Flash Stories

Two Tables

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:52 p.m.

Sarah gripped her coffee mug, its warmth failing to steady her trembling hands. Across the chrome-and-glass conference table, three executives in tailored suits studied her resume with practiced indifference.

"Your requested salary seems... ambitious," the HR director said, tapping her manicured nail against the paper.

Two floors down and twelve hours earlier, Sarah had cleaned these same conference rooms, emptying waste bins and wiping fingerprints from glass surfaces. The cleaning company had slashed their hours again, spreading the same work across fewer people. When she'd mentioned the union contract their parents' generation had won—back when half the cleaning staff were members—her supervisor had laughed.

"There are twenty people who'd take your spot tomorrow," he'd said. "That's just how it is now."

In the top-floor conference room across town, Sarah's brother Michael leaned back in his ergonomic chair, letting the tension build. He knew three other tech firms were hunting for …

The Last Shift

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:46 p.m.

Lena wiped the sweat from her brow as she worked the assembly line. The familiar hum of machines filled the factory floor, a sound she had grown accustomed to over the years. She had been here for almost a decade, assembling parts for the latest consumer electronics. The work wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills. She had a steady routine—wake up early, put in her hours, and go home. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep her small family going.

Her coworker, Greg, was a different story. He had been with her from the beginning, both of them starting as apprentices when the factory was first built. But Greg wasn’t like Lena. He had always been more tech-savvy, always tinkering with things in his spare time. He had taken night classes in automation and robotics, working hard to learn the skills that kept him one step …

The Middle Ground

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:41 p.m.

Jared had always been a mechanic, the kind of guy who could fix anything with a wrench and some duct tape. He'd spent the last decade building his small but steady business, a workshop tucked away in a neighborhood that had started to lose its charm. Cars, trucks, motorcycles—he fixed them all. The work wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills and kept food on the table for his wife and two kids.

These days, however, things felt different. The economy was shifting, and the jobs in the middle—like his—were slipping away. Every day, Jared saw more and more shiny electric vehicles on the road, and fewer of the old trucks that used to line his garage. It wasn’t that his skills were outdated—far from it—but the world was changing faster than he could keep up.

A few weeks ago, a big dealership offered him a contract to become a …

The Divide in the Classroom

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:39 p.m.

Maria sat at the back of the crowded classroom, her textbooks worn and barely holding together. The fluorescent lights flickered above her, and the hum of the old air conditioning did little to mask the chatter from her classmates. The community college she attended felt like a far cry from the prestigious universities her friends from high school had gone on to. She had taken the public bus to class again today, the trip stretching across hours as she squeezed into the cramped seats, her backpack heavy with assignments she could barely afford to complete.

She tugged her sweater tighter around her shoulders, trying to focus on the professor’s lecture, but her mind wandered to the other things—the bills her mother still hadn’t paid, the second-hand laptop that crashed every time she tried to write a paper, the part-time job she worked to scrape by. She hadn’t wanted to go …

The Divide

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:37 p.m.

Lena had always lived with the hum of luxury in the background, like a soft, unspoken promise that her life would be smooth. Her father’s law firm sat at the top of the city’s skyline, a glittering tower she had grown up gazing at from her bedroom window. She’d never wanted for anything—private tutors, family vacations to Paris, summer internships lined up before she even knew what the word meant.

Today, she was staring at her reflection in a sleek glass door of a downtown office building, checking her makeup one last time. The job interview was for a junior position at one of the country’s top consulting firms. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a stepping stone. The kind of thing that would look impressive on her resume, the kind of thing that would keep her on the path that had already been paved for her.

Across town, Malik …

The Waiting Room

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:35 p.m.

Javier’s phone buzzed again. Another rejection email. His thumb hovered over the screen, fingers aching from scrolling through countless job listings that led nowhere. The words “thank you for your application” had started to blur together. They all seemed to echo the same hollow message—*we regret to inform you*.

He stared out of the small apartment window, watching the city bustle below. The streets were crowded with people rushing to somewhere, to anything that promised a future. He should be out there, too. At twenty-three, he should have been just starting his career, climbing up that invisible ladder. But instead, he sat in front of his computer every day, applying to anything that didn’t require five years of experience, which, ironically, most jobs seemed to demand.

“Javi, you’ve been on that thing for hours. Get some rest,” his sister, Rosa, called from the kitchen.

He didn’t move. …

Shifting Frontlines

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:33 p.m.

Captain Elena Rojas stood on the edge of the crumbling seawall, her boots coated in salt spray. The Atlantic was rising faster than their projections, swallowing what used to be prime farmland. Behind her, the remains of Hampton Base stretched like a ghost town—abandoned barracks, rusting radar towers, and hastily packed-up equipment.

She flipped through the latest report from Central Command. It wasn’t about enemy missiles or covert operations. It was about freshwater shortages and migration patterns, about destabilized regions where floods and droughts had upended lives and governments alike. The language had changed over the years. “Combat zones” were now “climate corridors,” and “defense strategies” focused on food security and rebuilding infrastructure.

“You ready for this?” came a voice behind her.

It was Sergeant Webb, her second-in-command. He pointed toward a cluster of civilians arriving on foot—a mix of families, young men, and elders carrying their …

The Flood Line

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:30 p.m.

Mara stood in her front yard, staring at the faint watermarks etched into the side of her house like scars. The last flood had reached higher than ever before, swallowing the porch and leaving behind a film of mud and despair. She had scrubbed for days, but the stains refused to fade.

The insurance renewal notice sat crumpled in her pocket. The premium had tripled this year.

“It’s the risk,” the agent had said over the phone, his tone clinical. “Your area is now classified as a high-risk flood zone.”

“But I’ve lived here my whole life,” Mara had argued. “We’ve never had this many floods before.”

The agent sighed. “That’s just the reality now.”

Reality. Mara’s reality was a small, creaky house passed down from her grandparents, nestled in a neighborhood that had always been safe. Until it wasn’t.

Her neighbors were leaving one by one, their windows boarded …

The Price of Paper

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:26 p.m.

Sophia stared at the invoice on her desk, her hands trembling. The numbers didn’t add up. They never did these days.

For fifteen years, she had run her small stationery shop, *Pen & Page*, in the heart of her hometown. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was hers. She knew her customers by name, their favorite notebooks, the pens they trusted for love letters and grocery lists.

Then came the trade war.

The tariffs started small, barely a ripple at first. But now, everything she sold—premium journals from Italy, fountain pens from Japan, handmade papers from South Korea—was suffocating under layers of new fees. Her shelves, once lined with vibrant imports, now stood half-empty.

The bell above the door jingled. Mr. Alvarez walked in, a smile softening the lines on his face. He always bought the same leather-bound journal every three months, a treat for himself in …

The Line in the Sand

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:23 p.m.

Leila sat at her father’s kitchen table, the faint smell of tobacco clinging to the curtains. The radio hummed with angry voices, a populist politician railing against “elitist climate agendas.” Her father muttered in agreement as he stirred his tea.

“You know they want to take our jobs,” he said without looking at her. “Shut down the factories, ruin what little we’ve got left.”

Leila’s chest tightened. “That’s not true, Baba. The factories could transition to clean energy—there’s funding for that.”

Her father scoffed. “You’ve been reading too many of those articles again. Climate action is just a way for the rich to keep us poor.”

It wasn’t the first time they’d had this argument, but tonight felt heavier. Leila had been invited to speak at a town hall meeting tomorrow, to represent a grassroots climate initiative. She was proud of the work they were doing—installing …