Flash Stories

Refugee Travel Chaos

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 9:13 p.m.

Hamid clutched his suitcase, which was somehow both too heavy to carry and too light to contain anything important, as he stared at the chaos unfolding in Terminal 4. The flight attendant at the gate was arguing with a man in a three-piece suit who looked like he’d missed his yoga class and taken it personally, while a TSA agent shouted, “No exceptions!” over the wail of a distant baby.

“Next!” barked the agent at the podium, her expression suggesting she had seen enough nonsense for three lifetimes.

Hamid shuffled forward, his sweaty hands slipping off the handle of his passport. “Uh, hello,” he began nervously, adjusting his too-large jacket that still smelled faintly of mothballs.

“Reason for travel?” the agent asked, snapping her gum.

“Refugee status. I have—”

“Yeah, about that.” She held up a hand, then jabbed her finger toward the giant screen above her. The words “REFUGEE …

Taurus Troubles

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 9:11 p.m.

Maggie had always taken her horoscopes seriously—maybe a little too seriously. As a proud Taurus, she knew she was supposed to be practical, grounded, and stubborn. But when she opened her astrology app that morning, her horoscope made her pause mid-sip of her matcha latte.

"Today, hidden challenges will test your resolve. Keep your wits about you."

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. Hidden challenges? What kind of challenges? Her mind raced. Was her boss planning to surprise her with a last-minute project? Was the barista going to forget her extra oat milk? Was Mercury retrograding again?

She threw on her "Taurus Energy" hoodie, grabbed her crystal bracelet (for protection, obviously), and set out to face the day, determined to uncover every "hidden challenge" before it could ambush her.

Her first stop was the coffee shop. She scrutinized the barista. “You didn’t forget the oat milk, right?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

The barista …

The Neon Night Basketball Blunder

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 9:09 p.m.

It was the biggest game of the season: Neon Night at the University at Albany. The arena was packed with students dressed in fluorescent shirts and glow sticks, the court bathed in blacklight. Every dunk, every pass, every cheer lit up in a psychedelic spectacle.

Chad “Buckets” Brody, star forward and self-proclaimed king of campus, was hyped. He’d spent the pregame hyping himself up in the locker room mirror, flexing and muttering, “MVP tonight, baby. MVP.”

But Chad had made one crucial error that morning. Somewhere between laundry day and his last Amazon shopping spree, he’d unknowingly grabbed a pair of glow-in-the-dark boxer briefs. Neon green. With flames.

The first half was uneventful—by Chad’s standards. A few three-pointers, a monster dunk, some chest bumps with his teammates. But then, midway through the second half, disaster struck.

After diving for a loose ball, Chad skidded across the court, landing on his …

The Last Scroll

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 9:06 p.m.

The screen froze mid-swipe.

“Error 403: Service Unavailable.”

I stared at my phone, my thumb hovering over the screen, waiting for TikTok to snap back to life. But it didn’t. The app just sat there, mocking me with its gray, lifeless error message.

“Mom!” I yelled, bursting into the kitchen. “It’s happening! They killed TikTok!”

Mom didn’t even look up from her coffee. “Good. You’ll finally have time for your homework.”

I rolled my eyes. “This isn’t just about TikTok, Mom. This is, like, the end of freedom.”

She smirked. “Pretty sure Jefferson didn’t write, ‘Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Dance Trends.’”

Back in my room, I flopped onto my bed, staring at my blank phone screen. The silence was deafening. Normally, this would be the time I’d watch someone bake a cake shaped like a frog or learn a new viral dance I’d never master. But now? Nothing.

When the Waters Rose

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 9:05 p.m.

The rain had been relentless for days, a constant drumming on the tin roofs of the villages nestled in Central Java’s lush valleys. By the time the rivers began to swell, it was too late to escape. The water came in the dead of night, a roaring force that swept through homes, fields, and lives with no mercy.

In the village of Sumber Rejo, 12-year-old Rani clung to her mother’s hand as they waded through the chest-deep water. The flashlight in her mother’s grip flickered, casting shaky beams on the chaos around them. Furniture floated past, along with remnants of lives uprooted—a child’s stuffed bear, a photograph album, a single sandal. The air was thick with the smell of mud and fear.

“Stay close, Rani!” her mother shouted over the sound of the rushing water. But Rani’s eyes were fixed on the dark shape of their neighbor’s house, half-submerged and …

The Tariff Tango

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 9:02 p.m.

At the International Trade Summit, held in a glitzy Vienna ballroom that smelled faintly of cigars and strained diplomacy, President Trumph strode to the podium. His signature red tie swung like a pendulum, warning of the chaos to come.

“I’m telling you,” Trumph began, pointing at the gathered delegates, “the EU’s been ripping us off for decades. Tariffs are coming, big ones. Huge ones. You won’t believe it!”

The French delegate, a silver-haired man named Jean-Claude, leaned over to whisper to his German counterpart. “Is he serious?”

“I think he is,” said Angela, sipping her mineral water with the calm of someone who’d seen worse. “Though I must admit, his economic theories are as unpredictable as his hair.”

Trumph jabbed his finger toward the Chinese delegation. “And you! Ten percent on imports if you don’t start playing fair!”

Ambassador Li smiled serenely. “Mr. President, we only play Go. You’re the …

The Kite in the Rubble

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 9:01 p.m.

The streets of Jenin were unrecognizable. Where there had been markets and laughter, now there were craters and silence, broken only by the distant rumble of armored vehicles. Smoke hung in the air, heavy and acrid, as if the city itself was exhaling its pain.

Amid the destruction, nine-year-old Yusuf crouched behind the crumbled remains of his family’s home. His small hands clutched the broken frame of a kite, the fabric torn and frayed. It had once been bright yellow, streaked with green, a kite that danced in the sky above Jenin like it had no borders to obey.

“Yusuf!” his older sister, Amina, hissed from a safer corner of the rubble. “Come back here! They’ll see you!”

Yusuf shook his head, his lips trembling. “I have to fix it,” he whispered. “It’s the only thing left.”

Amina’s heart twisted. Their father was gone, their mother missing, their home flattened …

The Red Line

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 8:57 p.m.

Admiral Sarah Chen stared at the holographic display floating above her desk in Pearl Harbor. Red dots pulsed along the disputed maritime borders - each one representing a potential flashpoint between vessels. The Quad's latest warning to China had stirred up the hornet's nest, just as she'd predicted during the ministerial meeting last week.
Her wrist console buzzed. A message from Captain Rajesh from the Indian Navy: "Activity near the Andaman Sea. Three unmarked vessels crossed into international waters. Your thoughts?"

Sarah rubbed her temples. After thirty years of service, she'd learned to read between the lines of diplomatic speak. The Quad's statement had been firm but measured. China's response, predictably defiant. But it was these small provocations that worried her most - the kind that could spiral out of control before anyone could intervene.
Her screen lit up with another alert. A Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force vessel was tracking suspicious movement …

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 …

The Weight of Mercy

hamed Jan. 22, 2025, 8:51 p.m.

The news broke on a quiet Tuesday morning. President Trump, in his final hours in office, had issued a sweeping pardon—over 1,500 names, a list that included fraudsters, lobbyists, and, most controversially, hundreds of January 6 Capitol rioters. The country erupted in a cacophony of outrage and relief, depending on which side of the divide you stood.

In a small town in Ohio, Mark Harris sat on his couch, staring at the TV. His face was pale, his hands trembling as the news anchor read the list of names. When he heard his own, he felt a surge of emotions—relief, guilt, and a gnawing unease. He had been one of the rioters, caught up in the frenzy of that day, swept along by the crowd and the promises of something greater. He had spent months in legal limbo, his life on hold, his family fractured. Now, he was free. But …