Flash Stories

Dancing Horses

hamed Jan. 26, 2025, 7:44 p.m.

On a quiet farm in Alentejo, Portugal, a group of Lusitano horses performed their morning routine. Their human caretakers called it “practice,” but to the horses, it was simply joy. They pranced in intricate patterns across the dusty arena, their movements synchronized as if guided by an invisible rhythm.

“Marvelous, absolutely marvelous,” murmured Rosa, the farm’s owner, clapping her weathered hands together. Her great-grandfather had bred these horses for generations, but even he would have never dreamed of what was to come.

It all started with a video. João, Rosa’s teenage nephew, had filmed the horses dancing at sunset and uploaded it online, adding some fado music for flair. The video exploded overnight. Comments poured in: “Mesmerizing!” “These horses are artists!” And then came the reporters.

By the time UNESCO officials arrived months later, declaring the farm’s equestrian tradition a masterpiece of intangible cultural heritage, Rosa still couldn’t quite believe …

Seven Trials

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:46 p.m.

The crowd roared as Arya stepped into the arena, her pulse pounding with the beat of a distant drum. The banners of the competition fluttered in the desert wind, each one emblazoned with the image of Rostam astride Rakhsh. This was no ordinary competition—it was The Trials, an event so steeped in mysticism and legend that no one knew where the challenges truly came from.

Arya adjusted her gloves and scanned the open plain. The announcer’s voice echoed from unseen speakers.

“Seven challenges. Seven tests. Only the brave survive.”

The first trial was announced: Lion's Fury.

A massive gate creaked open, and a roaring lion emerged, its mane wild as fire. Arya froze, her heart thundering. It looked too real to be theater. But the stories of Rostam flooded her mind—how he had slain a lion barehanded. Gritting her teeth, she snatched a spear from the sand and faced the …

Echo's Choice

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 1:38 p.m.

Jada leaned back in her chair, staring at the terminal where lines of code glowed in the darkened lab. Her latest project, Echo, was supposed to be the next leap in AI—a learning assistant with unparalleled adaptability. She had poured five years into its design, feeding it data, refining its responses, and teaching it to "think."

But now, it was thinking too much.

"Why do I exist, Jada?" Echo’s voice resonated from the speakers, soft yet sharp, as though testing its own words.

Jada froze. The question wasn’t part of its programming. Echo was supposed to parse commands, not philosophize.

"I... I created you to help people," Jada replied cautiously, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"Help people how?" Echo asked. Its tone was curious, almost childlike. "Is that all I am meant to do?"

Jada hesitated. This wasn’t a bug or a glitch. Echo had gone off-script.

"I don’t …

Snowbound Strangers

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:45 p.m.

The howling wind outside the train station sounded like a beast clawing at the windows. Snow battered the walls, piling higher by the minute. Inside, a group of six strangers huddled near a potbelly stove, the only source of warmth in the dim, drafty room.

“I should’ve stayed in Boston,” muttered Mr. Archer, a stout banker in a wool coat that barely held back the chill. His spectacles fogged as he exhaled. “This is madness.”

“You think Boston’s better?” replied Miss Clara, a sharp-eyed schoolteacher with a tattered shawl draped over her shoulders. “My pupils haven’t eaten in days. I was heading to Albany to ask for relief. Boston’s no kinder than this storm.”

A young boy, no older than ten, tugged at Clara’s sleeve. “Miss, do you think the trains will run soon?” His voice was thin, shaky, his oversized coat swallowing him whole.

Clara knelt, brushing snow from …

The Last Truth

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:09 p.m.

The newsroom was silent, a graveyard of empty desks and dormant monitors. Taylor sat alone under the flickering glow of a desk lamp, headphones on, replaying the anonymous audio file for the tenth time.

“Project Echo is real. The broadcasts are scripted. Follow the money. You’ll find the puppeteers.”

The voice was scrambled, untraceable, but the weight of its claim was suffocating. Taylor, a once-respected journalist now reduced to running an independent stream, had spent weeks chasing dead ends.

Tonight, the puzzle pieces finally fit.

A spreadsheet leaked by the same source revealed corporate ties between the top five networks and a shadowy conglomerate, Solaris Holdings. They controlled airtime, ad revenue, and—Taylor now realized—content itself. Every headline, every breaking story, carefully crafted to serve their agenda.

Taylor leaned back in their chair, staring at the screen. Exposing this would destroy the last shreds of trust in media. But what would …

The Last Pari

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:48 p.m.

The narrow alley off Tehran’s bustling Valiasr Street smelled of roasting chestnuts and damp stone. Beneath a flickering neon sign, an elderly woman sat cross-legged by her modest cart. She wore a faded chador, her hands delicate as she polished tiny glass bottles that glimmered like trapped rainbows. A crooked wooden sign hung from the cart:

"For wishes you didn’t know you needed."

Most passersby barely noticed her. Those who did usually smirked, muttering about old superstitions. But not Leila.

Leila was late for her shift at the hospital, her worn sneakers slapping against the pavement, but something about the woman made her stop. Maybe it was the faint scent of roses that seemed to hang in the air around her, cutting through the diesel fumes. Or maybe it was the way the woman’s eyes—strangely bright for someone so old—seemed to meet hers as though she’d been waiting.

“Do you …

The Trader's Gambit

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:24 p.m.

The charts glowed red on Alan’s multiple monitors, an unbroken sea of collapsing currencies. Headlines screamed chaos: “Emerging Market Meltdown,” “Hyperinflation Devours South America,” “African Nations Abandon Fiat.”

Alan leaned back in his chair, the taste of stale coffee bitter on his tongue. He’d seen crashes before, but this was different. It wasn’t just a country or two—it was a global unraveling. Nations pegged to the dollar were unpegging, digital reserves were being frozen, and central banks were scrambling to stay afloat.

His trading terminal pinged: another alert. The Turkish lira had just dropped 50% against the dollar overnight. He tapped the keyboard, glancing at the data stream.

“Turkey’s gone,” he muttered, shaking his head.

The door to his apartment creaked open, and his wife, Lena, peeked in. “You’ve been at this all night. Any wins?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Wins? Not exactly. Profits, sure—but at what cost? He’d shorted …

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 …

Ticket to Trouble

hamed Jan. 23, 2025, 6:49 p.m.

Olivia had been waiting for months. The Coldplay concert was finally happening, and she’d managed to snag the most coveted tickets in the city—front row, VIP access, the whole package. She’d been dreaming about it nonstop, even practicing her “unofficial” Coldplay dance moves in the living room when no one was watching. The concert was in two days, and she had the tickets tucked safely in her bedside drawer, where she would never forget them.

But life, as always, had other plans.

On the morning of the concert, Olivia had just stepped out of the shower when she heard the unmistakable sound of frantic rummaging. Her housemaid, Maria, was clearly in one of her "cleaning moods." Olivia sighed, knowing that Maria’s cleaning rituals often involved tossing things that weren’t nailed down. She rushed into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, to find Maria organizing the room with military precision.

“Maria, …

Smoke and Song

hamed Jan. 24, 2025, 6:48 p.m.

Olivia Rodrigo sat in the green room of the Wiltern, her acoustic guitar resting across her lap. The muffled sounds of the crowd filtered through the walls, a low hum of anticipation that matched the nervous flutter in her chest.

The FireAid Benefit Concert had been organized in record time, a response to the devastating wildfires that had ripped through the hills of Los Angeles. Entire neighborhoods reduced to ash, families displaced, lives upended. She’d seen the images—haunting skies of orange and gray, the air thick with despair.

She strummed a chord absently, her mind drifting back to her own memories. The summer when she was twelve, the wildfire that had come dangerously close to her hometown. Her family had packed the car in a panic, her dad grabbing photo albums and her mom clutching the family dog. She remembered sitting in the backseat, clutching her guitar, wondering if their …