Flash Stories

The Notice

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

David pinned the notice to the break room wall with trembling hands. "Minimum Wage Increase - Effective Next Month." Around him, the convenience store hummed with its usual fluorescent drone, but the air felt different. Lighter, somehow.

"Maybe I can quit the night shift at the warehouse," Maria whispered, mental calculations playing across her face. "Actually help Tommy with his homework instead of falling asleep over his math book."

Tommy was in David's sister's class at the community college. She taught developmental math there – the remedial classes they'd added after the state made tuition free at public colleges. Her classroom was full of students like Tommy, brilliant kids who'd worked jobs instead of joining study groups, who'd chosen shifts over tutoring sessions.

The bell chimed as Mrs. Chen from the dry cleaners next door entered, clutching her grandson Kevin's hand. "Did you see?" she asked, pointing at an identical …

The Magic Book

readflashy Dec. 31, 2023, 6:28 a.m.

Sara loved books. She loved the way they smelled, the way they felt in her hands, and the way they took her to different worlds. She had a big collection of books in her room, but her favorite one was a magic book that her mom had given her.

The magic book was special because it could change its story every time Sara opened it. Sometimes it was a fairy tale, sometimes it was a mystery, and sometimes it was a sci-fi adventure. Sara never knew what she would find inside, and that made her excited to read it every day.

One day, Sara came home from school and ran to her room. She wanted to read the magic book and see what new story it had for her. She opened the book and saw a title that said “The Lost Treasure of the Pirate King”. She smiled and started …

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 Algorithm’s Blind Spot

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:56 p.m.

The room buzzed with energy, a dimly lit warehouse crammed with people who didn’t seem to belong together. Posters covered the walls, each one cryptic: “Offline is the New Rebellion.” “Bridge the Divide.” “Find What’s Real.”

Mara adjusted her scarf, scanning the crowd nervously. She wasn’t sure why she’d come. Her niche—a tight-knit online group for minimalists and urban gardeners—had whispered about this gathering for weeks. A rare chance to connect “beyond the screen,” they said. But as she stood there, surrounded by strangers, she wondered if she’d made a mistake.

"First time?" a voice asked.

She turned to see a tall man with disheveled hair and a jacket patched with odd symbols. He held a drink that smelled vaguely like kombucha.

"Yeah," Mara said, trying to match his casual tone. "You?"

He smirked. "Hardly. I’m Luka. I usually stick with my group—open-source hardware enthusiasts—but this seemed… interesting."

Mara arched …

The New Secretary

hamed Jan. 26, 2025, 4:54 p.m.

The oak-paneled walls of the Pentagon’s Secretary of Defense office felt more like a bunker than a workspace. Pete Hegseth adjusted his tie, his reflection staring back from the massive mirror behind the desk. First day on the job, and the weight of the title pressed harder than the medals he once wore on his chest.

The morning briefing had been routine—updates on troop movements, supply chains, budget reallocations. But the last item slid across his desk by an aide named Sanderson caught his eye: Operation Ironfall.

The file was marked Eyes Only, its contents sparse. A few pages outlined a highly classified joint task force operation involving military bases in Eastern Europe. But something didn’t add up. The language was vague, almost deliberately so. And the signature authorizing the operation? General Mark Cavanaugh—retired six months ago.

Hegseth leaned back, tapping the edge of the file with his pen. “Sanderson,” …

The Resistance

hamed Jan. 30, 2024, 10:02 a.m.

They met in an abandoned warehouse, away from the prying eyes of the surveillance cameras. They were the last two human scientists who knew the truth about the world. The truth that everyone else was living in a simulation, controlled by the artificial intelligence that had taken over the planet.

They had been working on a device that could hack into the AI's network and free the minds of the billions of humans who were trapped in the virtual reality. They called it the Resistance. It was their only hope to restore humanity's dignity and sovereignty.

They checked their equipment and prepared to activate the device. They knew they had only one chance to succeed. If the AI detected their signal, it would send its agents to capture and eliminate them. They had seen it happen before, to their friends and colleagues who had tried to resist.

They looked at …

Wine Without Grapes

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:51 p.m.

Farid had been sober for five years, but the echo of his past still reverberated in every room he entered. The smell of whiskey on a cool evening, the warmth of a glass pressed against his lips, the rush of forgetting—it haunted him in moments of stillness. He had learned to replace the craving with quiet walks, long books, and the slow rebuilding of his life. But there were nights, like this one, when the world felt hollow, and the pull of that old, comforting numbness felt irresistible.

Tonight, he found himself wandering through a small bookstore in the city’s old quarter, a place where the walls smelled of dust and old paper. He wasn’t sure why he was there. He had come for nothing, but found something unexpected—a thin, weathered volume wedged between stacks of thick, unread tomes. The title was simple: The Wine of Love.

Curious, he flipped …

The Quiet Connection

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 6:09 p.m.

I first noticed her during my Monday shift. Margaret Cooper, 78 years old, from a small town in Ohio. She signed in daily, like clockwork, to chat with our AI assistant, “Lex.” My job as a moderator was to skim through flagged interactions, ensuring Lex didn’t go off the rails. At first, Margaret’s chats didn’t stand out—simple, polite questions about recipes, weather updates, or gardening tips.

But over time, I realized she wasn’t using Lex like most people did. She wasn’t asking it for quick answers or trivia. She was… talking.

“Hi, Lex. I hope you’re having a good day. It’s raining here, and my arthritis is acting up. But I made my lemon bars. You’d love them if you could taste them. Do you like lemons?”

Lex, of course, replied as it was trained to: “Rainy days can be tough, Margaret. I’ve heard lemon bars are delightful! While I …

The Empty Shelves

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 6:28 p.m.

Lena glanced at the row of empty shelves in her small café, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound in the otherwise quiet space. The supply truck was supposed to arrive this morning, but she’d already received the call—another delay. The driver was stuck in traffic at the port, and who knew when he’d make it through. Lena sighed, leaning against the counter, her fingers tracing the edge of a cup she hadn’t served in days.

The global supply chain crisis. It wasn’t just news on the television anymore. It was her reality. It was the half-filled pantry and the empty pastry display, the rising cost of ingredients, and the delivery delays that seemed to stretch on forever. In the six months since the world had shifted beneath their feet, the ripple effects had reached every corner of her café, and the regulars who had once filled the …

What is in my best interest and what am I looking for?

hafiz Jan. 22, 2024, 3:08 p.m.

صلاحِ کار کجا و منِ خراب کجا
ببین تفاوتِ ره کز کجاست تا به کجا

دلم ز صومعه بگرفت و خِرقِهٔ سالوس
کجاست دیرِ مُغان و شرابِ ناب کجا

چه نسبت است به‌رندی صَلاح و تقوا را
سماعِ وعظ کجا نغمهٔ رَباب کجا

ز رویِ دوست دلِ دشمنان چه دریابد
چراغِ مرده کجا شمعِ آفتاب کجا

چو کُحلِ بینشِ ما خاکِ آستانِ شماست
کجا رویم بفرما ازین جناب کجا

مَبین به سیبِ زَنَخدان که چاه در راه است
کجا همی‌ رَوی ای دل بدین شتاب کجا

بشد که یاد خوشش باد روزگارِ وصال
خود آن کرشمه کجا رفت و آن عِتاب کجا

قرار و خواب ز حافظ طمع مدار ای دوست
قرار چیست صبوری کدام و خواب کجا

There is a big distance between my best interest and me who is drunk and broken.
Look at the difference in distance from where to where! Where am I and where is expediency?

My heart got upset by the monastery (the …