Flash Stories

Salt Flowers

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:23 p.m.

Jin-ah stood alone on the beach as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in hues of pink and orange. Her hands, weathered by years of toil, moved with practiced grace, sweeping grains of salt into delicate patterns on the sand. Each swirl, each petal, was a prayer. A promise.

It had been seven years since Minho, her lover, disappeared. The sea had claimed him—or so the villagers whispered, though no body had ever been found. Every year, on the anniversary of his disappearance, Jin-ah returned to this beach, to the place where they had first met, to the place where their love had blossomed like the delicate flowers in the fields of salt. She believed that the salt patterns, the ones she had crafted with hands full of memories, would guide his spirit back to her.

Salt flowers. The elders spoke of them in hushed tones—of how …

The Last Lotus

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:21 p.m.

Niloofar stood in the doorway of her family’s antique shop, gazing at the delicate relics that had been passed down through generations. Each item had a story, each crack and tarnish a memory from a time long gone. The intricate Persian carpets, the gilded tea sets, the porcelain figurines—they were the essence of her family, the heart of her life. And yet, it was all now for sale.

Her fingers brushed the edge of a jade necklace that had belonged to her grandmother, the last piece of her inheritance. The weight of it, the history, felt too heavy for her to hold any longer. But the truth was, she had no choice.

Tariq, the man she loved, lay in a hospital bed, his body frail and ravaged by a rare illness. The doctors had been clear—without the treatment, he wouldn’t make it. And the money, the vast fortune she had …

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, …

The Silk Painter

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 6:04 p.m.

Lian’s hands trembled as she dipped the brush into the ink. The delicate fibers of the silk stretched under her fingertips, responding to her touch like a living thing. She had spent decades perfecting her craft, painting portraits of the noble and the common alike, capturing the essence of those who sat before her. But this one, this portrait of Mei, was unlike any she had ever created.

Mei, her lover. The woman who had walked into Lian's life like a breeze, soft and unexpected, yet entirely unforgettable. Their love was an unspoken bond, a delicate thread that wove through the very fabric of their days. Yet, as Lian’s hands grew slower and her sight began to blur, she feared that the thread would unravel before she could capture Mei’s face for eternity.

The first time her vision began to falter, it had been so slight she thought it was …

The Roc’s Egg

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:55 p.m.

Dr. Amir Rahimi had seen many things in his years of studying climate change, but nothing had prepared him for the discovery that lay beneath the shifting sands of the Persian Gulf coast.

It was the dry season, the sun hanging low in the sky like a burning coin. His research team had been out on a routine survey, mapping the effects of coastal erosion, when one of the workers, Morteza, had spotted something strange protruding from the earth. It looked like a massive rock—smooth, rounded, and impossibly large.

Amir knelt down, his heart quickening as he ran his hand over the surface. The fossilized shell was cold and textured, unlike any geological formation he had ever encountered. He dusted off the sand, revealing more of its shape, his mind racing with the possibilities.

“This can’t be real,” Morteza muttered, his eyes wide.

The others gathered around, but Amir was …

Kay Khosrow's Mirror

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:50 p.m.

The antique shop sat on a forgotten corner of Tehran, sandwiched between a shuttered bakery and a mechanic’s garage. Its owner, Arman, liked it that way. He preferred customers who wandered in by accident, drawn by the faded sign that read “Treasures of Yesterday.”

On a rainy Tuesday evening, as he was locking up, a man in a black coat appeared out of nowhere. He carried a cloth-wrapped bundle under his arm. His face was obscured by the brim of his hat, but his voice was sharp.

“I was told you might appreciate rare things,” the man said, placing the bundle on the counter.

Arman hesitated. Over the years, he’d seen enough fakes to know that rare things usually came with strings. But something about the man—his urgency, or perhaps the way his hand trembled as he unwrapped the object—kept him silent.

The cloth fell away, revealing a goblet-like object …

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 …

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 …

The White Div's Daughter

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:44 p.m.

The cavern shimmered with frost, each crystal a fragile web of light. Shirin sat at the mouth of the cave, her pale hair spilling like moonlight down her back, her eyes fixed on the human camp far below. Smoke curled from their fires, faint against the starlit sky.

Her father’s voice boomed behind her, shaking the earth. “You’ve been staring at them again.”

Shirin didn’t flinch. “They’re fascinating,” she said softly, her voice like the wind threading through winter trees.

The White Div stepped into the moonlight, his massive frame cloaked in a mantle of snow and shadows. His eyes, as cold as glaciers, narrowed. “They are dangerous.”

“Perhaps,” Shirin replied, not looking away. “But they are also brave.”

“Bravery is the disguise of weakness,” her father growled. “Do not let their fires fool you. They will snuff out your light if you draw too close.”

Shirin said nothing, but …

The Forgotten Gate

hamed Jan. 19, 2025, 5:41 p.m.

Dr. Parisa Shirazi stood in the biting wind, staring at the jagged ruin jutting out of the barren mountainside. The gray stones, weathered by centuries, bore intricate carvings—a language she didn’t recognize, yet somehow felt she had always known.

“It’s just a wall,” her assistant Navid muttered, kicking at a loose rock. “An old fort, maybe.”

Parisa shook her head, brushing dirt off one of the carvings with trembling hands. The swirling patterns were unmistakable. “This isn’t just a wall,” she whispered. “It’s the wall.”

Navid frowned. “You can’t mean—”

“Yes. Alexander’s Wall.” Her voice was reverent. “The barrier that held back Gog and Magog.”

The legend had been a fascination of hers since childhood: a gate forged by the Great Alexander to imprison ancient forces of chaos. It was dismissed as myth by scholars, but the unearthed carvings told a different story.

Parisa traced a line of script with …