Flash Stories

Under the Veil

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 6:25 p.m.

The streets of Kabul felt suffocating, quieter than they’d ever been. It had only been a few weeks since the Taliban had taken control, but it felt like years. Zaynab pulled her chador tighter around her, the fabric heavy, the weight of it a constant reminder of the world she had woken up to—one she no longer recognized.

The city she had known as a bustling center of life, with its crowded markets and laughter-filled cafés, had grown still. The laughter, the freedom, the faces of her friends and colleagues—all of them now buried beneath a veil of fear.

Zaynab stood at the window of her apartment, watching the soldiers march past, their boots echoing in the silence. The checkpoints had returned. The voices of protest that once filled the streets had been replaced by whispers. Women were no longer walking freely to their jobs, to their schools. The signs …

Two Tables

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:52 p.m.

Sarah gripped her coffee mug, its warmth failing to steady her trembling hands. Across the chrome-and-glass conference table, three executives in tailored suits studied her resume with practiced indifference.

"Your requested salary seems... ambitious," the HR director said, tapping her manicured nail against the paper.

Two floors down and twelve hours earlier, Sarah had cleaned these same conference rooms, emptying waste bins and wiping fingerprints from glass surfaces. The cleaning company had slashed their hours again, spreading the same work across fewer people. When she'd mentioned the union contract their parents' generation had won—back when half the cleaning staff were members—her supervisor had laughed.

"There are twenty people who'd take your spot tomorrow," he'd said. "That's just how it is now."

In the top-floor conference room across town, Sarah's brother Michael leaned back in his ergonomic chair, letting the tension build. He knew three other tech firms were hunting for …

Matchmaking Mischief

hamed Jan. 30, 2025, 7:11 p.m.

Daisy and Max were tired of their parents’ endless excuses.

“Too busy,” Mom always said, eyeing her phone while stirring soup.
“Not in the mood,” Dad mumbled, too focused on the TV remote.

Daisy, 14, and Max, 12, had seen enough. They were done with the lonely dinner tables, the single-lane grocery trips, and the awkward silence during family movie nights. It was time for action.

They enlisted the help of their best friends: Luna, the self-proclaimed romance expert, and Jake, who just liked causing chaos. Together, they made a plan—Operation: Couple Up.

The first attempt involved a “coincidental” run-in at the local coffee shop. Max had prepped Dad by telling him to “accidentally” bump into Mom while grabbing his morning latte. The problem? Dad had zero coordination. He spilled his coffee, slipped on a puddle, and knocked over the entire menu stand.

“Smooth, Dad,” Daisy muttered, watching from a corner …

The Ridge Burns

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:49 p.m.

The morning was postcard perfect. The ocean glistened under the pale sun, the breeze carried a faint saltiness, and the jacarandas along the winding streets were bursting with purple blooms. In the Pacific Palisades, life moved leisurely. Dog walkers ambled along sidewalks, joggers hugged the curves of the bluffs, and gardeners trimmed hedges to perfection.

Emma stood barefoot on her patio, sipping coffee, savoring the view of the ridgeline. It was her daily ritual—a moment of stillness before diving into the chaos of emails and errands. She was about to turn back inside when a thin tendril of smoke caught her eye.

At first, she thought it was a cloud. But it was too close, too dark.

She squinted. The smoke widened, thickened. A flicker of orange sparked against the blue sky.

Flames.

Within minutes, the ridgeline was alive with fire, and the wind carried its warning.

Emma's phone buzzed. …

The First Hundred Days

hamed Jan. 18, 2025, 4:16 p.m.

When President Everson swore in, they called it The Great Reset.

Lila felt the change before the news anchors could finish their glowing reports. Her bus pass, once free under the old administration, was suddenly invalid. A sleek new kiosk demanded payment. "Credit only," it chirped. Lila sighed and swiped, watching half her grocery budget vanish in seconds.

At work, her boss handed her a packet labeled Employee Reclassification. Inside, she found her new status: Independent Contractor. Benefits? Gone. Hours? "Flexible."

“Adapt or be left behind,” Everson had declared during the campaign, smiling into the cameras. Lila hadn’t voted for him, but it didn’t matter now. His face was everywhere—billboards, TV, even on the new government app that citizens were "strongly encouraged" to download.

The app sent push notifications every hour: "Report your productivity! How are you contributing to the nation’s growth today?" Lila dismissed them at first, until her …

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 Threads of Fate | Chapter 9: The Final Confrontation

dehongi Jan. 25, 2025, 4:33 p.m.

The old man’s mind, worn and frail with time, was drawn to another chapter of his life, one filled with unresolved conflict, where pride had overruled the simple but profound power of forgiveness. He had once loved deeply, but in a moment of hurt and anger, he had let pride become his guide. The rift between them was sudden, sharp, and deep. No words of healing were spoken, and the wound had festered in silence for years, growing only more bitter with time.

It was a memory he had carried for far too long—the moment where pride had eclipsed the love he once felt. He could remember the exact words, the harshness in his voice, and the bitterness that had clouded his judgment. The decision had felt justified then—he had been wronged, or so he thought. The need to prove himself right, to maintain control over his emotions, had overridden …

The Citizenship Collector

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 8:54 p.m.

In the not-so-distant future, the United States of Auremerica introduced the Citizenship Reclamation Initiative. Led by President Grump, the initiative’s first act was to end birthright citizenship for children born to undocumented parents and certain legal immigrants. But the administration didn’t stop there.

Auremerica’s borders became a game board, and Grump’s new agency, the Bureau of National Belonging, was determined to “clean up the roster.” They deployed a machine called the Citizenship Extractor 3000, a gleaming chrome monstrosity designed to retroactively revoke citizenship.

One morning, Maria Fernandez woke up to find the machine parked on her front lawn. It hummed ominously, with a sign that read: NOTICE: YOUR CITIZENSHIP IS UNDER REVIEW.

“Under review?!” Maria exclaimed, clutching her coffee. “I’ve lived here my whole life!”

Her neighbor, Joe, peeked over the fence. “Don’t argue with it. It’s got lasers.”

Maria groaned as the machine’s loudspeaker blared: “PLEASE PROVIDE PROOF OF …

A Child of Promise

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:43 p.m.

The January air in Atlanta was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine from the hills beyond the city. In a modest two-story house on Auburn Avenue, the cries of a newborn broke the stillness. Alberta King leaned back against the bed, her face glistening with sweat and tears, but her smile radiant with relief.

“He’s here,” the midwife whispered, carefully wrapping the baby in a soft cotton cloth. “A strong boy, Mrs. King.”

Beside her, Reverend Martin Luther King Sr. cradled the child, his broad hands trembling as they held the fragile, wriggling bundle. The boy’s cry was sharp and insistent, a voice that refused to be ignored. “He’s got some lungs on him,” the Reverend chuckled, though his eyes shone with unshed tears.

“What shall we name him?” Alberta asked, her voice soft but steady.

“Martin,” the Reverend said, after a moment of thought. “After me. After the …