Stratigraphy by S.M. Rosen, Limoncello Spritz

August 8th

It’s funny—in some ways, an archaeological excavation is just reading a story in reverse. That’s all stratigraphy is, really. The top of the soil is the end of the story, and the bottom is the beginning. And as we are digging up the past, the layer that we start with is the layer that the grave ends with. By removing each one, we travel back in time, further and further, until we finally reach the bottom. Until we reach the start. I think I like that.

Anyway, my plane leaves in three hours and I still can’t get my boots to fit in my suitcase. I have no idea how I got them in there in the first place! I think I’ll miss this apartment in the end, even with the roaches. Even with the blistering heat and cracked-tile floors. Even after everything that happened.

I better get moving. Still have to make my way to the city before my flight leaves, and I know firsthand just how tight the roads out of here can get. So, I suppose, dear diary, that this is goodbye. And if I make it home, I’ll burn you.

August 7th

Right. I think I’ve recovered. Touch and go for a second there. I swear, I’ve never seen anyone party as hard as the Italians. I don’t think any of them remember anything. And I don’t think any of them suspect.

August 6th

I have never been more hungover in my life. God, I feel sick just writing this.

August 5th

Early start, around 5am. We shut down the site today, had to return all tools and take inventory. They noticed a spade was missing. We tarpaulined the active digs, but the completed sections of the necropolis were backfilled. The site manager (thankfully) said that it would be a tripping hazard to leave Roman cist tombs open like that. New students will arrive next month to continue with the other graves, but ours is tidy and packed with the sifted soil. No one will dig there again. Pierre is safely tucked away in labeled baggies and has been taken to the lab. A skeleton in the closet—so to speak. It feels so strange knowing that it’s over. That it’s all over. Done and dusted.

The missing spade is a problem though. I hope they don’t jump down our throats about it. Or to conclusions. If they bring it up, I’ll just offer to buy them a round of drinks. That usually works.

August 4th

Okay, so, I have a plan. I have no idea if it’ll work, but I need to try. I only need to stick it out here for another few days, then I’ll be gone. Just a few days, then I can leave this all behind me. I have to leave this all behind me.

August 3rd

My hands are shaking. I don’t even know what to say. How can I say anything? I can barely hold the pencil. I’m supposed to be journaling my field notes right now. My supervisor is watching. But I can’t, how can I when I know he’s there? It’s nearly noon, the heat, the smell. Someone’s going to notice. Someone is going to find him.

—Supine individual in grave 6b fully excavated today, with skeletal remains packaged for transport to the museum laboratory. The individual is mostly complete, with only three distal phalanges, the left hamate, and hyoid identified as missing. This, alongside the pristine collection of 24 glass beads and golden bracelet excavated on August 1st, is an impressively complete find for the region. The in-field biological profile suggests—

Oh thank God, she’s gone. It’s like everyone is looking over my shoulder. I have to do something. I can’t just…leave him there.

August 2nd

Something happened. Something terrible happened. I swear it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do anything. He just fell. He fell and stopped moving. Stopped breathing. That’s what happened. He was standing, right there in front of me, and then he wasn’t. I didn’t touch him! I barely touched him. We shouldn’t have gone back out there, I know that. It’s way too dangerous in the dark, and the roads are awful. But he said we had to, that we had to finish the dig before he left. What was I supposed to do, say no? We put in all that work and the site manager was going to take it all away from us. That’s what he said, that the site manager was going to take all the credit for what we did. For what we found. Had they just let us dig the way we wanted to, then none of this would have happened.

I just wanted some credit. Is that so wrong? I wanted some credit for the work I was doing. I was the one who found the grave. I was the one who opened it. So, yeah, I went with him to finish the dig. And then he turns around and pulls the same shit as the manager, saying that this was his discovery? That he’s going to submit our find to a journal without me? I barely touched him. We were yelling, that’s all. I had the right to yell, after what he said. I barely touched him. Except to move him. Except to check if he—

What was I supposed to do? We were trespassing, we were fighting. I ran. I just left and ran. I’m surprised I could find my way back, I could never have found help in time! What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to say? What is there to say?

August 1st

Unbelievable! I mean absolutely, awe-inspiring, jaw-dropping unbelievable. You think you’ll be ready. You see it in books and documentaries. You see artifacts in museums and archaeologists in movies. But to find something yourself? Oh man. When my brush slid across the surface of the first blue bead, nothing could have prepared us for that. And they just kept coming, Pierre was covered in them. I found 14 and he found 10. We think it’s unheard of for the area. The lab might be able to give us a more precise timeframe, but the beads date the grave to the 1st century CE. Incredible.

He kissed me behind the olive tree. I have never been kissed like that before. I hope I’m only ever kissed like that again. We only have one more day. What am I going to do without him?

In typical fashion, when the site manager saw the beads we were pulling, he told us to stand down. Said that he’d take over the dig from there, make sure that the context was preserved. And of course, that’s when he finds a gold bracelet on Pierre’s arm. Ridiculous. That was our find. We did the excavation exactly the same way he did. It can’t be allowed to stand.

July 31st

After several days of slow, meticulous digging and scraping, it finally happened. Our grave is now opened properly! From what we can tell, it contains a single individual lying on their back. We haven’t exposed much of the skeleton yet, so I can’t provide a sex estimation. But we decided to nickname the bones Pierre. He says he’s sure the skeleton is male, anyway. I’m not sure how he knows, but I trust him.

The site manager came by around lunch and seemed satisfied with our progress. But he did make a remark about us being distracted. Which seems entirely uncalled for, as we’re doing the best work at the dig, frankly. Who cares if we steal a kiss during our breaks? Not me, that’s for sure.

After the manager left, he tucked my hair behind my ear and said that he’d like to take me to Paris. That’s why he chose the name Pierre for our skeleton. His voice makes me feel like I’ve been filled with warm honey. Oh, take me to Paris.

Then we went out for pasta and wine. He didn’t like the ravioli but I thought it was simply divine. I think he must have better taste than me, or at least, a more refined palate. I’m glad we ate out at any rate because the apartment kitchen was a mess when we got back. I know it’s Europe in the summer, but I really struggle to understand why they tolerate roaches in the apartment. It’s like the field school doesn’t really care about the students’ wellbeing. Luckily for me, he squished it with the heel of his boot as soon as he saw it.

July 30th

Pathetic. I am absolutely pathetic. I had a dream about him. A good dream. A very good dream. The days are hot as hell, but somehow the nights are still cold enough to get into your bones. The field school only gave us sheets for our beds. No blankets. So, it’s easy to find yourself awake in the chilly apartment far earlier than you’d like, and before everyone else. But at least I had a good dream.

The men and women sleep in different rooms here. Seems ridiculous for university students, we’re adults after all. But, even so, I can almost feel him there, through the wall. It’s like I can feel his lips on mine at this very moment. We have so little time before he goes, I want to savor every single moment. Pathetic. I can’t wait until breakfast.

He’ll be at breakfast.

July 29th

Something amazing happened today. I was doing a surface survey of the north section of the necropolis and spotted an anomaly in the loam. The site manager thinks it’s a new grave and chose me to start the excavation. And when the manager asked for a volunteer to help me, guess who raised his hand! That has to mean he’s serious about this. About us. What else could it mean? God, how is this feeling even better than being chosen to excavate? How is this feeling even possible at all? I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so happy.

The grave we’ll be working on together is in a secluded part of the site. The only company we’ll have is a lonely olive tree at the edge of the necropolis. We’ll be able to hear anyone coming from a mile away. I’ve never felt so happy.

July 28th

Okay, okay, I have to describe today from the beginning. Because it was just so perfect. Not only did he grab me a muffin for breakfast this morning, and sit next to me on the bus to the site, he also carried my tools to the dig for me. I told him he didn’t need to, but he insisted. It was so gentlemanly, he went on and on about how my hands were too soft to do it myself and that he was happy to help. Of course this was silly, I mean, we’re on an archaeological dig together. I don’t care about getting my hands dirty. But it was so considerate. And he was clearly thinking about my soft hands, so who am I to complain!

And then, right before we broke for lunch, he came over to say hello and check out the work I was doing. He even noticed that I hadn’t kept my layers perfectly straight and offered to help smooth them out before the site manager came around. The manager is really nit-picky—like, too much so. It’s getting a little grating, actually.

Anyway, on our way back to the apartment, the bus got stuck on one of those narrow roads into town. We had to wait an extra hour before we could get towed out. And while we were waiting (he was sitting next to me again) he brushed my leg with the back of his hand. It was so quick, I actually wondered if it was by accident! I swear, I have never seen such attractive hands in my life. But it was definitely not by accident because, when we got back, he offered to buy me one of those little spinach pastries that he knows I like. We walked through town together, until we reached the sea.

And then he kissed me. He kissed me. He kissed me. He kissed me.

He even apologized for not doing it sooner. Apparently, he’s just a really private person and didn’t want anyone from the field school to see us. He likes to keep his personal and professional lives separate, you know? We’re all going out for drinks later tonight, and I’ll be honest, I have never been so optimistic about someone.

July 27th

I have no idea what to think. No, really. Zero clue. We have to wake up early to head to the excavation, right? Usually out the door and on the bus between 5 and 6 am. That way we’re not working in the hot sun—July in Italy is no joke. Blistering even. So, we’re usually out of bed and at breakfast by 4:30. He didn’t turn up to breakfast at all today, which was strange because he’s normally the first one there. He did make it to the bus on time, and smiled at me when he got on, but then he sat next to someone else. Which is fine, but I couldn’t help but think that maybe I embarrassed myself last night? Or maybe I’m overthinking things? He sat at the same table as me over lunch, and then again when we all went out for dinner. So, he clearly doesn’t mind being around me. But maybe he’s trying to keep his distance? Oh God, I really hope I haven’t messed this up.

July 26th

I can’t believe everything that happened today. I will be honest! I’m a teenybit tipsy. But I have to journal it down before I forget. We went to the dig this morning, which was awesome. But get this. After we got back, the beautiful, blue-eyed man was buying me drinks all night. Yes, that’s right, the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my life was buying me drinks. Gin and lemonades. Delicious. And we talked and talked. Everyone else went back to the apartment before us, but he said we should stay out longer and get to know each other better. So I was like of course how could I not. Apparently, he is from the UK, which obviously. That accent! Somewhere called Exeter. I think it’s close to London. And he’s doing a PhD in Classics. I was like, wow, and here I am just doing my bachelor’s degree. He has to leave the dig early though, because he has his doctoral defence in August. He’s really just here as a fun break, which is so cool he can just do that. I had to apply for a whole scholarship to fund my place here, and I’m so lucky to have gotten it too, a lot of my classmates applied and they’re all incredible. So, it was super competitive. But imagine just being able to turn up for fun, so impressive. We walked back to the apartment together and I swear those floor tiles in the front, those cracked ones, are trying to murder me. I must have tripped or something, but guess who was there to catch me. The way his hands scooped me up like I was a feather sent butterflies flying in my stomach. You know, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that way before. Okay, right. I need to sleep now. Not long before breakfast.

July 25th

Before I left home, everyone warned me about the Italian men. The most beautiful men in the world, they said. They will charm you and flirt. Call you “Bella” and buy you limoncello. No one said anything about the British men.

And, oh, the British men. They should have warned me about the British men. How is it that a rolled-up button-down shirtsleeve turns the forearm into sexiest part of the human body? And why is it that I can’t stop staring at the forearms of a man I only just met? Oh yeah, I met a man. A British man with a glorious accent, incredible blue eyes, and just the sexiest forearms I have ever seen. How does one even do that, have sexy forearms?

He’s a graduate student, I think. We didn’t get to speak much. It was the welcome party after all, and there was always someone interrupting. The site manager and my supervisor were passing around drinks most of the night as well. Everyone here seems great. Some really smart people too. We head to the excavation for the first time tomorrow. Maybe I’ll be able to have a chat with the beautiful, blue-eyed stranger on the way.

July 24th

I love starting a fresh diary. And the timing is perfect because guess what? I have officially landed in Italy! It’s my first time out of the country and it is so beautiful. From here, I head directly to the archaeological field school. If I can find a taxi, that is. They’ve got a big apartment near the dig. I’m so excited for the next two weeks. It feels like—I don’t know. It just feels like anything and everything is possible.

About the author

S. M. Rosen is a poet, anthropologist, and award-nominated university lecturer, working primarily in prose poetry and lyric fiction. Her work can be found in the Ustinovian Magazine and her slim volume, Conjunction, published by Ellipsis Imprints in 2023.

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Hostile Castles by Rosemary Johnson, several glasses of mead

Ten-year-old Angela watched her father’s funeral feast through a chink the curtain. Motherless, now fatherless, she didn’t know who would look after her now.  Angela was scared. 

An unknown voice was saying, ‘Many winters past, I, Von Sterrenberg and my beloved comrade in arms, Bromser von Rudesheim, whom we have buried today in deep sadness, each made a vow before God, to defend the other’s kindred. So, therefore, I will care for his daughter.’

This was the age of chivalry, when a knight’s honour was worth more to him than life itself.

So, Herr Werner von Sterrenberg took Angela with him on his horse and rode back to his castle, Burg Sterrenberg, perched atop a steep ravine beside the River Rhine. A widower, Herr Werner was gentle, kind and fair, and Angela was happy again. In summer she and Herr Werner’s sons, Hendrik and Konrad, played on the beach, jumping over the ‘waves’ caused by the wash of boats and barges. In winter they jousted with wooden horses and wooden swords in the great hall, getting in the way of the servants. ‘I’m a better swordsman than either of you,’ she told them, many times.

Konrad always rose to this challenge. ‘I won’t be beaten by a girl.’  Sometimes he would win and sometimes she. On the few occasions she sparred with the older brother, Henrik, he always let her beat her. No fun in that.

So Angela was happy, until she started to grow up. She expected she would marry one of the brothers. That they both admired her in their different ways, she was well aware. Hendrik, devout in faith, home-loving and solicitous with his increasingly frail father, broke into a smile which lit up his rather plain face whenever she entered the room but he said little. Once she asked him to tie a ribbon in her hair but he claimed he didn’t know how and she had to do it herself.

Konrad talked and talked. He sat with Angela as she stitched in the castle keep, regaling her with tales of knightly valour, gleaned from his frequent visits to the tavern, some true, others more embroidered than her needlework. When he sat himself down on the stool beside her, it was as if the room suddenly brightened. ‘Maybe these tales are not for a pure and beautiful lady.’  He laughed as he said this.

‘Go on, Konrad, go on.’

In 1146 Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux sailed up the River Rhine on a grand barge, seeking recruits to fight on a Crusade in the Holy Land. Herr Werner forbade his heir, Hendrik, from joining the Abbott, even though Hendrik pleaded that it was his sacred duty. Konrad wanted to go because he was bored and his father let him. 

‘Will I ever see you again?’ Angela asked him as he made preparations to leave.

‘If you promise to wait for me, yes, indeed.’

‘And will you keep my heart free for me,’ she asked.

‘Heart and hand. By the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, I swear.’

After Konrad’s departure, Hendrik, urged by his father, attempted to woo Angela again, but she made it clear that her heart was promised elsewhere. Hendrik loved Angela, but, in those gallant times, a lady’s troth was sacred. Herr Werner also wished things were otherwise but he missed his younger son and longed for his safe return, so he built another castle on his land, naming it ‘Liebenstein’ because it was for two people in love.

Many years passed and news of the Crusades in the Holy Land trickled in to Rhineland, patchy and slow. Knowing he had little time left on this earth, Herr Werner, with Angela, spent many hours and days by the banks of the river, willing one of the passing ships to bear Konrad back home.

But this was not to be. 

The day after the funeral, Angela sat in her usual position by the river bank without him and it was then, in the early evening, she spotted what their hearts had burned to see – a ship, still distant, making its way upstream, its sails adorned with Crusader pennants. As it came closer, her eyes made out a knight in black armour. It could be… So many times she had thought… hoped… imagined… but this time…. Yes, it was. Yes, yes, it really was. 

The heavy, white overcast skies of the funeral yesterday, and the long days of poor Herr Werner’s sickness, had lifted. The sun, hidden for so long, shone into the clear water of the river and the clouds broke apart for the fresh blue sky. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she stood and waited.

She became aware of Hendrik scrambling down the cliff path behind her. She started to say to him, ‘Konrad… Konrad… he’s here,  I’m so happy… happy… happ…’  She grabbed Hendrik’s elbow. ‘Oh. Oh, I don’t understand.’

Hendrik had seen what she’d seen. Without speaking, they watched the ship draw up at the Burg Sterrenberg landing stage. Neither felt able to speak.

Yet Konrad was smiling his cheeky smile which they both knew so well, and surveying his home surroundings, confident of his welcome. Beside him, holding his arm, stood a black-eyed, olive-skinned beauty, with glistening baubles around her neck and more in her loose black hair, tumbling around her face. 

Angela froze, not just her body, but her brain and her heart. How dared the sun continue shining.

Konrad’s smile faded suddenly when he spotted the black flags fluttering on both castles. ‘I think my dear father has died?’

Hendrik inclined his head.

Konrad made the sign of the Cross over his gleaming armour. ‘I am grieved,’ He didn’t sound it. ‘But I must introduce you to my wife, Helen. Helen, this is my brother, Hendik, and his wife, Angela.’

‘I am not Hendrik’s wife,’ said Angela. ‘I gave my troth to you,’ she wanted to say. The words were pressing against lips, but she had her dignity.

In silence, the four of them climbed up the steep cliff path, the bride, Helen, stumbling in her flimsy sandals. Wearing shimmering silk, she shivered in the cool Germanic evening.

At the top at last, Konrad shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand. ‘I see two castles now.’

‘Yes. Because our blessed father built Burg Leibenstein for you and Angela,’ said Hendrik.

Konrad’s face, coarsened in the harsh sun of the Holy Land, creased into a frown. ‘But I assumed Angela would marry you, Hendrik.’

‘Having given her troth to you?’  Hendrik stepped forward, his fists clenched by his sides. ‘You, mein Herr, insult the honour of a lady, the lady I loved - seemingly more than you did. For three years, she has waited, refusing all other suitors, believing herself bound to you. I also held my distance, out of respect for…’ He spit out his last words. ‘For you.’ 

Beautiful Helen swung around to her husband. Her dark eyes bore into him like cold arrows, but he ignored her.

‘So…’  Konrad unsheathed his sword. ‘I will pay my respects to my father. Where does he lie?’  

Angela heard what Konrad said, but Hendrik, appearing not to, whipped out his own sword and pointed it at Konrad. ‘You want to fight me?’  The two eyed each other, side-stepping in a circle.

‘Is this what you want, brother?’ asked Konrad. ‘You, my only flesh and blood?  With my father – to whom, as you must realise, I wished to pay the customary respects with my sword – hardly cold in his grave?’

‘Don’t bring our father into this. He was a good man.’

‘Brother, you have so much. You are now Herr von Sterrenberg, lord of this castle. Make Angela Frau von Sterrenberg.’

Hendrik pointed his sword at Konrad’s throat. ‘Come on, you who fought the Infidel.’

Helen screamed. She raised her eyes to Angela in a desperate wordless appeal. 

‘No.’  Angela leapt in between them. Her glare passed from one brother to the other. Then she seized Hendrik’s sword - he is too surprised to resist - and brandished at her once betrothed. ‘We used to spar with wooden toys so let us see who is the better swordsman now.’

Konrad lowered his weapon at once. ‘I cannot fight a woman.’

‘Nor can you fight your kindred. Wars and pestilence may destroy us, but we must not do this to each other.’

A minute passed. The rasping, panting breaths of the two men mocked the gentle evening.  

Picking up her skirts with both hands, Angela spun around and strode back to Burg Sterrenberg, ran up to her chamber and threw herself on to her bed. Burg Leibenstein was hers no longer. Hendrik, just steps behind her, banged on her door. She didn’t open it.

‘Marry me, Angela. You know I love you.’

‘No. I thank you, Hendrik, but I cannot. I do love you, and I always will, as a brother.’  

‘I don’t deserve this.’

‘No, you don’t.’

For three days, Angela remained in her chamber, speaking not even to the servants. At dawn on the fourth day, she crept back down the spiral staircase. As she opened the main door, she cast one look back into the familiar rooms where she had loved and been loved, then scrambled down the cliff path to the river and walked… and walked… and walked.

Outside the abbey walls of the convent of Bornhofen, she stopped and watched the River Rhine, her constant companion for so many years, flowing on and on to the sea. It was time for her to move on also. 

‘Mother, please let me join you and the sisters,’ she begged the abbess. 

‘You come to us with a troubled heart, I think, my child.’

‘Yes.’  Now Angela told her whole story and the wise abbess listened.

‘Anyone who enters this blessed order must come with a full heart of love,’ she said, ‘but yours is brim-full with anger.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Go back down to the river, and wash away your hurt. This River Rhine is wide enough and long enough for all of it.’

So she returned to the river and stood by its bank again, and wept, for her spoiled love for Konrad, for Hendrik’s wrecked love for her, for the love and care in which Herr Werner had carried her as a little girl. She cried even for black-eyed Helen, confused and cold in the German summer. When she looked into the river again, she saw brown dirt – the poison of her pain. In an instant, it was gone, washed downstream. Her heart lighter, she made her way back to the abbey.

Back at Sterrenberg, the poison of anger and hate hovered around the inhabitants like a cloud of angry bees, festering in their hearts, rotting their souls. Konrad built a wall between the two castles, Sterrenberg and Liebenstein, but the brown muck seeped through the stones.

About the author

Rosemary has had short stories published in 'Paragraph Planet', 'Scribble', 'Mslexia' and CafeLit. Her novel, 'Wodka or Tea With Milk' set around the Polish Solidarity trade union was published in September 2023 and 'Past and Present', her anthology of short stories, by Bridge House Publishing, in June 2025.

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When The Shoes Do Not Fit by Oseyi Zack Edetanlen, tea

My mother spoke of Princess Diana the way other women speak of God. With hushed tones thick with reverence, she idolized the Princess of Wales like she was one of us. With novelty mugs emblazoned with Princess Diana’s signature hairdo and warm smile, fancy hats and worn-out shoes two times smaller than her actual size scattered around the house, Diana hovered over our daily lives.

The television volume was turned on too high, with my mother screaming back at the commentary as she sat back and drank sugary tea from her favourite novelty mug. She yelled back with spittle flying out of her lips, ‘No, it’s pronounced DI-ANAH, the emphasis is on the last part, you moron!’

She eased back into the sofa, happily watching the documentary series on the life of Princess Diana, her newest comfort TV show. When she yelled out DI-ANAH again, I almost jumped out of my skin. My mother’s obsession with a public figure was what many would call unhealthy, but this was the life she was stuck in.

I was named after the Princess of Wales with a single, obvious reason. Names were supposed to have a special meaning, but mine didn’t. My mother only admired having her own daughter who she could look after. I was meant to run around the house as a silly child in my underwear with a cheap, plastic crown on my black, wiry hair. She would have me sit on the sticky carpet in the living room as she styled my hair, with a small sized Marmalade sandwich in my tiny hand.

Being an only child was glorious. I thought I had everything I wanted and almost got away with anything. The image of my mother walking bare footed in the house with a sparkle of anticipation in her eyes as she rubbed the bump in her belly. She had wanted another daughter, a second Diana to make our family somewhat complete.

But all of that changed when my baby brother, Charles, was born. Charles had little, beady eyes just like my father. Their rich, dark skin shone brightly in the sun just like cocoa in hot water. Unlike the light shade of my skin just like my mother’s, Charles was the replica of my father. They were instant best friends, but I couldn’t stand him because his arrival to our family somehow ruined everything. I suspected he was named after the Prince of Wales because my mother couldn’t stand him too.

On one of my many harmless adventures with my mother away at God knows where doing God knows what, I discovered an old photo album hidden safely in the dresser in her bedroom. I hadn’t noticed how rare and special this was until I spotted that single photograph with an orange time stamp at the corner. This was before Princess Diana’s passing and it felt almost like walking into a fictional time machine.

With neatly braided hair and a care-free smile, my mother stood closely with a stranger; an unknown male. The thought of her being worthy and acceptable to someone other than my father was impossible to imagine. 

My father who wouldn’t miss anything for the world for his late evenings after work slouched on the sofa with crumbs of fish and chips all over his chin, slowly faded with the noise. His silence grew deafening and when he eventually stopped talking, or even visiting the house to bond with us, we welcomed the alien feeling with wide, open arms.

With my father away, the house only got noisier. The hallway was left crowded with Diana merch and novelty items from every thrift shop my mother could find in the area. When she wasn’t watching documentary series or movies on the life of Diana, she would play a game of pretend, like the one I liked as a child. She spoke with the most unbelievable UK accent with one of her ill fitted shoes.

Then she would ask, ‘Can you guess who I am?’. It was all fun and games when I was five laughing uncontrollably at my mother’s jokes but I was fifteen now and the sight was disturbing. When she got tired of the theatrics, she cried herself to sleep on those nights. She wailed and talked to herself loudly, ‘They never deserved her. No one did!’

My mother remained sober for the next few days. She moved from one part of the house to another in utter silence, it felt like living with a ghost that resolved to ignore rather than haunt. I prayed for things to stay this way, but they didn’t. Soon, she was back on her feet with the hysteria loud in her voice, calling for the justice of Diana’s death, even after all those years.

The yellow fever coloured hospital card with my mother’s full name; Lucy Onome Oghenevwede, written lazily with cursive that almost blurred the letters laid untouched on the counter, with its corners still sharp to the touch and her name uncreased. The other documents remained in a single file, battered with overuse. 

Just like Princess Diana, my mother had a timeline. From forgetful walks in the park to writing notes on things she couldn’t remember. I began handling the shopping lists for dinner and shortly after, began cooking them too. She watched me stir the pot of soup with a longing in her eyes. I could never tell what she was thinking; no one could. In fact, not even she could tell most times.

With Princess Diana gone, I was convinced my mother was out of reach too. The sparkle in her eyes fizzled out until we couldn’t spot it any longer. It got replaced with something dark, twisted and undesirable. The overwhelming grief had opened a gap into her soul and nothing could ever fill it up. We were left with echoing reminders of what we used to be, with pending questions that needed urgent answers. With the hospital card barely touched and regarded, it stayed with us. 

Everyone blamed Princess Diana for what my mother had become. For years, I did too. But it wasn’t about her. It was never about her. Hours of waiting and crying for help to the system led to my mother’s self-acceptance. They said she would be fine and urged us to patiently wait for our turn, but it never did, in fact, it might never come. We were waiting for a system that did not hurry for people like us. 

With the sugary tea gone cold with a thin film settling perfectly in my mother’s cup and snores louder than the TV volume still wrongly pronouncing Princess Diana’s name, my mother remained undisturbed on the sofa. The programme finally ended with everything else in our lives unchanged.

About the author

Oseyi Zack Edetanlen is a passionate lover of crime, thriller novels and draws inspiration from authors like Sandra Brown, Shari Lapena, Gillian Flynn and others. She is fond of incorporating subplots of thriller and crime into her writings, and wouldn’t have it any other way. As a graduate of English and Literature in the prestigious University of Benin, to her name is a self-published e-book, SOUL SISTERS released in 2023. Asides working in the Communications and Media field, she remains a proud introvert who would rather spend her time alone, reading books and discovering new music. You can find her on @oseyizackwrites on X.

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Living in the Past by Tony Domaille, rum and coke

The last thing I’d expected was to be run over by an Austin Allegro. That’s the trouble with time travel; you forget things were different in the past, and I’d forgotten the High Street wasn’t pedestrianised in 1986.

Anyway, after I tumbled over the bonnet and fell into the carriageway, I wasn’t just worried about broken bones. It was the timeline. What if a road accident happens in the past that was never supposed to happen? Will it change the future?

An ashen looking Allegro driver got out of his car. ‘Oh, my God. You walked straight out in front of me.’

Then a crowd gathered, with people saying someone should run to the telephone box and call for an ambulance. 

The next thing I knew, I was in A&E, going in and out of consciousness, worrying that they might do blood tests. Being full of statins and other drugs that hadn’t yet been invented might have complicated things. The other worry was the portal home to 2026. It would close in a little over an hour, but every time I tried to get off the hospital trolly someone pushed me back down, telling me to lie still. 

I prayed they would be done with me quickly. NHS waiting times were much shorter back in the eighties, and I mumbled about needing to leave but they ignored me.

Everything hurt. My back, my legs, my head. But for all that, the biggest pain was in my heart. I’d travelled back in time because I wanted to see the girl I fell in love with in 1986 just once more. But I hadn’t seen her and now I wouldn’t get the chance before the time portal closed. I’d been in love more than once in my life, but she was the one. Hannah. The girl I’d never forgotten and never stopped loving.

Lying there I was feeling the consequences of breaking Time Travel Agency rules. No using portals for personal reasons. They’re strictly for historical research and the very occasional intervention to stop something that would prevent a future good. Wanting to see your ex-girlfriend again doesn’t qualify. I’d tried to find her in the present and failed. I shouldn’t have done, but I then started searching for her across time, but she just seemed to have dropped off the face of the Earth. No digital footprint, no records, not a thing. I often wondered if she ever thought about me. I also wondered if she’d ever tried to find me, but the agency keeps its operatives very much under the radar. I hoped she sometimes thought about that all too brief year we were together before life took us in different directions. Before I realised too late that she had been the one. 

I winced as I tried to sit up on the hospital trolly, as much because I knew I’d have to leave this time without finding Hannah as for my injuries. But then my chance came. The nurses rushed off to deal with something more serious than my bruises and concussion, so I limped away. My watch face was cracked but I could see I had less than fifteen minutes to reach the portal before it closed.

I stumbled out of the hospital and down the road, attracting curious looks because of my bandaged head. My vision was blurred. My ears rang and my head and limbs hurt but, if I could stay on my feet, there was still time. In the distance I could see the gates to the park where the portal would still be open, deep in the bushes near the bandstand. But as I got closer, and my vision cleared, I saw the park entrance had a barrier: Police Line. Do Not Cross. There were armed officers ensuring no one did, and a crowd had gathered. There were TV crews and reporters with cameras. I asked a man smoking a pipe what was going on.

‘They’ve found something weird in the park, but they won’t say what.’

‘But I have to get in there,’ I said, too loudly.

My informant shook his head. ‘You’ve got no chance, mate.’

Though I knew it was pointless, I tried to push my way through the cordon, but a police officer grabbed my arm and pulled me back.

‘Can’t you read?’ he asked. ‘Police line. Look!’

And that’s when I knew I wasn’t ever going to get back to my own time. In moments the portal would close. There would be no sign of the weird thing they’d found, and I would be trapped in 1986.

I was still in a concussed daze as I walked back toward the town centre. In truth there wasn’t much for me in my own time.  I was twice divorced – both good women, but they weren’t Hannah. I was living alone. I had few friends and no family to speak of. But how was I going to deal with being trapped in the eighties? Maybe I would find Hannah, but now I wondered what I’d been thinking? She was twenty-two in this time. I was sixty-two. Realistically, I could only gaze at her from afar. Even that felt wrong now.

I stopped to cross the road, checking more than carefully to make sure I didn’t walk in front of another car. And then I saw her. Bathed in the orange light of a streetlamp, I recognised her straight away. Hannah. But it wasn’t the Hannah of 1986. She was older. As old as me, though I could see through all the years.

She raised a hand in a familiar wave and I crossed the road.

‘Hello, John,’ she said, and her bright blue eyes shone as I’d always remembered them.’

My words caught in my throat.’ Is it really you?’

She nodded. ‘This may be the year we last saw each other, but it’s been a long time.’

‘I tried to find you,’ I said. ‘It’s like you disappeared.’

And then she was in my arms, and the years just melted away.

‘How?’ I asked. ‘How are you here, like this?’

‘You’re not the only time traveller,’ she whispered, and then I understood why I’d never been able to find her in my own time. 

‘Did they send you to find me?’ I asked.

‘They did.’

I sighed. ‘I suppose I’m in all kinds of trouble when you take me back.’

Hannah smiled. ‘If I take you back. But what if we just stayed here?’

All the years of wondering, searching, waiting, were over. People say we shouldn’t live in the past, but that’s what I’d been doing for forty years, whether I travelled in time or not. I didn’t know how it would work, but I didn’t care. I was with Hannah again. And as we walked hand in hand back into the town, just as we had done decades before, I knew we would never be apart again.

About the author

Tony is a playwright and his credits include the Derek Jacobi Award for New Playwriting and three-time winner of the UK CDFF Best Original Script Prize. He has also had many stories published in anthologies and magazines. You can follow him here -https://www.facebook.com/tonydomaillewriting/

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)