Flash Stories

The Last Argument

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:55 p.m.

The fire was a distant glow on the ridgeline when the argument began, its orange hue flickering through the windows of the Harper family’s living room.

“We’re not leaving,” said Joe, the father, his voice firm as he paced near the window. “This is our home. I built this place with my bare hands, and I’m not letting some fire take it.”

“Dad, you can’t fight a wildfire with a garden hose,” snapped his daughter, Lily, her face flushed with frustration. She stood by the door, car keys clenched in her hand. “We need to go now. The evacuation order isn’t a suggestion!”

“I’m with Lily,” said Mia, Joe’s wife, her voice trembling. “What if the winds shift? What if we get trapped?”

Joe spun around, his face darkening. “We’ve been through fires before. We stayed, and we made it out fine.”

“That was different,” Mia shot back. “This one’s …

Bound for the North

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 3:09 p.m.

The sun had barely risen when the Ford Model T sputtered to life, its engine groaning as if reluctant to leave the familiar red soil of Mississippi behind. Clara Harris held her breath as the car rattled down the dirt road, the distant hum of the engine the only sound in the pre-dawn stillness. Beside her, her husband, James, gripped the wheel with determination, his knuckles white.

"Everything we’ve worked for, Clara," James said quietly, eyes fixed on the road ahead, "it’s all up north. We can build something better for our children."

Clara nodded, her hand resting protectively on the small bundle in her lap—baby Ruth, fast asleep, unaware of the life-altering journey unfolding around her. Behind them, their two older children, Elijah and Annie, were silent, both lost in their own thoughts. The journey had been their idea, but Clara wasn’t sure if they truly understood what lay …

The House on the Hill

sara Jan. 27, 2024, 8:59 a.m.

Mark and Lisa were a young couple who loved adventure. They liked to explore new places and seek thrills. They heard about a house on the hill that was rumored to be haunted. They decided to check it out.

They drove to the hill and parked their car. They saw the house looming over them. It was a large, old, and dilapidated mansion. It had broken windows, peeling paint, and overgrown weeds. It looked eerie and ominous.

They grabbed their flashlights and backpacks and walked towards the house. They felt a chill in the air and a sense of dread. They ignored their feelings and entered the house.

They found themselves in a dark and dusty hallway. They saw cobwebs, rats, and roaches. They smelled mold, decay, and death. They heard creaks, moans, and whispers. They felt uneasy and scared.

They decided to split up and explore the house. Mark …

The Price of Peace

hamed Jan. 10, 2025, 5:29 p.m.

James Morgan wiped the sweat from his brow as he looked at the faded sign of Morgan & Sons Hardware. For twenty-four years, he'd been the first to arrive and the last to leave, just as his father had taught him. Through recessions, big-box store competition, and personal hardships, he'd kept the family business alive, ensuring his younger siblings Michael and Sarah had college educations and comfortable lives.

The betrayal came during a routine family meeting. Michael, now a lawyer, had drawn up new ownership papers. Sarah, with her MBA, had spreadsheets showing how "restructuring" would benefit everyone. They spoke of modernization, efficiency, and market realities. The fine print told a different story – one that would leave James with nothing but memories.

"It's just business," Michael had said, not meeting his eyes.

"The market doesn't care about sentiment," Sarah had added, her voice rehearsed.

After the dust settled and …

The Echoes of Time

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 6:20 p.m.

It was the kind of discovery that made the air thick with anticipation, the kind of moment when history itself seemed to hold its breath. Dr. Layla Hassan stood in the half-lit tomb, her fingers trembling slightly as she traced the edges of the ancient stone carvings on the wall. The symbols were foreign to her at first glance, their meanings tangled in the mists of centuries, but the shape of them—so familiar, so deliberate—told her everything she needed to know.

This was not just another tomb. This was something far more significant.

"We’ve found it," she whispered, barely believing the words that escaped her lips.

Her colleague, Dr. Omar Khalil, stepped forward, his face ashen with awe. His eyes scanned the walls, following her gaze, then locking on the pharaoh’s name that appeared carved in a cartouche.

"That can’t be right," he murmured, his voice cracking with disbelief. "That’s… …

The Last Child

dehongi Jan. 31, 2024, 3:03 p.m.

The Last Child

She was the last child born on Earth. Her parents named her Hope, but they knew it was a futile gesture. The world was overrun by the undead, the living corpses of those who refused to die. They had consumed all the resources, polluted the environment, and waged endless wars. They had no interest in the future, only in preserving their own existence.

Hope grew up in a hidden bunker, surrounded by books, toys, and art. Her parents taught her everything they could, hoping to spark some curiosity and creativity in her. They wanted her to have a normal childhood, even if it was only an illusion.

But Hope was not like other children. She was quiet, withdrawn, and melancholic. She rarely smiled or laughed. She spent most of her time staring at the screens, watching the horrors of the outside world. She saw the undead roaming …

He Was Gone

hamed Sept. 12, 2024, 4:53 p.m.

One day, I sat at a bus station, feeling the weight of depression. An old man beside me seemed to sense it.

"What’s troubling you?" he asked gently.

"I see no meaning in life," I replied. "Not here, nor in any other life, if such a thing exists."

He chuckled softly. "Let me share a story," he said. "Perhaps you'll find meaning in this life—and maybe even in the next."

I nodded, and he began.

"I once lived on a twin-planet system. Both worlds were packed with billions of us. Every few days, they sent millions off on missions to escape the overcrowding. But only a few, after countless attempts, ever made it to the capsule in orbit. Most perished. I was one of the rare ones. After many failed attempts, I finally reached the capsule and embarked on a solitary nine-month journey through space. Alone, confined, unsure of what …

Paper Boats at Dawn

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:07 p.m.

The river was still, bathed in the pale light of dawn, its surface shimmering like a sheet of glass. Lan stood at the water’s edge, her fingers trembling as she folded the last corner of the delicate paper boat. The crease was sharp, precise—the way Bao had taught her. The boat would glide effortlessly, like a whisper across the river, if only the current would carry it to him.

Her heart beat fast in her chest, each pulse a drum she could not silence. She had not heard from Bao in weeks, not since the war had torn them apart. Since the soldiers came through their village, taking the men for the front lines, separating families as easily as they separated the earth from the sky. Bao was no longer the young man she had fallen in love with, standing beside her in the fields. He was now a soldier, …

a genius loner.

ziamaiko Dec. 29, 2023, 5:58 a.m.

گاهی اوقات چنان با احساس همراه ربات‌ها صحبت می‌کرد که فراموش می‌کرد آنها احساساتی ندارند. حتی فراموش می‌کرد آنها ساخته‌ای به دست انسان‌ها هستند که قابلیت فراموش کردن هر چیزی را دارند.
«دست از درد و دل کردن با رباتا بردار. اونا حتی احساست تورو متوجه نمی‌شن.»
آرورا لبه‌ی میز نشسته بود و پاهایش را مثل یک کودک تکون می‌داد. مهم نبود چقدر سال‌ها می‌گذرند و سن او بالا می‌رود. او هنوز کودک هشت ساله‌ای است که روز اول ساخته شده بود. می‌توان گفت در طول آن هزار و دویست سال، هیچ کودکی مثل آرورا ساخته نشده بود.
همیشه موهایش را بالای سرش جمع می‌کرد و همراه دفتر کوچکش همه جای یتیم‌خانه قدم می‌زد. اگر فرد جدیدی به آنجا می‌آمد، قطعا آرورا را فرشته‌ای می‌دید که برای خدا پیغام می‌برد. به همین شکل از همه چیز یادداشت برداری می‌کرد.
آرورا سرش را کج کرد و گفت. «اما به هرحال بهم جواب می‌ده. همین برام …

Threads of Hope

hamed Jan. 21, 2025, 5:21 p.m.

The “Anxiety Allies” Discord server wasn’t flashy. Just a pale blue logo and a tagline that read: You’re not alone. Alex had joined on a bad night, when the walls of his studio apartment felt like they were closing in. He didn’t expect much—maybe some breathing tips, maybe someone to remind him it wouldn’t last forever.

He didn’t expect Maya.

Her username, StarrySoul, popped up in a thread about grounding techniques. Her reply was simple: “I count the objects in the room until my breathing slows. It doesn’t fix everything, but it helps.”

Alex tried it that night. It worked just enough to take the edge off. The next morning, he sent her a private message: “Thanks for the tip. I counted 23 things before I could fall asleep.”

She replied within minutes. “Glad it helped. My record is 58. Desperate times.”

Their conversation grew from there—first about anxiety, then …