Historical
The Old Soldier. Top Story - September 2024.
Sheena headed to the archives to research a discovery she'd made while constructing her family tree. An ancestor; a soldier. Accolades for bravery given but he'd mysteriously disappeared with no record of him anywhere.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
The Oxford Candidate
Imran Khan stood in the grand courtyard of Oxford University, the stone arches towering above him like sentinels of history. The crisp autumn air carried with it the whispers of centuries-old debates and the footsteps of countless scholars who had walked these paths before him. Yet, on this day, the familiar environment felt strangely foreign, as if the very stones beneath his feet were shifting in anticipation of the storm that was about to unfold.
By Zulqarnain Haider2 years ago in Fiction
The last memory
Anna stood in the overgrown garden, the sun setting behind her, casting long shadows over the wildflowers and ivy. It had been years since she last visited her grandmother’s estate, a place filled with memories she could no longer fully grasp. The garden, once her playground, was now a tangle of nature reclaiming its space. The once orderly paths were barely visible, and the bench where her grandmother used to sit was almost hidden by the creeping vines. The house had been sold long ago, but the garden remained untouched, a relic of a time she could barely remember. The doctors had called it early-onset memory loss, a condition that had claimed her grandmother and now seemed to be taking hold of Anna herself. But Anna always felt it was more than that—as if her memories were not just fading but had been taken from her. As she wandered deeper into the garden, something caught her eye—a small, ornate box, partially buried under a blanket of leaves. She knelt down, brushing away the debris. The box was intricately carved, its surface worn with age, but it seemed familiar, though she couldn’t remember why. With trembling hands, she opened it. Inside, there was a vial filled with a shimmering, golden liquid that seemed to glow faintly in the dimming light. Beneath the vial was a folded note, yellowed with time. Anna carefully unfolded it, her heart skipping a beat as she recognized her grandmother’s handwriting. "My dearest Anna," "If you’ve found this, my time has passed, and it is up to you to decide what comes next. This vial holds my last memory, one I couldn’t bear to keep with me any longer. But be warned, once you see it, you cannot unsee it. Some memories are meant to fade. If you choose to remember, know that you will carry the weight of it forever. The choice is yours.”* Anna’s breath caught in her throat. Her grandmother had always been a strong, loving woman, full of warmth and wisdom. What could have been so terrible that she chose to erase it from her mind? What could she have hidden away so deeply that it had to be left in this forgotten garden? She sat down on the weathered bench, the vial warm in her hand. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the garden was bathed in twilight. The air was cool, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves around her. The decision weighed heavily on her. She could simply close the box, bury it again, and let the memory remain lost forever. Or she could open the vial and reclaim what had been taken from her, no matter how painful it might be. With a deep breath, Anna uncorked the vial. The golden liquid began to evaporate, turning into a fine mist that swirled around her. She inhaled, and suddenly, the world shifted. She was no longer in the garden but in her grandmother’s kitchen, the air thick with the scent of pine and spices. It was winter; she could see the frost on the windows. Her grandmother stood at the counter, her face lined with worry. A man stood in the doorway—tall, dark-haired, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and desperation. The scene played out quickly, but Anna felt every emotion as if it were happening to her. The man was her father, the father she had been told died when she was just a baby. But now she saw the truth—he hadn’t died in an accident. He had come back one last time, desperate and afraid, begging her grandmother for help. When she refused, there had been a struggle. A knife flashed. And then… darkness. The memory faded, leaving Anna breathless and shaken. She now understood why her grandmother had chosen to forget—why she had hidden this away. The truth was painful, unbearable. But now, it was Anna’s burden to carry. She sat on the bench, tears streaming down her face, the empty vial clutched in her hand. The garden was silent around her, the night settling in. She felt the weight of the memory, but also a strange sense of peace. She had finally found the truth, and though it was painful, it was hers to keep. Anna stood, carefully placing the box back where she had found it. She knew she would never forget what she had seen, but she also knew she had the strength to carry it. As she walked away from the garden, she felt a connection to her past she had never known, and with it, the strength to face whatever the future held. ---
By Lerato Ngwenya2 years ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Garden
Lena had always been drawn to old, forgotten places. As a child, she would wander through abandoned buildings, her imagination turning crumbling walls into castles and broken windows into portals to other worlds. So when she inherited her great-aunt Edna's estate, a sprawling manor on the edge of a small town, she was thrilled.
By Vishnu Sharma2 years ago in Fiction
An Unexpected Inheritance
Amina huddled on the tattered sofa, her worn cotton dress offering little protection against the damp chill that permeated her tiny, one-room apartment. With only a few coins left in her pocket, the prospects of putting a hot meal on the table tonight seemed bleak.
By Emmanuel Ojenike2 years ago in Fiction
The Teflon Don
They call him the Teflon Don for two reasons. First, no matter how hard the law tries to go after him, all indictments slide off of him akin to a Teflon pan. Second, he is similar to the original Teflon Don - John Gotti of the Gambino crime family, who was just as brazen and media-savvy as Trump.
By Lana V Lynx2 years ago in Fiction
Laser Light
A long, grey overcoat under a black fedora stared back in the window reflection of the train car as it rounded the plant. They are the most expensive clothing items I own though I don’t make much as a janitor at the Darmor Particle Accelerator Laboratory. Sporting the same overcoat and hat everyday justified the purchase for myself, barely covering the repetitive look on my face; bleak, tired and defeated eyes glared back at me. Quiet desperation loomed over my exhausted physique and mind. The weekly check in my coat pocket will barely cover my bills before I reset and do it all again. I sure hope 1952 will be a better year.
By Jerry Colatorti2 years ago in Fiction
