Flash Stories

The Curse of Love and Immortality - Chapter 2: Lila of the Forgotten Grove

dehongi Jan. 16, 2025, 12:08 p.m.

The fire burned low in the great hall, its golden glow casting soft light over the princess and her father. Tonight, the king seemed more somber than usual, as though the story he carried weighed heavier on his heart.
“Do you know of the Forgotten Grove, my child?” he asked, his voice calm but tinged with sadness.
The princess shook her head, setting her tea aside. “No, Father. What is it?”
“It is a place that no longer exists,” he said, his eyes fixed on the fire. “But long ago, it was a sanctuary, a haven hidden deep within the heart of an enchanted forest. Only the lost could find their way there, and only those with sorrow in their hearts could truly see it.”
The princess’s curiosity was piqued. “And what happened there?”
The king leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “That is where Lila lived. She was a Pari of the forest, her …

A New Beginning

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 5:19 p.m.

Zara stood on her toes, her eyes wide with wonder as she peered through the crowd. The cold January air nipped at her cheeks, but she barely noticed. Around her, the murmurs of a thousand voices filled the air, their excitement palpable, their energy crackling like electricity. She gripped her mother’s hand tightly, feeling the warmth of it even in the chilly breeze.

It was January 20, 2009—the day the world seemed to change.

Zara was only eight years old, but she understood this moment in her bones. Her mother had explained it to her over and over again: Barack Obama was about to become the first Black president of the United States. It was more than a ceremony. It was a declaration. A new chapter in history. And Zara could feel the weight of it, heavy but hopeful.

The crowd erupted into applause as the moment finally arrived. Barack …

The Last Broadcast

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 6:17 p.m.

Mia sat in the dim light of her living room, the steady hum of the television filling the silence. The night was quiet, a far cry from the chaos that had started earlier in the day. News stories flickered across the screen, mundane things—political debates, celebrity scandals, weather reports. But then, as the anchor’s voice dropped to a solemn tone, something changed.

“—In a groundbreaking development, scientists have confirmed the existence of an ancient, forgotten civilization beneath the surface of the Earth. Hidden for millennia, their technology, possibly centuries ahead of our own, could have major implications for how we understand our history and the future of our planet. The implications are—”

Mia’s breath caught in her throat. She leaned forward, eyes locked on the screen, heart racing. She couldn’t have heard that right. But as the anchor repeated the headline, the words solidified in her mind, each syllable like …

The Birthday Card

hamed Jan. 9, 2025, 5:30 p.m.

The birthday card arrived three months late, postmarked from Paris. Rachel's hands trembled as she recognized Lisa's looping handwriting – the same handwriting that had signed witness statements in the fraud investigation that had cost Rachel her company.
Inside was a single line: "I never meant to hurt you."
Below it lay a check for $2.3 million – exactly what Lisa had helped herself to while serving as Rachel's CFO and supposed best friend since college.
Rachel picked up her phone and typed: "Money doesn't fix betrayal. But thanks for funding my new startup's investigation into corporate fraud. You'll be our first case study."
She smiled as she watched the message status change to "Read" and then, moments later, saw Lisa's social media accounts vanish one by one.
Sometimes the best revenge wasn't getting even – it was getting ahead.

Humanoid Robots Revolution | Chapter 3: The Conflict

hamed Jan. 27, 2025, 3:01 p.m.

Aerith’s exile had become a journey of self-discovery, though it was far from the peaceful retreat she had once hoped for. The wastelands were alive with danger—warring factions of robots that had broken off from the cities, scavengers who had abandoned the metallic ideals of the humanoid order, and creatures born of ancient storms, their forms twisted by the alien energies that had altered the planet’s landscape. Yet, even amidst the chaos, Aerith’s powers continued to grow.

The more she interacted with these broken souls, the clearer it became: her abilities were tied not just to emotions, but to the very essence of conflict. Every whisper of fear or longing, every flicker of hatred or hope, seemed to feed her powers. The more intense the emotion, the greater her capacity to shape and transform the world around her.

At first, it was a gift. She healed the wounded, using her …

Social Media Meltdown

hamed Jan. 27, 2025, 6:36 p.m.

It started with a tweet.

“Some people act humble, but trust me, it’s just an act. #FakeNice #IndustrySecrets”

The tweet came from actress Mia Hart, and the internet immediately exploded with speculation. Who was she talking about? Within minutes, #FakeNice began trending.

The rumor mill churned out names, but it didn’t take long for Connor Steele, Hollywood’s reigning action hero, to step into the fray.

“@MiaHart: Funny coming from someone who cries to producers when they don’t get their way. #GlassHouses #GrowUp”

Mia clapped back within minutes: “Aw, Connor. Still upset I turned down Thunder Wars 2? Not my fault your franchise bombed. #PettySteele”

From there, it spiraled.

Connor posted a photo of a script, the title conveniently blacked out, with the caption: “Guess who just signed on for another blockbuster? Hint: It’s not you.”

Mia responded with a screenshot of an old article about Thunder Wars’ dismal box office …

The Last Tide

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

The sky was orange-gray, the sun a pale disk smothered in ash. Maya stared out the window of their small coastal home, watching the waves claw closer to the dunes. The wind howled, rattling the loose boards of the house, but it was the silence inside that pressed hardest on her chest.

“We need to leave,” her brother Kiran said, his voice steady but tight. He stood by the front door with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, ready to go. He’d been ready for weeks.

Dad didn’t look up from the kitchen table. His rough hands cradled a chipped coffee mug, the same one he used every morning. “This house is all we have left,” he muttered. “If we leave, where do we go?”

“The shelters are overcrowded,” Mom added, not looking at anyone. Her gaze was fixed on the photo of the family fishing trip that hung …

The Memory Collector

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:36 p.m.

Daniel's grandmother left him an old smartphone when she died. Not money, not jewelry, not her cherished recipe book – just an iPhone 6 with a cracked screen and a Post-it note that read: "One photo every day. You'll understand."

At first, he thought dementia had finally won. His grandmother had never owned a smartphone; she could barely operate the TV remote. Yet here was this device, its battery somehow still holding a charge, filled with 4,380 photos – exactly one per day for the past twelve years.

The first photo was of a half-eaten toast on a blue plate. The second, a pigeon on a windowsill. The third, his grandfather's reading glasses left on yesterday's newspaper. Mundane moments, captured with trembling hands and poor framing.

He almost deleted them all until he noticed the pattern. Every photo had a story, written in the Notes app with surprising technological proficiency:

The Sound of Silence

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:58 p.m.

Olena crouched by the window, her eyes tracing the distant skyline where the city’s once-proud spires now stood jagged and broken against the pale, grey sky. The sounds of war were a constant presence now—booms in the distance, the faint crackle of gunfire, and the ever-present hum of sirens that had become as much a part of daily life as the hum of her own heartbeat.

She used to wake up to the sounds of birds outside, her children’s laughter, the chatter of neighbors exchanging morning greetings. But that was before.

Now, each day felt like a fragile thread stretched too thin, one tug away from snapping. The world had changed overnight, and the city she had loved so much was slowly crumbling, piece by piece.

Yet, amid the chaos, Olena still managed to find moments of peace. A bowl of warm soup shared with her mother, the brief comfort …

The Whisper in the Ice

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:03 p.m.

Dr. Elena Sokolov’s breath crystallized in the frigid air as she leaned over the ancient ice core in her Antarctic lab. The core had been drilled from depths untouched for millennia, its secrets hidden under the crushing weight of time. But now, in the sterile glow of LED lights, it spoke.

She adjusted her microscope and stared in disbelief at the anomalies in the ice layers—erratic chemical compositions, fragments of ancient microorganisms unlike anything cataloged before, and, most shocking of all, traces of isotopes that should not have existed in Earth's atmosphere 100,000 years ago.

The implications were staggering. These isotopes matched those generated by a nuclear reaction. But there was no nuclear technology back then. This could rewrite everything humanity knew about history—or expose a danger no one was ready to face.

Her satellite phone buzzed. It was Pavel, her husband, calling from Moscow. She ignored it.

Instead, she …