Flash Stories

Where did I come from, what was my coming for?

khayam Jan. 4, 2024, 6:55 a.m.

سالها فکر من این است و همه شب سخنم
که چرا غافل از احوال دل خویشتنم

از کجا آمده ام آمدنم بهر چه بود
به کجا می روم آخر، ننمایی وطنم؟

خیام

For years my thought is this and all night my speech
Why am I unaware of the state of my heart?

Where did I come from, what was my coming for?
Where am I going, finally, you don’t show me my homeland?

Khayam

Story:

He woke up in a strange room, with no memory of who he was or where he came from. He looked around and saw a window, a door, a bed, and a table. On the table, there was a book, a pen, and a paper. He picked up the book and opened it. It was a collection of poems by Omar Khayyam, a Persian poet he had never heard of. He read the first poem:

For …

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 Miracle of 3:42 AM

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:03 p.m.

Nadia stared at the beeping monitor in the ER, her hand trembling against her abdomen. "Pregnant?" she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of disbelief. "That’s impossible. I’m… I can’t…"

The doctor adjusted his glasses, his expression softening. "I understand this is a shock. But you’re in labor, Ms. Farah. We need to move quickly."

Her mind spun. For years, she had tried. The clinics, the tears, the endless tests all pointed to one unyielding conclusion: infertility. She had mourned the children she would never have, buried that dream deep inside her. And now, after all this time, here she was, caught in a whirlwind of chaos and pain, about to meet a child she never knew existed.

"How did I not know?" she gasped, gripping the side of the gurney as another contraction rippled through her body. The nurse, a kind-faced woman, squeezed her shoulder. "Sometimes, life keeps …

A Vote for Change

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 5:02 p.m.

Maya stood at the edge of the campaign office, eyes darting between the overflowing stack of phone banks and the muted TV in the corner. The results of the 2020 U.S. Presidential Election were coming in, and she could feel the pulse of the nation racing through her veins. Each call she made, each text she sent, was one small thread in the tapestry of history unfolding in real-time.

Her fingers were trembling, not just from the cold of the November night but from the weight of the moment. She’d been a volunteer for months, sacrificing evenings, weekends, everything she could spare, driven by a single belief: this election had to be different. The country had to be different.

Her mother, sitting in the cramped living room of their small apartment in Philly, had watched the news every night since the first primary. She was a fervent supporter of the …

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 …

Reboot

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 5:16 p.m.

Jamal’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, a moment of hesitation before he clicked “Submit” on the online course registration. He had spent hours staring at the screen, reading reviews of the “Introduction to Data Science” course. Was this really what he needed? Did he have time for this? He looked at the clock—5:30 p.m. His shift at the warehouse would start in a few hours, but it was his first day off in weeks.

He clicked it. Register. The words on the screen seemed to burn into him.

The job market was changing, everyone said so. And Jamal could feel it. A year ago, when the warehouse had invested in a new automated sorting system, it had seemed like a victory. Everything was faster, more efficient. The company had even promised bonuses for the workers who helped with the transition. But then came the layoffs. Slowly, like a creeping shadow, …

A Curtain Divides the World - Chapter 5: "Mythology of Girls"

dehongi Jan. 17, 2025, 6:41 p.m.

It started as a normal school day, or at least as normal as it could be in Arash's all-boys school, where chaos and testosterone-filled chatter reigned supreme. Mr. Akbari, their literature teacher, was scribbling on the blackboard, his usual monotone voice explaining the poetic structure of an ancient Persian poem.
Arash and Kian, sitting in the back row, were engaged in a silent but heated argument over whether Superman or Rostam would win in a fight. Kian was adamant that Rostam’s divine gifts would give him the edge, while Arash was convinced that Superman’s heat vision would make quick work of Rostam’s armor.
“Boys!” Mr. Akbari barked, his chalk snapping in half from the force of his exasperation. “If you’re going to argue, at least argue about something meaningful. Like… I don’t know… poetry.”
“Sorry, sir,” Arash said quickly, nudging Kian to shut up before they got detention.
Mr. Akbari sighed and turned back …

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 Instagram Rumi

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:45 p.m.

Layla’s feed was everything: perfectly curated photos of sunsets, lattes, and glossy flat lays of her latest book finds. She had built a small empire around her “self-love” brand, offering advice on everything from skincare to soul-searching. But after one particularly grueling day of posting, she found herself at a crossroads. The likes, the comments—they were all so… hollow. She craved something deeper, but she didn’t know where to begin.

That’s when she stumbled upon a Rumi quote in her inbox. It came from an unfamiliar account—@Rumi_Whispers.

"You were born with wings, why prefer to crawl through life?"

She wasn’t a spiritual guru, but there was something about the simplicity and depth of it that felt like a sign. Maybe she could post it. Maybe this was the direction she had been subconsciously searching for.

She shared the quote to her story, paired with a soft sunset filter. She tagged …

Voices in the Wind

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:56 p.m.

Lina sat at her desk, staring at the empty notebook in front of her. The words wouldn’t come. She had watched Greta Thunberg speak on TV for the hundredth time, the young activist’s determined face burned into her mind. Greta’s voice echoed in her ears: “You are never too small to make a difference.”

Lina had always been passionate about the environment. Growing up in a small coastal town, she had seen the tides rise and the weather patterns shift. The storms were getting fiercer. The summers, unbearably hot. It wasn’t just the news anymore; it was personal. She had watched the mangroves near her home erode away, the saltwater creeping closer to the heart of their town.

But how could one person make a difference?

She flipped open her phone, scrolling through social media, seeing the protests, the marches, the powerful words of activists in big cities. “I want …