Flash Stories
The Long Wait
hamed
Jan. 10, 2025, 5 p.m.
Emma scrolled through her phone, deleting photos of yet another failed relationship. Six years of dating apps, blind dates, and "promising" connections had left her with nothing but a collection of stories that made her friends cringe. At thirty-four, she was beginning to wonder if her standards were too high, or if true love was just a myth invented by romance novelists.
The invitation to her fifteen-year high school reunion sat unopened on her kitchen counter. She almost tossed it, but something made her pause. Maybe it was time to revisit the past before attempting another future.
The school gymnasium hadn't changed – same squeaky floors, same faded banners. As Emma nursed her punch, watching former cheerleaders compare wedding rings, a quiet voice behind her said, "Still hiding in the corner with the red punch, huh?"
She turned to find David Chen, who'd sat behind her in AP Literature. He still had those …
The Last Heir
hamed
Jan. 10, 2025, 4:55 p.m.
Sarah Blackwood traced her fingers over the family portraits lining the mahogany-paneled hallway. First went little Tommy, found frozen in the greenhouse despite the summer heat. Then Mother, discovered at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck – though Sarah couldn't remember those stairs ever creaking before. Father lasted longer, until the hunting accident that everyone called suspicious but couldn't prove otherwise.
At seventeen, she was the last Blackwood standing.
Mr. Peterson, their family lawyer since before her birth, had been a constant presence through each tragedy. He arranged the funerals, managed the estate, and became her legal guardian. His cold efficiency in handling their affairs had been a comfort, until she found the old photograph while cleaning out Mother's dresser.
It showed a younger Peterson at a garden party, his eyes fixed on her mother with an intensity that made Sarah's skin crawl. In every frame, he lurked in the …
The Last Sunset
hamed
Jan. 10, 2025, 4:44 p.m.
Marcus stood at his bedroom window, watching the Hollywood Hills shimmer in the distance. The "For Sale" contract lay unsigned on his desk, its presence a quiet reproach. After fifteen years, he couldn't bring himself to sign away his dream house without one last sunset from the infinity pool.
"Just one more day," he told his realtor over the phone. "The market's hot. What difference could it make?"
The Santa Ana winds picked up that evening, howling through the canyons like hungry wolves. Marcus watched uneasily as the palm trees thrashed against an orange sky. The news warned of extreme fire danger, but he'd heard it all before. This was LA; drama was in the city's DNA.
At 3 AM, his phone's emergency alert jerked him awake. The hills were ablaze, a savage wall of flames advancing faster than anyone had predicted. Marcus grabbed his go-bag and laptop, hands trembling as he rushed …
Five Floors Up
hamed
Jan. 9, 2025, 5:58 p.m.
Every morning at 8:15, Elena and James rode the elevator together. Five floors of exquisite torture, sharing space with a stranger who felt anything but strange.
She noticed how he always pressed the button for her floor first. He noticed how she hummed Beatles songs under her breath.
Neither noticed they both wrote about each other in their journals each night.
Today was different. The elevator lurched, stopped between floors. Emergency lights cast shadows that made hiding glances impossible.
"I'm James," he said finally.
"I know," she replied. "Your coffee cup says it every morning."
"You're Elena. Your packages at the front desk."
"We're terrible at this, aren't we?"
An hour passed. They shared a protein bar from her purse, swapped stories about terrible first dates.
When maintenance finally arrived, they had dinner plans.
As they stepped out, Elena smiled. "You know, I've been taking the stairs down every evening."
"Funny," James grinned. "I just moved in last month. My apartment's …
The Auto-Reply
hamed
Jan. 9, 2025, 5:56 p.m.
Dave set his out-of-office email to: "Currently hiking Mount Everest. No access to civilization. Back in two weeks."
He was actually binge-watching Netflix in his apartment.
His boss replied: "Amazing! My brother's leading an expedition there right now. I'll tell him to look for you!"
Dave panicked and updated his auto-reply: "Update: Had to turn back. Yeti attack. Very common this season."
His boss: "Fascinating! National Geographic is there filming a Yeti documentary. They'd love to interview you!"
New update: "False alarm. Wasn't a Yeti. Just a very angry goat."
Boss: "Even better! My sister runs a viral goat video channel. She's at base camp!"
Final desperate update: "Plot twist: I'm still at my desk. The Himalayas screensaver fooled me."
Boss's reply: "I know. I'm watching you through the office window. Nice pajamas. PS: None of my siblings exist. But your creativity deserves a raise."
The Followers
hamed
Jan. 9, 2025, 5:54 p.m.
Her Instagram following jumped from 651 to 100,000 overnight. Sarah stared at her phone, puzzled. Every new follower's profile picture showed the same thing: her sleeping face, photographed from above her bed.
Each account had posted a single photo – different angles of her bedroom, all timestamped from last night. In some, a dark figure stood in the corner, growing clearer with each post.
She scrolled frantically. The figure moved closer to her bed in each subsequent photo.
Her phone pinged: "Going viral! 250,000 followers!"
The latest photos showed the figure leaning over her sleeping form, its face a blur of static.
Another ping: "500,000 followers!"
Sarah looked up at her bedroom ceiling. The hidden camera she'd installed last week blinked steadily. But she hadn't installed it.
Her phone buzzed one final time: "Live stream starting in 3...2...1..."
The lights went out. In the darkness, thousands of tiny red recording lights blinked from every corner of her room.
The Last Text
hamed
Jan. 9, 2025, 5:51 p.m.
The text from Jessica came at 3:33 AM: "I know what you did."
Marcus nearly dropped his phone. The timestamp was impossible – Jessica had died two hours ago in what the police called a "tragic accident."
His phone buzzed again: "Did you think deleting our conversation would hide it? Technology never forgets, Marcus."
The screen flickered, showing their last chat. The one he'd deleted. The one where she threatened to expose his embezzlement scheme.
Another buzz: "I backed everything up to the cloud before you pushed me."
His security cameras triggered. On the feed, he saw Jessica's contact photo floating in his living room, pixelating, expanding, forming a shape.
The lights went out.
In the darkness, his phone illuminated a face – Jessica's, but wrong. Her features were composed of binary code, her eyes mere windows to endless scrolling text messages.
"Let me show you what digital revenge looks like."
His phone began to glow white-hot in his …
The Last Dance
hamed
Jan. 9, 2025, 5:50 p.m.
The dance studio mirrors multiplied my humiliation by infinity. There was my best friend Mia, teaching my fiancé Tom the wedding dance I'd asked her to choreograph for us. Their bodies moved in perfect sync – too perfect for a first lesson.
I watched from the doorway as he dipped her, their faces inches apart, both laughing. The same laugh they'd shared at dinner parties, at game nights, at every moment I'd dismissed as friendly.
My phone still held the video I'd planned to share on social media: "First dance lessons with my amazing bestie and future husband! #WeddingPrep"
Instead, I pressed record on their private performance and typed: "Last dance lessons with my ex-bestie and ex-fiancé. #PlotTwist"
The sound of my phone's shutter echo made them freeze mid-turn. Their faces paled as I hit 'post.'
"Consider this my RSVP," I said, turning away. "I won't be attending."
Behind me, the mirrors captured their desperate scramble …
The Invitation
hamed
Jan. 9, 2025, 5:48 p.m.
The wedding invitation arrived on a Tuesday. Emma's name was embossed in gold, right next to David's. My David. My ex-fiancé.
The note inside read: "I know this is awkward, but you're still my best friend. Please come."
I remembered the night Emma consoled me after David and I fought, how she insisted on taking him to get coffee and "talk sense into him." They never came back.
Three months later, here was their invitation. I picked up my fountain pen – the one David had given me for our engagement – and wrote my RSVP:
"Dear Emma, Thank you for the invitation. I've already booked the perfect gift: the complete text messages between you and David from the night you 'helped' us. Your other guests will love the dramatic reading I've planned for my toast. Best wishes, Sarah."
My phone rang within minutes. The wedding was suddenly postponed. Indefinitely.
The Birthday Card
hamed
Jan. 9, 2025, 5:30 p.m.
The birthday card arrived three months late, postmarked from Paris. Rachel's hands trembled as she recognized Lisa's looping handwriting – the same handwriting that had signed witness statements in the fraud investigation that had cost Rachel her company.
Inside was a single line: "I never meant to hurt you."
Below it lay a check for $2.3 million – exactly what Lisa had helped herself to while serving as Rachel's CFO and supposed best friend since college.
Rachel picked up her phone and typed: "Money doesn't fix betrayal. But thanks for funding my new startup's investigation into corporate fraud. You'll be our first case study."
She smiled as she watched the message status change to "Read" and then, moments later, saw Lisa's social media accounts vanish one by one.
Sometimes the best revenge wasn't getting even – it was getting ahead.