Flash Stories

Behind the Screens

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:54 p.m.

Jenna stared at the screen, the cursor blinking like a reminder of everything she hadn’t done. It was 10 a.m., but it felt like a strange time, suspended somewhere between the days. The house was too quiet. She could hear the distant hum of the fridge, the soft click of her fingers on the keyboard. Outside, the world moved on—people still walked their dogs, kids played in the park—but inside, everything felt still.

It had been six months since the pandemic turned her office job into a remote one. At first, she had been excited. No more commutes. No more crowded trains or early mornings. She could wear sweatpants, sip coffee in peace, and get her work done from the comfort of her living room.

But now, everything was different. The novelty had worn off. Her days had become a blur of Zoom calls and emails, each one blending into …

In the Shadow of the Dome

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:53 p.m.

The cold wind cut through Sarah’s coat as she stood outside the Capitol, her breath visible in the icy air. She had come to Washington to see history in the making—an inauguration that felt, for reasons she couldn’t fully explain, like the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. But the moment she arrived, something felt wrong. The crowds, once buzzing with the usual anticipation of politics, had a different energy now, tense and restless. The air was thick with something she couldn’t quite name.

She’d made her way to the steps of the Capitol, hoping to catch a glimpse of the event, maybe even take a photo to send home. She wasn’t a political person, but today, there was something about being here, in the heart of the country’s democracy, that made her feel connected.

And then, it happened.

A loud crash echoed from the direction of …

The Voices That Rise

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:51 p.m.

Maya stood at the edge of the crowd, her heart pounding in her chest, a mix of fear and defiance. The protest stretched out before her like a river of humanity, its currents alive with chants and signs that carried messages of pain and hope. She had never done anything like this before, never stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers in the streets, demanding change. But when she heard the news about George Floyd, when she saw the footage, it was as if the weight of the world had pressed down on her chest. Her whole life felt like a series of small injustices, like cracks in the pavement she had learned to step over. But this—this was different. She could no longer step aside.

"Say his name!" the crowd roared in unison, their voices a powerful wave of collective grief.

"George Floyd!" Maya shouted, the words tearing from her …

The Quiet Room

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:49 p.m.

The apartment was quieter than it had ever been. Lila sat in the corner of the living room, her laptop open in front of her, but she couldn’t focus on the Zoom call. Her mind wandered as her 10-year-old son, Tommy, bounced a ball against the wall for the hundredth time today. Her husband, Ryan, was pacing back and forth in the kitchen, talking on the phone with someone at work about the latest developments. The entire world seemed to be on fire, and their small apartment had become a little island, still and full of tension.

"Can you stop?" Lila called to Tommy, her voice tight with exhaustion. She hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in weeks. Every day felt like it blended into the next, the line between work and home long erased.

Tommy stopped the ball and sat down on the couch, but his restless energy was …

Beyond the Stars

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:46 p.m.

Peter Lawson sat at his desk in the cluttered NASA lab, eyes bloodshot from hours spent scrutinizing calculations and blueprints. The hum of the machines around him was constant, a steady reminder of the giant leap they were all trying to make. Apollo was no longer just a dream—it was real, a mission that would send men to the moon and bring them home. But the weight of it pressed against him like the gravity they were trying to defy.

He ran a hand through his graying hair, staring at the latest telemetry readings on his screen. There were still so many things to solve—fuel mixtures, heat shields, trajectory corrections. It was never enough. The math was unforgiving.

“Pete,” called a voice from the doorway. It was his wife, Carol. She stood there, holding a cup of coffee, her eyes tired but warm.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, wiping his brow. …

Snowbound Strangers

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:45 p.m.

The howling wind outside the train station sounded like a beast clawing at the windows. Snow battered the walls, piling higher by the minute. Inside, a group of six strangers huddled near a potbelly stove, the only source of warmth in the dim, drafty room.

“I should’ve stayed in Boston,” muttered Mr. Archer, a stout banker in a wool coat that barely held back the chill. His spectacles fogged as he exhaled. “This is madness.”

“You think Boston’s better?” replied Miss Clara, a sharp-eyed schoolteacher with a tattered shawl draped over her shoulders. “My pupils haven’t eaten in days. I was heading to Albany to ask for relief. Boston’s no kinder than this storm.”

A young boy, no older than ten, tugged at Clara’s sleeve. “Miss, do you think the trains will run soon?” His voice was thin, shaky, his oversized coat swallowing him whole.

Clara knelt, brushing snow from …

A Child of Promise

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:43 p.m.

The January air in Atlanta was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine from the hills beyond the city. In a modest two-story house on Auburn Avenue, the cries of a newborn broke the stillness. Alberta King leaned back against the bed, her face glistening with sweat and tears, but her smile radiant with relief.

“He’s here,” the midwife whispered, carefully wrapping the baby in a soft cotton cloth. “A strong boy, Mrs. King.”

Beside her, Reverend Martin Luther King Sr. cradled the child, his broad hands trembling as they held the fragile, wriggling bundle. The boy’s cry was sharp and insistent, a voice that refused to be ignored. “He’s got some lungs on him,” the Reverend chuckled, though his eyes shone with unshed tears.

“What shall we name him?” Alberta asked, her voice soft but steady.

“Martin,” the Reverend said, after a moment of thought. “After me. After the …

All the News Fit to Print

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:41 p.m.

Henry Jarvis stared at the printing press, its gears clanking like a restless machine ready to birth something monumental. Around him, the newsroom buzzed with the frantic energy of ambition and nerves. The air smelled of ink and candle wax, the soft glow flickering against stacks of freshly written articles.

“Jarvis! Stop gawking and hand me that proof,” called George Jones, the paper’s co-founder. His sharp tone belied the bags under his eyes, evidence of sleepless nights spent molding their vision into reality.

Henry handed him the proof, his hands smudged with ink. “It’s all there, sir. The editorials, the local crime report, the financial updates, and the steamship schedules. We even got the story on the European revolutions.”

Jones skimmed the pages, his expression caught between pride and exhaustion. “Good. But don’t forget, this isn’t just a collection of stories. It’s a statement. We’re not here to sensationalize—we’re here …

The Fog of New Orleans

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:39 p.m.

The air hung thick with the smell of wet earth and gunpowder as Private Samuel Hayes knelt in the mud, his musket trembling in his hands. Dawn was still a suggestion on the horizon, its faint light blurring the silhouettes of General Jackson’s earthworks and the dark mass of British soldiers gathering across the field.

“Hold steady,” the sergeant hissed, pacing behind the line. “Wait for the order.”

Samuel’s breath clouded in the cold air, though sweat trickled down his spine beneath his wool coat. His fingers, stiff from the chill, fumbled over the musket’s barrel. He’d practiced loading it a hundred times, but this morning, his hands felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else.

He thought of his farm back in Kentucky—of the cornfields stretching to the horizon, of Mary’s hands brushing flour from her apron as she baked. He’d left all of it behind, chasing a dream …

The Skinny Jeans Rebellion

hamed Jan. 15, 2025, 4:29 p.m.

Emma didn’t even know the attic had a trunk until she stumbled over it, coughing through the dust. She was helping her parents clear out the old house, the one where she’d spent her angsty teenage years.

The trunk creaked open, revealing a kaleidoscope of the early 2000s: studded belts, band tees, and there, crumpled at the bottom—the skinny jeans.

Faded black, ripped at the knees, and still carrying the faint scent of some long-discontinued perfume. She held them up, smiling at how impossibly small they looked.

“Wow,” she whispered. “I used to live in these.”

Back then, those jeans had been everything—her armor against the world. She’d worn them to her first concert, where the bass had vibrated through her chest like a heartbeat. She’d worn them to the rooftop party where she’d kissed Jamie, the artsy kid who painted galaxies on their sneakers. And she’d worn them the …