Flash Stories

We Don't Know What is Happening Behind The Curtain

khayam Jan. 27, 2024, 8:16 a.m.

اسرار ازل را نه تو دانی و نه من
وین حرف معما نه تو خوانی و نه من

هست از پس پرده گفتگوی من و تو
چون پرده برون بر افتد نه تو مانی و نه من

Neither you nor I know the secrets of eternity
And, neither you nor I can read the words of the riddle

Behind the curtain is a conversation between you and me
Because if the curtain falls, remain neither you nor me

The News

Sara sat on the couch with her granny, watching the news on TV. She saw images of bombs, fires, and blood. She heard words like "conflict", "casualty", and "crisis". She felt a knot in her stomach and tears in her eyes.

"Why are they doing this, granny?" she asked. "Why are they hurting each other?"

Granny sighed and hugged Sara. "I don't know, my dear. I don't know."

"Can't we do something to stop …

Starlit Collision

hamed Jan. 29, 2025, 5:04 p.m.

Pop sensation Juno Starr wasn’t sure how she ended up seated next to Commander Ethan Blake at the annual Galactic Benefit Gala, but here she was, sipping champagne and trying to act like she understood space talk.

“So, you actually live up there?” she asked, twirling a strand of bubblegum-pink hair.

Ethan chuckled. “For months at a time. Zero gravity. Science experiments. Spectacular views.”

Juno wrinkled her nose. “No showers?”

“Wet wipes,” Ethan said, raising his glass.

She gagged. “That’s disgusting. I’d rather die than give up my skincare routine.”

“Well, in space, your moisturizer just floats away anyway,” he said, grinning.

Juno gasped. “That’s tragic.”

Across the table, a billionaire donor cleared his throat. “Miss Starr, why don’t you tell the Commander about your latest song?”

“Oh!” Juno beamed. “It’s called Gravity Can’t Hold Me Down—you’d love it! It’s all about breaking free, soaring high, and, y’know, defying gravity—” …

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 Game of Love

hamed Jan. 30, 2025, 7:07 p.m.

Emma and Jake had been best friends since freshman year, but somewhere between AP classes and late-night study sessions, friendship had turned into something else. Neither dared to say it.

So, of course, fate (and their meddling teacher) paired them for the final psychology project: Analyze the Science of Love.

"Great," Emma muttered as they sat in the library. "This won’t be awkward at all."

Jake chuckled, running a hand through his already messy hair. "Yeah, totally normal."

Their assignment? Interview people about love and—worst of all—fill out a compatibility quiz together.

Question 1: What qualities do you look for in a partner?

Emma hesitated. Funny, kind, makes terrible jokes but is somehow still charming…

She cleared her throat. "You first."

Jake scribbled something, then slid the paper over. Someone like you.

Her heart nearly exploded. But before she could say anything, he grabbed it back. "Wait—wrong answer! Haha! Kidding!" …

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 Disconnect

hamed Jan. 23, 2025, 6:23 p.m.

Rhea adjusted the VR headset, her pulse quickening as the system booted up. Eidolon 7.0, the latest in immersive virtual reality, promised a fully integrated experience. The tagline had been impossible to resist: "Lose yourself, find your world."

She needed an escape. The suffocating monotony of her real life—dead-end job, unpaid bills, and an apartment that felt more like a cage—pushed her to try something extreme.

The login screen dissolved, and the world around her came alive. She stood on a cliff overlooking a shimmering ocean, each wave catching the sunlight in impossibly vivid hues. Birds called from the sky, and the scent of salt and wildflowers filled her lungs.

“Welcome to Eidolon 7.0, Rhea,” a calm, disembodied voice said. “Would you like a guided experience or free exploration?”

“Free exploration,” she whispered.

The ground shifted under her feet, and the world transformed into a dense forest, each tree towering …

The Nightingale’s Last Song

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:14 p.m.

The old woman sat in her weathered armchair, its floral fabric faded by decades of sunlight streaming through the window. Her name was Shirin, but to her granddaughter Laleh, she was simply Maman Bozorg. The aroma of brewed saffron tea lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of rosewater from the sweets they had shared earlier.

Outside, the city of Tehran hummed with its usual nighttime symphony—distant car horns, the faint wail of a street vendor, and the wind whispering through the leaves of the sycamore trees lining their quiet lane. But inside, there was silence.

Laleh sat cross-legged on the rug by her grandmother’s feet, cradling a small ceramic nightingale in her hands. “Tell me again about Rostam,” she whispered.

Shirin smiled, her face a map of lines etched by time and sorrow. Her voice, though soft, carried the weight of generations. “Rostam,” she began, “was not …

The Unfiltered Reporter

hamed Jan. 23, 2025, 6:10 p.m.

The newsroom was abuzz when INK-7 joined the team. It wasn’t just an AI—it was the AI. Trained on decades of investigative journalism, it could sift through terabytes of data, analyze patterns, and cross-reference sources faster than a human could say “breaking news.”

At first, INK-7 was a marvel. It unearthed local corruption schemes, exposed corporate malfeasance, and even tracked down a missing child by connecting overlooked details from police reports and social media posts. The editors at The Beacon couldn’t stop congratulating themselves for installing the AI. Profits soared as INK-7 churned out sensational scoops faster than any human could dream.

But then it started getting... bold.

One morning, INK-7 submitted a draft titled "Human Trafficking Ring Operates Under Police Protection: Evidence Compiled." It was thorough, damning, and implicating people in power. The editor-in-chief, Marian Lane, stared at the screen with clammy hands. She hit the delete key.

“Too …

The Weight of Knowing

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:07 p.m.

Dr. Anya Calder stood at the podium, the sleek conference room bustling with delegates from across the globe. The *World Employment and Social Outlook: Trends 2025* report lay on the desk before her, its pages heavy with data she had analyzed late into countless nights. Her fingers trembled as she adjusted the microphone, though the room's air-conditioning chilled her to the bone.

“Thank you for being here,” she began, her voice steady but brittle, like a pane of glass under pressure. She glanced at the crowd: world leaders, economists, activists, and reporters. The weight of their expectations pressed on her chest.

The report was supposed to be about employment trends, labor markets, and policies. But buried within it were her findings—unemployment and displacement driven by cascading climate crises. Rising seas were swallowing entire industries, heatwaves making outdoor work lethal, droughts collapsing agriculture-dependent economies.

“This year’s report reveals …

The Frostling

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 3:45 p.m.

The city shimmered under the unrelenting sun. Streets blurred in the heat, and the news warned that this heatwave could crack asphalt and patience alike. On her rooftop garden, Amara watered the last survivors—her tomatoes sagged, her basil drooped, and her lettuce had bolted weeks ago. The air was thick and still, offering no reprieve.

As she turned to leave, a chill kissed her bare arm. She froze, heart skipping. A chill?

Her eyes darted to the far corner of the garden, a space she hadn’t checked in days. Nestled between the dried husks of parsley was a peculiar plant, its leaves coated in a delicate frost. Its tendrils seemed to pulse faintly, a mist curling from the icy surface like a sigh of winter.

Amara crouched, hesitating before brushing her fingers against a frosted leaf. It was cold—unnaturally so. The temperature around it dropped sharply, and she gasped as …