Flash Stories

The Last Dance

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:50 p.m.

The dance studio mirrors multiplied my humiliation by infinity. There was my best friend Mia, teaching my fiancé Tom the wedding dance I'd asked her to choreograph for us. Their bodies moved in perfect sync – too perfect for a first lesson.
I watched from the doorway as he dipped her, their faces inches apart, both laughing. The same laugh they'd shared at dinner parties, at game nights, at every moment I'd dismissed as friendly.
My phone still held the video I'd planned to share on social media: "First dance lessons with my amazing bestie and future husband! #WeddingPrep"
Instead, I pressed record on their private performance and typed: "Last dance lessons with my ex-bestie and ex-fiancé. #PlotTwist"
The sound of my phone's shutter echo made them freeze mid-turn. Their faces paled as I hit 'post.'
"Consider this my RSVP," I said, turning away. "I won't be attending."
Behind me, the mirrors captured their desperate scramble …

The Curse of Love and Immortality - Chapter 10: The Hidden Truth

dehongi Jan. 16, 2025, 12:19 p.m.

The princess sat still, her eyes fixed on her father. His voice had grown softer as the tales had unfolded, each one wrapping its tragic beauty around the heart of the story they were telling. But as the candlelight flickered and the evening deepened, a silence fell between them, a heaviness in the air that seemed to speak of something far more personal, far more profound.
The king leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant as though lost in the long corridors of his memories. The princess had been silent for some time, her heart heavy with the weight of the stories she had heard. But now, there was a question hanging in the air, one that had lingered in her thoughts through every chapter they had shared.
"Father," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "you’ve told me of so many Paris, of their sacrifices, of their love for …

Forever Logged In

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 4:25 p.m.

The first thing Ellie noticed was the silence.

In LuxeVR, the new virtual reality platform, silence wasn’t part of the design. Every scenario—tropical beaches, bustling cities, even alien landscapes—was filled with sound. Yet now, in the lush meadow she’d been exploring, the chirping birds and rustling grass had vanished.

“System glitch,” she muttered, tapping the glowing bracelet on her wrist. It was supposed to be her ticket back to reality. But the interface didn’t appear.

“Exit menu,” she commanded. Nothing.

Her chest tightened. This wasn’t supposed to happen. LuxeVR had been hailed as the safest, most immersive VR experience yet, complete with neural syncing. Ellie had been skeptical at first, but her friends raved about it. “It’s like living another life,” they’d said. “Just try it.”

Now, she regretted listening.

Ellie wandered through the meadow, her panic rising with every step. She tried everything: voice commands, gestures, even closing her …

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 …

The Auto-Reply

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:56 p.m.

Dave set his out-of-office email to: "Currently hiking Mount Everest. No access to civilization. Back in two weeks."
He was actually binge-watching Netflix in his apartment.
His boss replied: "Amazing! My brother's leading an expedition there right now. I'll tell him to look for you!"
Dave panicked and updated his auto-reply: "Update: Had to turn back. Yeti attack. Very common this season."
His boss: "Fascinating! National Geographic is there filming a Yeti documentary. They'd love to interview you!"
New update: "False alarm. Wasn't a Yeti. Just a very angry goat."
Boss: "Even better! My sister runs a viral goat video channel. She's at base camp!"
Final desperate update: "Plot twist: I'm still at my desk. The Himalayas screensaver fooled me."
Boss's reply: "I know. I'm watching you through the office window. Nice pajamas. PS: None of my siblings exist. But your creativity deserves a raise."

The Forgotten Gate

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:41 p.m.

Dr. Parisa Shirazi stood in the biting wind, staring at the jagged ruin jutting out of the barren mountainside. The gray stones, weathered by centuries, bore intricate carvings—a language she didn’t recognize, yet somehow felt she had always known.

“It’s just a wall,” her assistant Navid muttered, kicking at a loose rock. “An old fort, maybe.”

Parisa shook her head, brushing dirt off one of the carvings with trembling hands. The swirling patterns were unmistakable. “This isn’t just a wall,” she whispered. “It’s the wall.”

Navid frowned. “You can’t mean—”

“Yes. Alexander’s Wall.” Her voice was reverent. “The barrier that held back Gog and Magog.”

The legend had been a fascination of hers since childhood: a gate forged by the Great Alexander to imprison ancient forces of chaos. It was dismissed as myth by scholars, but the unearthed carvings told a different story.

Parisa traced a line of script with …

A Promise in the Stars

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 5:08 p.m.

February 1, 2003, began as a day like any other for Karen, the sun filtering through the kitchen window as she brewed her morning coffee. She stood in front of the counter, the scent of freshly ground beans filling the air, but her mind was far away, fixed on the stars. Today, her husband Rick was supposed to be coming home. Rick, who had spent the last two weeks aboard the Space Shuttle Columbia. She had watched him launch with her heart swelling with pride, but also with a pang of anxiety, as she always did when he was in space.

She knew the risks, knew that every mission carried the weight of danger, but they had promised each other long ago that they would live in the present. They would savor the moments they shared, whether he was grounded on Earth or orbiting above it.

The phone rang, pulling …

The Red Button

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:29 p.m.

President-elect Chen massaged her temples as she stared at the secure phone on her desk. Three hours ago, she'd accepted what she thought would be a routine congratulatory call from the Premier of the Republic of Xiang. Now, her transition team was in chaos.

"Madam President-elect," her chief advisor, James, burst into the room waving his tablet. "It's all over the networks. The Xiangese are claiming you agreed to recognize their claim over the Western Islands."

Chen's stomach dropped. "That's not what I said. When he mentioned the territorial waters, I only said we'd be open to continued dialogue—"

"They're running with it," James interrupted, turning his tablet to show her the headlines. "Our allies in the region are demanding clarification. The Maritime Coalition is threatening to suspend trade talks."

She remembered the Premier's careful words, how he'd casually mentioned "mutual understanding of sovereign waters" between pleasantries about future cooperation. …

Threads of Fate

hamed Jan. 21, 2025, 5:20 p.m.

The jacket was perfect: 70s leather, caramel-brown, with just the right amount of wear. Clara spotted it first on a tiny thrift store's Instagram page, its post tagged “DM to bid.” She immediately sent her offer.

Then came the notification: Sorry, another bidder just offered $80.

Clara scowled at her screen. This wasn’t her first thrift war, and she wasn’t about to lose now. $85, she typed, her fingers flying.

The reply was almost instant: $90 from the other bidder.

Her heart sank. It wasn’t just anyone—it had to be VintageVincent. His account was her biggest competition on campus. While Clara’s ThriftedByClara specialized in funky boho finds, his page leaned into edgy retro pieces that always seemed to outsell hers. Of course he wanted the jacket.

She gritted her teeth and raised the stakes. $100.

Minutes passed. Then a new reply: The other bidder is offering $110. Final offer?

Clara …

The Manuscript's Echo

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:31 p.m.

Eliot sat cross-legged in the dimly lit restoration lab, the smell of old paper and ink filling the air. The manuscript before him, a delicate, centuries-old text, had become his obsession for the past month. Each stroke of his brush, every gentle touch of the scalpel, was an act of reverence to the scribe who had painstakingly written it so long ago. The ink had faded, the parchment was fragile, but the words—those had stood the test of time.

Today, though, Eliot wasn’t just restoring the manuscript. He was meditating, trying to connect with the spirit of the work, to understand the intention behind the faded words. He closed his eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his breath guide him deeper into the calm of his mind.

As he exhaled, something shifted. The edges of the room began to blur, the hum of fluorescent lights fading into an ethereal silence. …