Flash Stories

Wine Without Grapes

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:51 p.m.

Farid had been sober for five years, but the echo of his past still reverberated in every room he entered. The smell of whiskey on a cool evening, the warmth of a glass pressed against his lips, the rush of forgetting—it haunted him in moments of stillness. He had learned to replace the craving with quiet walks, long books, and the slow rebuilding of his life. But there were nights, like this one, when the world felt hollow, and the pull of that old, comforting numbness felt irresistible.

Tonight, he found himself wandering through a small bookstore in the city’s old quarter, a place where the walls smelled of dust and old paper. He wasn’t sure why he was there. He had come for nothing, but found something unexpected—a thin, weathered volume wedged between stacks of thick, unread tomes. The title was simple: The Wine of Love.

Curious, he flipped …

The Therapist's Mirror

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:50 p.m.

Dr. Lila Hart sat quietly in her office, staring at the reflection in the mirror hanging across from her desk. It had been years since she'd hung it there, a simple antique piece with a wooden frame. But lately, it had taken on a new significance, a silent witness to the strange shifts in her practice. A mirror, she realized, could do more than reflect—it could reveal.

She had recently come across a worn copy of Attar’s Conference of the Birds—the ancient Persian poem about the journey of birds seeking their king, Simorgh. The more she read, the more she saw parallels between the journey of the birds and the struggles of her patients. Each one seemed to mirror a different stage of the pilgrimage, though they weren’t aware of it. And perhaps, like the birds, they too were searching for something they couldn’t name.

Her latest patient, Daniel, sat …

Subway Sama

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:47 p.m.

Eli sat on the worn, cracked floor of the 2 train platform, his guitar resting in his lap. The bustle of New York City echoed around him—the rush of commuters, the screeching trains, the clattering footsteps. He strummed his chords with the rhythm of his thoughts, searching for the right tune, the one that would draw a few extra dollars from the crowd. He didn’t mind. Playing music in the subway was a means to an end—his dream was to play for crowds, for real stages. But for now, this sufficed.

A man in a long, dusty coat shuffled into view, his feet dragging like the weight of his years was too much to bear. His eyes, however, were sharp—like the glint of sunlight on a forgotten shard of glass. He stopped in front of Eli, not bothering to throw in any change, just staring at him intently.

Eli raised …

The Instagram Rumi

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:45 p.m.

Layla’s feed was everything: perfectly curated photos of sunsets, lattes, and glossy flat lays of her latest book finds. She had built a small empire around her “self-love” brand, offering advice on everything from skincare to soul-searching. But after one particularly grueling day of posting, she found herself at a crossroads. The likes, the comments—they were all so… hollow. She craved something deeper, but she didn’t know where to begin.

That’s when she stumbled upon a Rumi quote in her inbox. It came from an unfamiliar account—@Rumi_Whispers.

"You were born with wings, why prefer to crawl through life?"

She wasn’t a spiritual guru, but there was something about the simplicity and depth of it that felt like a sign. Maybe she could post it. Maybe this was the direction she had been subconsciously searching for.

She shared the quote to her story, paired with a soft sunset filter. She tagged …

Digital Whirling

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:43 p.m.

Maya had always been driven by the art of immersion. As a VR designer in Silicon Valley, she prided herself on creating worlds that felt alive, that felt real. Her latest project, however, was different. It wasn't just about realism—it was about capturing something sacred.

For months, she had been working on a virtual reality experience that would allow users to step into the center of a whirling dervish ceremony. The idea came to her during a trip to Istanbul, where she had witnessed the mesmerizing dance of the dervishes. The way they spun, their robes flowing like celestial bodies in motion, their faces serene, lost in an inner peace that seemed to defy time and space—it was as if the dance wasn’t just a movement, but a connection to the divine.

"I can do this," she told herself, sitting in her San Francisco studio late one night, surrounded by …

The Coffee Shop Mystic

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:40 p.m.

Samir had lived in Silicon Valley long enough to know the routine. Get up, code, debug, deploy, repeat. His life had become a series of neatly ordered lines of code, each day blending into the next. His routine was simple: wake up, grab a latte from the corner coffee shop, and head to the office to face the ever-increasing demands of the tech world.

But lately, there was something about the barista, Kian, that made Samir pause. Kian was always quiet, a man of few words, but his presence had a calmness that seemed to seep into the very air of the shop. His movements were fluid, precise, as if each action was a prayer or meditation. Samir often found himself watching, intrigued by the way Kian would carefully grind the beans, time the pour, and smile at the steam rising from the cup as if he were witnessing something …

Mirror Maker's Daughter

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:36 p.m.

In the quiet town of Kota Bharu, beneath the shade of ancient trees and the hum of the marketplace, lived a craftswoman named Amirah. She was known for her skill in creating mirrors—silvered glass set in ornate wooden frames—but these were no ordinary mirrors. They held a secret, passed down through generations of women in her family, a secret that Amirah was only beginning to understand.

Her grandmother, an old woman with silver hair and eyes that seemed to hold a thousand stories, had taught her the craft when she was young. “A mirror,” her grandmother would say, “is not just a reflection. It holds memories, and in the right hands, it can bring them back.”

As a child, Amirah thought her grandmother's words were nothing more than a metaphor for the delicate art of mirror-making. But on the night of her twenty-first birthday, something changed. A visitor arrived in …

The Last Incense

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:35 p.m.

In the heart of Chiang Mai, where the mist clings to the mountains and the golden spires of temples gleam against the sunrise, there lived an incense maker named Siriporn. Her shop, nestled at the edge of the old city, was filled with the rich scent of sandalwood, jasmine, and rare spices from across the land. Siriporn was known far and wide for creating incense so powerful that each wisp could stir memories long buried in the heart, transporting the soul to moments lost in time.

But there was one scent, a fragrance she had never dared to craft—until now.

For years, Siriporn had been in love with Panya, a scholar who would visit her shop daily, breathing in the delicate fragrances and sharing quiet conversations about philosophy, nature, and the beauty of life. His eyes were soft like the morning mist, and his voice was like a melody she …

Pearls of the Moon

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:30 p.m.

Amihan had always been drawn to the sea. Since childhood, the salty air and the endless blue had whispered to her in ways that words could not explain. Her father was a pearl diver, his weathered hands skilled at plucking the treasures from the deep, but it was her mother who had taught her the secret of the sea's magic—the delicate balance between what the ocean could give and what it could take.

When her lover, Bayani, was swept away by the storm, she found herself at the shore every night, staring at the horizon where the moonlight kissed the waves. She had been unable to breathe properly without him beside her, and every waking moment felt hollow, like a pearl with its core missing.

One night, as the moon hung low in the sky, she felt the sea stir, the ripples weaving an ancient song. Beneath the water, something …

The Red Thread Merchant

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:28 p.m.

Jin Mei sat in her office, the soft hum of city life seeping through the cracked window. The walls were lined with shelves of old books, trinkets from her travels, and a few fading red silk ribbons. She was known in the city as the “Red Thread Merchant,” a modern matchmaker who could see the threads of fate that bound people together. Red threads—ancient, unbreakable, invisible to all but her—wove through the fabric of life, tying souls to one another. She could follow these threads, find their knots, and untangle the mess of love and destiny that kept people apart.

Her clients came to her with their hopes, desires, and broken hearts, seeking guidance. Jin Mei never failed to find the right person for them. No matter how complicated or tangled the threads seemed, she always knew how to untie them. But Jin Mei herself, despite being a master of …