Flash Stories

The Last Archive

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:41 p.m.

Aria's fingers itched for her confiscated tablet. Its smooth surface had been her world—an endless stream of data, escape, and connection. Now, it was just an empty memory, like the rest of the tech outlawed after The Blackout.

She sat on the porch of her grandparents' weathered farmhouse, staring at the mountains that framed their tiny village. Her grandmother, Laleh, hummed an old tune while threading a needle, her gnarled hands working with precision. Aria had never felt more out of place.

“This isn’t living,” Aria muttered under her breath.

“What did you say, child?” Laleh’s sharp voice cut through the quiet.

“Nothing,” Aria said, louder this time. She sank deeper into the wooden chair, the creak of its joints filling the awkward silence.

Laleh set down her sewing and motioned to Aria. “Come here.”

Aria hesitated but shuffled over. Laleh placed a thick, dusty book on the table between …

The Interview

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:40 p.m.

Hadi straightened his tie in the shattered mirror shard hanging in his bedroom. The graduation photo on his desk mocked him, the cap tilted proudly, the grin wide. "Top of your class," his professor had said. "A bright future ahead." A future that had become a parade of rejection emails, unpaid internships, and “better luck next time.”

The sun was already scorching the streets of Dehong as he walked to yet another interview. His shoes, soles thinning, slapped against the cracked pavement. This one was at a warehouse—manual labor, no questions asked. It wasn’t what he'd spent four years studying finance for, but his mother’s hollow cheeks and the unpaid rent had drowned his pride.

“Next!” barked the foreman, a burly man with oil-streaked hands.

Hadi stepped forward, clutching his tattered résumé. The foreman glanced at it and laughed, the sound like gravel in his throat. “University, huh? This ain’t …

Zero to One

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:38 p.m.

"They're offering two billion," Maya said, sliding the tablet across the conference table. "For exclusive rights to the empathy algorithm."

Raj, their founder and CEO, didn't even look at the numbers. He kept staring at their prototype's latest results: an AI that could detect human emotional distress with unprecedented accuracy. Perfect for mental health support—or for manipulating consumers, depending on who controlled it.

"Atlas Corp already has three ethics violations pending," Sarah, their lead developer, pointed out. Her coffee had gone cold hours ago, like most nights lately. "But they're the only ones with the infrastructure to scale this."

The office window offered a view of San Francisco's AI District, where new startups sprouted daily between the towering headquarters of tech giants. Six months ago, Empathica had been just four people in a garage. Now they were sitting on what everyone called "the holy grail of emotional AI."

Raj's phone …

Numbers Don't Lie

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:36 p.m.

Numbers Don't Lie

Adnan's screens flickered with red numbers as the lira fell another twelve percent. His trading desk at First Capital Bank, usually bustling with energy, had grown eerily quiet. Everyone was watching their own cascading displays, running their own calculations, making their own choices.

His phone buzzed: a message from Zhang at Goldman. "Position still open. Window closing. Decision needed within hour."

Adnan's fingers hovered over his keyboard. The trade was perfectly legal—a massive short position against his own country's currency. He'd make enough to buy his parents a house in London, get his sister into Harvard. The money would be safely in dollars before the worst hit.

But he thought of his father's small textile factory, of the workers who'd been there since Adnan was a boy. They'd be the ones who'd suffer when the currency collapsed. Their savings would evaporate, their jobs would vanish as imported …

Seeds of Tomorrow

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:34 p.m.

Maya's boots crunched over sun-bleached plastic as her team crested another dune. Ten years of expeditions, and all they'd found were the bones of cities and endless stretches of waste. The world had become a museum of humanity's mistakes.

"Two hours of oxygen left," Carter warned through the comm. Even with their advanced filters, the air outside remained toxic—another gift from their ancestors' carbon addiction.

That's when Zara screamed.

Through her goggles, Maya saw it: a shimmer of impossible green in the valley below. Not the sickly artificial green of the algae farms, but real, living plants.

"It's not on any maps," Carter whispered, checking his tablet.

They descended carefully. The valley's walls had hidden it from satellite imaging, creating a microclimate that somehow survived the Great Die-Off. Maya's hands trembled as she took readings. The air here was different—cleaner.

Inside a cave at the valley's edge, they found the …

Smoke Signals

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:33 p.m.

The evacuation order came at 3 AM, but Sarah Henderson had been awake since midnight, watching the orange glow creep closer to Pine Valley. Twenty years in California had taught her to read the signs: the shifting winds, the ash coating her windshield, the nervous rustling of animals in the canyon.

"The Martinez family still hasn't left," her husband Mark said, lowering his binoculars. From their hillside home, they could see most of their neighbors loading cars and securing homes.

"Rosa won't leave without her mother's ashes," Sarah replied. "And she can't find them."

What Sarah didn't say was that she'd seen Rosa's teenage son, Miguel, hiding something in the old Peterson shed last week. The same shed where their neighbor, Mr. Peterson, had stored his "collection" before his death last spring. Everyone knew he'd been a hoarder, but nobody knew what he'd hoarded.

The fire sirens wailed closer. Sarah …

Seams of Power

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:31 p.m.

Isabella Martinez slammed her sketchbook shut as her assistant rushed in with the news. "Did you hear? The First Lady-elect chose Dominique for the inauguration gown."

Three months of sketches, sleepless nights, and carefully orchestrated "chance" meetings at charity events—all wasted. Isabella glanced at the red silk draped on her mannequin, a dress that would now never see the lights of the National Mall.

Her phone buzzed: a message from Sophie Chen at Vogue. "Need comment re: Dominique announcement. Deadline 1 hour."

Isabella's fingers hovered over the keyboard. She had dirt on Dominique—everyone did. The "ethically sourced" fabrics that actually came from sweatshops, the designs suspiciously similar to young indie creators. One phone call to the right blogger...

But then she remembered last year's Designers Guild dinner. Dominique had pulled her aside after Isabella's divorce hit Page Six. "The vultures are circling," she'd warned. "Watch your back." That night, three …

The Red Button

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:29 p.m.

President-elect Chen massaged her temples as she stared at the secure phone on her desk. Three hours ago, she'd accepted what she thought would be a routine congratulatory call from the Premier of the Republic of Xiang. Now, her transition team was in chaos.

"Madam President-elect," her chief advisor, James, burst into the room waving his tablet. "It's all over the networks. The Xiangese are claiming you agreed to recognize their claim over the Western Islands."

Chen's stomach dropped. "That's not what I said. When he mentioned the territorial waters, I only said we'd be open to continued dialogue—"

"They're running with it," James interrupted, turning his tablet to show her the headlines. "Our allies in the region are demanding clarification. The Maritime Coalition is threatening to suspend trade talks."

She remembered the Premier's careful words, how he'd casually mentioned "mutual understanding of sovereign waters" between pleasantries about future cooperation. …

The Art of Choosing

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:23 p.m.

Sarah's mother always said grace before dinner, even when Sarah stopped bowing her head. Her father always asked about her grades, even when she'd long graduated. Her brother always made the same jokes about her being single, even when they stopped being funny years ago.

That Thursday evening, like every Thursday for the past decade, she sat at Luna's cramped kitchen table instead of her family's formal dining room. Luna handed her a steaming mug of chai, made exactly how Sarah liked it—more cardamom, less sugar.

"Rough day?" Luna asked, noticing Sarah's wrinkled blazer and untamed hair.

"Mom called again. Asked when I'm going to 'settle down' and 'give her grandchildren.'" Sarah wrapped her hands around the warm mug. "Said I'm wasting my life running an art gallery."

"Ah yes, how dare you follow your passion and become successful?" Luna rolled her eyes, pulling out leftover lasagna from her fridge—Sarah's …

The Weight of Days

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 5:11 p.m.

Marcus stared at his reflection in the coffee shop window, barely recognizing the man looking back at him. Three months unemployed had left dark circles under his eyes and a permanent slouch in his shoulders. His severance pay was running thin, and each rejected application felt like another brick added to the weight he carried.

He pushed open the door, the bell's cheerful tingle a mockery of his mood. All he wanted was the cheapest coffee they had—a small luxury he still allowed himself.

"Marcus? Marcus Chen, is that you?"

The voice cut through the coffee shop's ambient chatter. Marcus turned to find David Torres, his old college roommate, rising from a corner table. They hadn't spoken in what—five, six years?

David's smile was exactly as Marcus remembered it: wide, genuine, brightening his entire face. "Man, what are the odds? Sit with me!"

Before Marcus could make an excuse, David …