Flash Stories

The Last Scoop

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:26 p.m.

Ellie Harris leaned against the cold glass of her office window, staring at the city below, a sea of moving lights and fleeting faces. The newsroom behind her buzzed with the usual chaos, the hum of phones, the tapping of keyboards, and the quiet tension of deadlines looming. But today, something felt different. Something was breaking.

Her editor’s voice crackled through the intercom. “Ellie, we need that piece by five. It’s a big one. Our readers are eating it up.”

Ellie swallowed hard, her fingers resting on the keyboard without moving. The story was ready, but there was a problem—she knew the facts didn’t quite add up. She’d pieced together a report about a major tech company’s recent scandal, but her sources were shaky, their credibility questionable. The company had deep pockets, and their PR team was already spinning their narrative in the press. Ellie had a choice: to publish …

The Trader's Gambit

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:24 p.m.

The charts glowed red on Alan’s multiple monitors, an unbroken sea of collapsing currencies. Headlines screamed chaos: “Emerging Market Meltdown,” “Hyperinflation Devours South America,” “African Nations Abandon Fiat.”

Alan leaned back in his chair, the taste of stale coffee bitter on his tongue. He’d seen crashes before, but this was different. It wasn’t just a country or two—it was a global unraveling. Nations pegged to the dollar were unpegging, digital reserves were being frozen, and central banks were scrambling to stay afloat.

His trading terminal pinged: another alert. The Turkish lira had just dropped 50% against the dollar overnight. He tapped the keyboard, glancing at the data stream.

“Turkey’s gone,” he muttered, shaking his head.

The door to his apartment creaked open, and his wife, Lena, peeked in. “You’ve been at this all night. Any wins?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Wins? Not exactly. Profits, sure—but at what cost? He’d shorted …

The Duchess in Room 12

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:22 p.m.

The hospital buzzed with an energy that hadn’t been felt in years. Fresh flowers lined the front desk, the floors gleamed from an extra polish, and the faint smell of disinfectant mingled with the scent of anticipation.

Kate Middleton’s visit was all anyone could talk about. Staff whispered in the corridors, patients smoothed their hair in their beds, and even the normally stoic Dr. Rees had put on a tie.

In Room 12, Maria adjusted her oxygen tube nervously. The elderly woman had been battling a stubborn case of pneumonia, and while the nurses promised her she didn’t have to say anything, the thought of meeting a duchess made her palms sweat.

Outside, Kate moved through the ward with her signature grace, but up close, she was different. She crouched to speak to a little boy in a wheelchair, her face lit with genuine warmth as he showed her his …

The Final Stretch

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:20 p.m.

The locker room was silent, save for the rhythmic hum of fluorescent lights. Emma sat on the bench, staring at her running shoes, their neon laces glowing faintly under the harsh light. The weight on her chest felt heavier than her legs after a grueling sprint.

Outside, the stadium roared—thousands of voices chanting her name. Emma. Emma. Emma.

She closed her eyes, trying to block out the noise. Tomorrow’s headline was already written: “Emma Carter: America’s Golden Girl.” The pressure pressed down like a vice. Everyone expected her to win, to shatter records, to be perfect.

“Five minutes,” a voice called from the doorway.

Emma nodded without looking up. Her coach had stopped giving pep talks—she didn’t need them. Or so everyone thought.

Her phone buzzed on the bench. A text from her mom: “You’ve got this, sweetheart. Make us proud.”

She wanted to scream. To throw the phone against …

After the Storm

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:18 p.m.

The morning after the storm, the Great Smoky Mountains stood shrouded in a ghostly mist, as if mourning the devastation below. Entire trees lay uprooted, power lines tangled like webs, and the small town of Cedar Hollow, nestled in a valley, was barely recognizable.

Clara stood in what used to be her front yard, holding a shattered photo frame. The glass was gone, but the picture—a faded snapshot of her late husband holding their infant son—remained intact. She clutched it to her chest, her breath fogging in the cold mountain air.

“Clara!” a voice called. She turned to see Jake, the local mechanic, jogging up the muddy road. His jeans were soaked, and his hands were caked with dirt.

“We’re meeting at the church,” he said. “Figured it’s the best place to coordinate.”

Clara nodded. “I’ll be there soon.”

By noon, nearly the entire town had gathered at the church, …

The Boardroom Mirror

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:16 p.m.

“Next on the agenda,” Marcus said, tapping his pen against the glossy table. “The DEI program.”

The room fell silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning. Amelia watched as her colleagues exchanged loaded glances, their expressions a blend of impatience and resistance. She could already hear the undercurrent of what they wouldn’t say out loud: Here we go again.

She cleared her throat. “As you all know, the Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion initiative is designed to address long-standing disparities within our workforce and—”

“Cost us millions,” interrupted Charles, the CFO, his voice dripping with irritation. “Look, Amelia, no one’s saying diversity isn’t important, but these mandatory trainings and hiring quotas are alienating our top performers.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Amelia’s hand tightened around her coffee cup.

“This isn’t about quotas,” she said, her voice steady but firm. “It’s about creating a workplace where everyone—regardless …

The Road to Somewhere

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:12 p.m.

The distant pop of gunfire echoed through the humid night. Lina clutched her son tighter, his small frame trembling against her chest. “Maman, I’m scared,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of their hurried footsteps.

“I know, bébé,” she said, her own fear buried beneath layers of practiced calm. “We just have to keep moving.”

Behind them, Port-au-Prince burned. The gang wars had turned their neighborhood into a battlefield, and the police—the few who hadn’t fled—were powerless. Two nights ago, they had watched their neighbor’s house go up in flames, the screams inside silenced too quickly. Lina knew their turn was next.

Now, they were on the road, along with hundreds of others, shadows moving through the darkened countryside. Her husband, Marcel, walked ahead, carrying a tattered bag with the last of their belongings: a change of clothes for each of them, a few cans of food, …

The Last Shipment

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:09 p.m.

Aria leaned against the counter of her empty shop, staring at the shelves that once overflowed with imported teas and spices. The air was thick with the scent of cinnamon—a reminder of better days. Outside, the neon sign flickered weakly: “Global Goods Market – Est. 2047.”

She traced the chipped edge of her register, her thoughts spiraling as the latest tariff announcement replayed in her mind. The government called it a "necessary step" to protect local industries, but for Aria, it felt like a death sentence.

“Thirty percent,” she muttered, shaking her head. Import costs had doubled overnight, and her loyal customers, already stretched thin, couldn’t stomach the price hikes.

The bell above the door jingled, startling her. A man in a faded coat shuffled in, his face shadowed by the dim light.

“Are you still selling the Darjeeling?” he asked, his voice hesitant.

Aria smiled faintly. “You’re in luck. …

Tongue of the Earth

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:06 p.m.

The policeman’s hand hovered near his holster. “I said, step back.”

Jahan stood his ground, his breath ragged but steady. The midday sun bore down on the cracked pavement between them, turning the air into a furnace. Around them, passersby slowed but kept their distance, their eyes darting between the officer’s barked orders and Jahan’s clenched fists.

“I didn’t do anything,” Jahan said, his accent faint but undeniable. The officer’s gaze narrowed, dissecting his words as if searching for hidden defiance.

“You’re acting suspicious. Let me see some ID.”

“I was walking home. That’s not a crime.”

“It is if I say it is.”

The words struck like a lash, and Jahan felt something primal stir within him—an anger fed by years of stares, whispered insults, and the weight of being out of place. He reached into his pocket slowly, but the officer’s hand twitched toward his gun.

“Easy!” the …

The Miracle of 3:42 AM

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:03 p.m.

Nadia stared at the beeping monitor in the ER, her hand trembling against her abdomen. "Pregnant?" she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of disbelief. "That’s impossible. I’m… I can’t…"

The doctor adjusted his glasses, his expression softening. "I understand this is a shock. But you’re in labor, Ms. Farah. We need to move quickly."

Her mind spun. For years, she had tried. The clinics, the tears, the endless tests all pointed to one unyielding conclusion: infertility. She had mourned the children she would never have, buried that dream deep inside her. And now, after all this time, here she was, caught in a whirlwind of chaos and pain, about to meet a child she never knew existed.

"How did I not know?" she gasped, gripping the side of the gurney as another contraction rippled through her body. The nurse, a kind-faced woman, squeezed her shoulder. "Sometimes, life keeps …