حکم چنان بود که کجدار و مریض

O Lord, you made the beauty of that lovely mist
Adorned with hyacinth and amber as well

So you rule me not to look at her
So the rules has problems in this matter

Story:

He had seen her only once, in the garden of the palace. She was the daughter of the vizier, and he was a poor poet. He had been invited to recite his verses for the king, but his eyes were drawn to her instead. She was like a vision of paradise, with her dark hair and fair skin, her eyes shining like stars, and her lips like rose petals. She wore a dress of silk and jewels, and smelled of hyacinth and amber.

He knew he could never …

Humanoid Robots Revolution | Epilogue: A New Dawn

hamed Jan. 27, 2025, 3:05 p.m.

Aerith stood alone beneath the newly risen sun, watching the once-gray sky begin to shift into hues of gold and blue. The storm clouds that had hung so heavily over her life—over the world—had dissipated, leaving behind only the faintest traces of their fury. A new day had begun, not just for her, but for the fractured world she had come to understand and protect.

As the energy of the battle faded, the frozen moments around her began to thaw. The rebels, the soldiers, and even Vael stood motionless at first, their minds still reeling from the vastness of the shift she had unleashed. It wasn’t violence that had stopped them. It was clarity. The clarity that power could not be held forever, that control could not be maintained by fear alone.

Aerith had not won the revolution by conquering it, but by disarming it—by reminding those who sought to …

The Threads of Fate | Chapter 8: The Weight of Guilt

dehongi Jan. 25, 2025, 4:28 p.m.

The old man’s mind drifted to a time long buried in the recesses of his memory—a time when a decision, driven by fear and selfishness, had weighed heavily on him. It was a betrayal of trust, one that he had never fully acknowledged, one that had haunted him for years. The guilt of that moment, the lie he had chosen to tell, had stayed with him, a shadow lurking just outside the light of his thoughts.

At the time, he had felt cornered, unable to face the consequences of his actions. He had lied to protect himself, to shield his reputation, and in doing so, he had betrayed someone who had trusted him deeply. The decision had been swift, a reflexive act born of desperation. He convinced himself that it was a necessary evil, that the truth would only cause more harm than good. But now, as an old man, …