Flash Stories

Currency of Survival

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

Tariq tightened his grip on the bag of potatoes, his knuckles white against the coarse burlap. Around him, the market buzzed with desperation. Sellers shouted prices that changed by the hour, their voices tinged with panic. Buyers haggled with a fierceness born of necessity. Everyone’s eyes carried the same shadow: fear of tomorrow.

He glanced at the crumpled bills in his pocket, the brightly colored notes that used to mean something. This morning, he had exchanged a week’s worth of wages for them, only to find that by noon, they barely covered dinner. Hyperinflation was the word economists used. To Tariq, it was a slow unraveling of his life.

“Five kilos,” the vendor barked, eyeing Tariq’s hesitation. The woman behind him in line shifted impatiently, clutching a handful of wilted greens.

“Can you take less?” Tariq asked, his voice hoarse.

The vendor’s face hardened. “Less? Tomorrow …

The Last Storm

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:12 p.m.

The smell of damp wood hung in the air as Nia picked through the wreckage of their living room. The roof had collapsed during last night’s storm, and sunlight streamed through the jagged gaps, illuminating a house that no longer felt like home. Her husband, Mateo, sat on the edge of what used to be their sofa, cradling their daughter, Sofia, who was fast asleep despite the chaos.

“It’s getting worse,” Mateo said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nia didn’t answer. She stood by the broken window, staring at the street outside. The asphalt was cracked, littered with debris. Their neighbors, faces weary and hollow, shuffled through the wreckage of their own lives. The storm had been the third this month. Floodwaters had come and gone, leaving behind the stench of decay and the gnawing realization that they were losing the fight against nature.

“We could …

The Weight of Knowing

hamed Jan. 14, 2025, 4:07 p.m.

Dr. Anya Calder stood at the podium, the sleek conference room bustling with delegates from across the globe. The *World Employment and Social Outlook: Trends 2025* report lay on the desk before her, its pages heavy with data she had analyzed late into countless nights. Her fingers trembled as she adjusted the microphone, though the room's air-conditioning chilled her to the bone.

“Thank you for being here,” she began, her voice steady but brittle, like a pane of glass under pressure. She glanced at the crowd: world leaders, economists, activists, and reporters. The weight of their expectations pressed on her chest.

The report was supposed to be about employment trends, labor markets, and policies. But buried within it were her findings—unemployment and displacement driven by cascading climate crises. Rising seas were swallowing entire industries, heatwaves making outdoor work lethal, droughts collapsing agriculture-dependent economies.

“This year’s report reveals …

Love Born from Ashes and Embers

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 6:25 p.m.

The air was thick with smoke and the lingering scent of charred wood. A soft, eerie silence hung over the once-vibrant neighborhood, now reduced to a patchwork of rubble and scattered remnants. The fire had come quickly, devouring everything in its path. But amidst the destruction, there was a quiet resilience, a sense of rebuilding not just homes, but lives.

Lena stood at the edge of what had once been her house. Her fingers brushed the edges of a melted frame, its corners blackened, the photograph inside forever lost. She had come here hoping to find something—a token of the past that could somehow remain untouched by the flames. But everything was gone. Her heart felt heavy, crushed by the weight of what she'd lost: not just the house, but the life she had once known.

But it was then, as she stood among the ruins, that she saw him.

Ashes of Home

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 6:18 p.m.

Lucy Sheriff stood in the doorway of her apartment, the faint hum of the evening air carrying with it the scent of smoke, thick and acrid. She was eight months pregnant, her body swollen and heavy with the life growing inside her, yet in this moment, the weight she felt wasn't just from her child. It was the weight of uncertainty—the terrifying unknown that loomed just outside her door.

The phone call had come hours ago: mandatory evacuation. The fire, still miles away, had moved faster than anyone could have imagined, creeping up the hills like an unstoppable tide. Lucy had grabbed what little she could—her journalistic instincts kicking in, knowing she would need evidence, stories of those caught in the chaos. But even as she packed, she felt the hollow pit of fear in her chest. It wasn’t just her life she was worried about. It was her home, …

The Last Breath of the City

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 6:16 p.m.

The fire had come like a beast, a consuming thing with no remorse. What had once been a city of neatly arranged homes, fragrant gardens, and streets lined with towering oaks was now a nightmare, suspended in the choking smoke of its own demise. The remnants of life—windows, doors, broken bricks—lay in scattered heaps, like the bones of an ancient creature, picked clean by time and flame.

The streets, once vibrant with laughter and the hum of daily life, now whispered only in the language of ash. Ash that fell in slow, soft flakes, like the dust of forgotten things. Houses stood as hollow shells, their frames blackened, roofs caved in or completely burned away. Some had not even left the dignity of rubble; they had been reduced to nothing more than charred earth, swallowed up by the raging inferno that had spared no one.

Amelia walked through it all, …

Ashes of Home

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 6:14 p.m.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the remnants of what was once a vibrant neighborhood. Now, all that remained were smoldering ruins and the smell of charred wood and ashes. The fire had come without warning, a merciless beast that tore through the community, leaving only sorrow in its wake.

Samantha stood on the edge of what used to be her street, staring at the hollow skeletons of homes. She had lived here for over twenty years—watched children grow up, witnessed countless barbecues and block parties, celebrated birthdays and holidays with neighbors who felt more like family than mere acquaintances. But now, the street was empty, the once-bustling community silenced by the flames.

She reached down and picked up a photograph, the edges singed but the image still recognizable. It was of her daughter, Emily, playing with the neighbor’s dog in the front yard. It …

Into the Inferno

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 6:12 p.m.

The fire was a living thing—a hungry beast, feeding on everything in its path, swallowing entire hillsides and sending billowing smoke into the sky. The wind howled, relentless, pushing the flames in all directions. For fire captain Ryan Matthews, it was a nightmare made real, one that stretched out for hours, then days, without reprieve.

He stood with his team at the base of the ridge, sweat dripping down his face beneath the weight of his helmet. The air felt thick, stifling, and every breath he took was a struggle. The fire was coming, faster than they had anticipated, racing toward the homes that dotted the canyon like fragile paper houses waiting to burn.

“Ryan,” a voice crackled through his radio. It was his lieutenant, Matt, “We’ve got civilians in the area. We need to make sure they evacuate. We’re not sure how much longer we can hold this line.”

Behind the Headlines

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 6:10 p.m.

The fire had been creeping for days, but it was the wind that pushed it over the edge. It swept through Malibu, westward toward the coast, and within hours, everything was in its path. The usual red alerts on her phone were now constant, a chorus of emergency messages flashing across the screen.

Jamie Lee Curtis looked at her phone, her hands gripping the edges of the screen as the latest evacuation order came through. She’d lived in Malibu for years, and though she’d faced fires before, this was different. This was real. This was not just another scare, but an unstoppable force.

She moved quickly through her house, grabbing the essentials—her purse, a few family photos, and the keys to her car. But in the back of her mind, a question gnawed at her: What do you take when you know you might lose everything?

Her husband, Christopher, was …

A Helping Hand

hamed Jan. 12, 2025, 6:09 p.m.

The sun was a dim, burning orb in the sky, barely visible through the thick smoke that had settled over the town. In the distance, the crackling roar of flames was relentless, a reminder of how fast the fire had spread. Evacuation orders had come hours ago, but for some, leaving wasn’t as simple as driving away.

Grace was already packed, her small suitcase sitting at her feet, but she couldn’t leave—not yet. She stood at the door of her house, hands trembling, her gaze fixed on the orange glow creeping closer to her street.

Then, she heard it. The sound of desperate barking from next door.

"Charlie..." Grace whispered, heart sinking. Her neighbor, Mr. Harris, was elderly and lived alone, and his dog, a scruffy terrier, was always glued to his side.

She quickly grabbed her purse and ran next door, banging on the door with frantic urgency.

“Mr. …