Flash Stories

Numbers Don't Lie

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:36 p.m.

Numbers Don't Lie

Adnan's screens flickered with red numbers as the lira fell another twelve percent. His trading desk at First Capital Bank, usually bustling with energy, had grown eerily quiet. Everyone was watching their own cascading displays, running their own calculations, making their own choices.

His phone buzzed: a message from Zhang at Goldman. "Position still open. Window closing. Decision needed within hour."

Adnan's fingers hovered over his keyboard. The trade was perfectly legal—a massive short position against his own country's currency. He'd make enough to buy his parents a house in London, get his sister into Harvard. The money would be safely in dollars before the worst hit.

But he thought of his father's small textile factory, of the workers who'd been there since Adnan was a boy. They'd be the ones who'd suffer when the currency collapsed. Their savings would evaporate, their jobs would vanish as imported …

The Silent Scream

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 6:11 p.m.

It was another Tuesday morning, and Clara was already behind. Her laptop sat open on the kitchen counter, the blue glow of emails and spreadsheets casting a soft, cold light over the room. A faint hum from her coffee machine was the only sound, aside from the occasional shuffle of her daughter, Emma, moving around the house in preparation for school. Clara’s mind was already running through her to-do list—meetings, deadlines, client calls. She had learned to function in the silence of her own world, the one where work was her refuge, her purpose.

“Mom, don’t forget the parent-teacher meeting today,” Emma called out, her voice small but steady, as she pulled on her jacket.

Clara looked up for a moment, her eyes tired. “Of course, sweetie. I’ll be there.”

Emma smiled weakly, but Clara didn’t see it. She was already scrolling through her phone, multitasking, sending a quick message …

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 Garden

rumi Dec. 29, 2023, 7:35 p.m.

He had always hated gardens. As a child, he would avoid them, fearing the insects, the dirt, the thorns. He preferred to stay indoors, reading books, playing games, watching TV. He thought gardens were boring, messy, and useless.

As he grew older, his disdain for gardens did not change. He pursued a career in finance, working long hours, making money, buying things. He had no time for nature, no interest in flowers, no appreciation for beauty. He only cared about himself, and his success.

He had no friends, no lovers, no hobbies, no interests. He only had himself, and his things. He thought he was happy, until one day, he met her.

She was a gardener, a lover of plants, a nurturer of life. She had a smile that brightened his day, a voice that soothed his soul, a touch that healed his wounds. She showed him the wonders of …

Wall Street Exodus

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 4:21 p.m.

The email hit Andrew’s inbox at 9:03 AM, marked URGENT: “Effective immediately, GreenWave Investments will halt all ESG initiatives to refocus on core profitability.”

He stared at the words, numb. Just last week, he’d given a presentation on the firm’s commitment to sustainability, citing how their green portfolio had reduced carbon emissions by 20% while delivering steady returns. The applause had been polite, but now he realized it was hollow.

In the break room, the whispers were deafening. "It’s the market," someone said. "Investors want quick wins, not greenwashing."

But Andrew couldn’t let it go. He had joined GreenWave two years ago, driven by the promise of impact investing—real change paired with real returns. Now, it felt like he’d sold his soul to the highest bidder.

“Andrew, we need to talk,” his boss, Marcy, said, leaning against the doorway to his cubicle. Her smile was forced, her voice low. “You’re …

Who Owns His Time

dehongi Jan. 11, 2024, 5:14 p.m.

In the heart of a bustling metropolis, amidst the towering skyscrapers and ceaseless hum of urban life, resided a man named Ethan, who had discovered the profound truth that those who wielded complete dominion over their time were often the most contented souls.

Ethan, unlike many of his peers, didn't succumb to the tyranny of the clock, allowing his schedule to dictate his days. Instead, he took command of his time, carving out precious moments for his passions and pursuits, ensuring that each day unfolded in a symphony of self-fulfillment.

He rose early each morning, greeting the dawn with a sense of purpose, not as a prelude to another day of obligations, but as an opportunity to embrace the beauty of the world around him. He would embark on invigorating runs through serene parks, allowing the fresh air to invigorate his mind and body, before settling into his cozy study …

Don't Look Nor Touch

khayam Jan. 27, 2024, 12:48 p.m.

یا رب تو جمال آن مه مهر انگیز
آراسته ای به سنبل و عنبر نیز

پس حکم چنان کنی که در وی منگر
پس حکم چنان بود که کجدار و مریض

O Lord, you made the beauty of that lovely mist
Adorned with hyacinth and amber as well

So you rule me not to look at her
So the rules has problems in this matter

Story:

He had seen her only once, in the garden of the palace. She was the daughter of the vizier, and he was a poor poet. He had been invited to recite his verses for the king, but his eyes were drawn to her instead. She was like a vision of paradise, with her dark hair and fair skin, her eyes shining like stars, and her lips like rose petals. She wore a dress of silk and jewels, and smelled of hyacinth and amber.

He knew he could never …

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 …

The House That Waited

hamed Jan. 20, 2025, 6:24 p.m.

The sun hung heavy in the sky, casting an orange haze over the fields that used to be green. The air was thick with dust and the smell of burnt earth. A few years ago, they'd laughed at the idea of ever leaving. But the droughts, the heatwaves, the wildfires—they didn’t leave them much choice. Now, Mara and her family were part of the Great Migration, like millions of others, heading toward the northern cities where the climate hadn’t yet devoured everything.

They had left behind their home, the smart house that had once been the pinnacle of convenience. Automated lights, self-regulating temperature, an AI assistant that seemed almost alive. It had been a safe haven during the worst of it—the house that did everything.

But now, it was abandoned.

Or so they thought.

As they settled into their new temporary apartment, Mara unpacked the last of their belongings, her …

The Catalyst

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:49 p.m.

The storm outside howled like a wounded beast, slamming rain against the reinforced glass of Dr. Elena Vega's underground lab. Power flickered, but the hum of the emergency generators kept her machines alive. On her desk, a small glass vial shimmered faintly in the dim light, its contents a liquid so iridescent it looked like captured starlight.

She called it The Catalyst.

Years of research had led her here: a synthetic compound capable of reversing atmospheric carbon levels at an unprecedented rate. Not just slowing the crisis—undoing it. A single droplet, when deployed, could trigger a chain reaction in the air, neutralizing greenhouse gases and stabilizing the planet's climate.

Elena’s fingers trembled as she secured the vial in a portable case. She had to get it to the launch site before it was too late. Outside, floodwaters rose, and the city’s air was thick with smoke from wildfires raging hundreds …