Short Story 6
Among My Souvenirs
In the late summer of 1985, Amanda and I broke up our deep friendship with a bitter argument over my proposal of marriage. Amanda Marconi refused to accept me as her husband, because of what she called her commitment to join the army in her home city of Turin in Italy. With her hazel brown eyes and clear white skin, along with her round face and dark blonde hair, her beauty captivated me. I could not bear the thought of life without her.
“Why, why won’t you marry me?” I asked her, “How can I be sure you won’t marry another man?”
“Because,” she replied emphatically, “I am joining the armed forces back home in Italy. I am not, I repeat, I am not marrying another man.”
I stepped forward. “But how can you join the army? It’s such a risky job. You’ll be exposed to danger of_”
“Enough.” Amanda raised her hand to push me away. “That is enough. I’m sick and tired of your chauvinist attitude.”
My pulse began to quicken. “I just can’t understand what you see in army life. Don’t you like living here in Oxford? Don’t you love_”
“No, I do not like Oxford. There is nothing for me here, no jobs or anything. I choose to be in the army because of family tradition.” Her face reddened, and here eyes became wet. “Goodbye, I go now.” She ran to the door, and slammed it shut, leaving me alone indoors.
#
I never sought another young lady to fall in love with, and kept a stubborn determination never to get married. “Alex Jordan” my friends would tell me every now and then, “find yourself a wife, or you’ll be lonely all the time.” I did not reply and also ignored what they said. Being a bachelor increased feelings of solitude. Every day at work and every night at home I thought of Amanda and quietly asked “Where did I go wrong?” I could never be cheerful nor did I find happiness.
After an year of longing and regrets, I began to look at several souvenirs that were stored in my living room cupboard, as a way of using up my spare time. Among my souvenirs of places visited, I found an old monochrome portrait of both Amanda and me while on holiday in Turin. In the portrait, Amanda looked bright and happy and her arm was wrapped around my shoulders. Looking at the photograph, I wondered how she coped with army life, and whether she kept alive the memories of us together.
#
Days, then weeks went by and my yearning to meet Amanda increased until one summer morning in July of eighty-five I wrote a letter to her. I wished her good luck in her army career and I let her know I missed her. “I think of you every time it rains, and every time the sun rises and the sun sets. Every day at work in the office and every evening and weekend at home, I think of you,” I wrote in the letter.
I hoped and prayed after posting the letter that she would write back. But the weeks passed by without a letter from her. But one fine morning in September a letter came from Turin. Amanda wrote that she could not reply earlier because of wounds she suffered during army training exercises which disabled her permanently, and hence she left the army. “You are welcome to visit me here in Turin. I miss you too,” she wrote, and gave details of her address and how to reach her home she shared with her mother.
After reading her letter, I felt a burning desire to meet her in her home in Turin. So I booked a flight to Italy and travelled to Turin to meet Amanda. Throughout the flight and even while taking a taxi to her home, I looked forward with eager anticipation to seeing her.
#
The house appeared to be built of whitewashed limestone, and on one side of the building, a climbing plant seemed to embrace the outer wall. I knocked at the large black door. A lean, tall lady with greying hair but nonetheless a smooth wrinkle-free face answered with an initial greeting of “Buongiorno?”
“Hello, Buongiorno. I’m Alex Jordan from Oxford, England. I’ve come to see Amanda Marconi?”
“Ah, Alex!” she said with cheerful recognition, “Please come in. My daughter Amanda told me you were coming today. Please come in.”
Misses Marconi ushered me to a large brown leather chair and suggested that I wait for a minute. She then went to a back room and returned with Amanda. “Alex, so good of you to come to Turin,” Amanda said, while pushing her wheelchair to get closer.
“Amanda, how are you? I missed you so much.” I felt elated with joy at meeting her again, but saddened at the same time to see Amanda in a wheelchair.
“I’m fine except for my injuries. I’m no longer in the army because the doctors said I need to take things easier from now on.”
I leaned forward. “Amanda,” I said, “I wonder if we could live together again? I mean, I would like….I really want to move here to Turin. I love you now as I loved you before, and I never found anyone as good and attractive as you.”
Amanda glanced at her mother who gave us a cheerful nod of approval. There was a minutes silence. “Alex, I would love it if you lived here in Turin. We can start our relationship again, if you wish.”
I leapt up from the large chair. “Yes, of course. Of course.” I got on my knees and held her hands in mine.
©hasanabdulla2025
Short Story 5
A Patriot?
“James Callum, that’s not a New Year’s Resolution. That’s a death wish.” Frank Lucas, the Personnel Manager of the Beacon magazine slapped his table with a loud bang. “Do you really mean to suggest that you will join MI6 to spy on the Kremlin this coming January?” He scowled at his employee, a young graphics design specialist in his late twenties.
“So what if it’s a death wish? I don’t care a damn if it sounds like a death wish. I’m determined to wipe out those Russian commies.”
“Wipe them out, did you say?” John asked. “Do you mean wipe out the communists or the Russians or both.”
“Communists, Russians, they’re the same thing.” James replied. He gritted his teeth in anger.
“Are you sure? Some of the Russians flee their country. Surely you have enough general knowledge to know that not all Russians approve of Communism?”
“I just want to defend our country against those Russians.”
Frank Lucas leaned back and pinched his brows in frustration. Then he straightened his posture and said, “James Benton, you have a perfectly good job working as a graphic designer for our company. You don’t need to fight for Britain. We are not at war with the Russians. Don’t you get that?”
“I know a lot about computers,” James said, his face now long drawn and sullen. “My uncle worked for MI6. I can easily pick up where he left off.”
“What you really mean is, you want to quit your job here at any price.” John narrowed his brows in anger.
“What I really mean is that I want to do a job that’s more significant.”
“Thanks a lot for nothing. So this job you do now is worthless.” Frank drew his breath. Then he said, “Why don’t we come to an agreement. Take the Christmas period to decide if you want to stay in this job or not. I’ll call you on the phone at New Years Eve, how’s that.”
“That sounds reasonable,” James said. Frank noticed his employee curl his lips.
#
At New Years Eve, Frank telephoned James at his home number at ten in the morning. He waited for James to pick up the phone call but after a prolonged five minutes James’s father Albert answered the call.
“Hullo Mister Benton, this is Frank Lucas. May I speak to James?”
“He’s not at home,” Albert said, “he has run off to….to somewhere in London.”
“I wanted to ask him if he wished to stay on in our offices at the Beacon magazine. It seems he doesn’t.”
“I tried, I tried to persuade him to stay on at his job,” Albert said. He struggled to avoid sounding depressed. “But he was determined to join MI6.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. He did tell me about that. It seems he really means it.”
“Can you call back again later? Say after about a week. He might be back home, unless…..unless_”
“Please don’t stress yourself sir. I’ll certainly call back a week later.” Frank ended the call with a sharp pang of disappointment.
#
After a week, Frank telephoned the Benton home. He anxiously hoped that James would answer his call. The telephone rang for a minute, then five minutes, and then after ten minutes, it was picked up by Albert Benton.
“Good morning sir,” said Frank, “is James at home? This is Mister Lucas, his_”
“Yes, yes I know. James is not at home. He is being……he is being held in prison for accepting a bribe from an oligarch in Moscow. MI6 brought him back and he has to face criminal charges.”
Speechless after hearing the news from Albert Benton, Frank put down the phone slowly, and ended the call.
©hasanabdulla2025
Short Story 4
Unforgettable
The College lecturer Mark Corleoni flung a piece of chalk directly at me. “James Harris,” he said, “please pay attention and stop daydreaming.” Professor Corleoni’s voice thundered across the whole classroom.
“Sorry sir,” I said, and shook my head to regain attention. The girls in the room all giggled and the boys all laughed quietly at me. Neither the tutor nor any of the students could understand why I kept daydreaming. Even my parents Robert and Emma could not understand the reason why I was such a lazy boy.
At that time in 1955 in the city of New York, the movie ‘Key Largo’ proved popular, and I watched it in the theatre halls repeatedly despite protests from Ma and Pa. That same year the College lecturers sent complaints time after time to my parents about my sluggish behaviour. Then after six months of complaints, Pa took me to see a psychotherapist to determine the root cause of my ‘sloth like’ attitude.
#
Carl Hendrich, the psychotherapist welcomed me and my father to his consultation room and ushered us to a dark brown leather settee to take our seats and “be comfortable”. Mister Hendrich, a tall slim built professional with steel rimmed spectacles and a grey suit asked, “Now tell me Mister Harris, how can I help your son?”
“My son James keeps daydreaming during his College lessons. The tutors have sent me numerous complaints and both me and my wife have tried our best to try to get him to show more interest in his studies. But our efforts are becoming hopeless. I’m worried he has become ill.” Pa groaned with every word he said.
Mister Hendrich looked directly at me with a patronising smile, “James certainly looks alert at the moment.”
“But Mister Hendrich,” my father said, “when he is in class at his College, and even when he is at home in his room, he spends most of the time looking out of the window, or if he is at home he looks non-stop at a large poster. He keeps dreaming away.”
“James, is that true?” Hendrich asked me with a fixed grin on his face. He seemed to think it all funny. I pouted my lips. My fingers gripped the armrest of the settee in anger.
Mister Hendrich continued, “You look out the window a lot when at College, and at home you keep looking at a poster. Am I correct?” He now became more business-like. My muscles relaxed, and I stopped pouting my mouth.
“Yes, that is right.” I said defiantly, with the suspicion he would proceed to do something nasty.
“And is the poster so interesting that you ignore your studies?”
“Yes it is.” I stressed every word.
“Can you tell me who is on that poster?” Mister Hendrich asked. I could see his increasing concern.
“Lauren Bacall,” I replied with proud defiance.
“I see. I understand.” Carl Hendrich now grinned again, and more widely. He tried not to laugh.
“I see, so you are a fan of the actress Lauren Bacall?”
“Yes I am.” I came close to banging my foot on the floor, but decided not to in order to avoid worrying Papa.
“And do you think Misses Bacall would be pleased if she discovers that you neglect your studies?” Mister Hendrich kept up a fixed patronising smile.
I thought for a minute, then two minutes, then looked up and said, “I suppose she would not be pleased at all.”
Carl Hendrich ended the consultation and said to Papa, “It’s clear to me that young James here is deeply infatuated with a Hollywood actress. You just need to give him some time and he will recover from it. Otherwise there is nothing wrong with him”
“But Mister Hendrich,” said Papa, “what if he decides to pursue a career as an actor in Hollywood? I would be so worried in case something terrible happens to him, for instance being lured into taking too much alcohol or even drugs like cocaine.”
“I’m sure he’ll grow out of it,” said Carl Hendrich.
Papa waited for a minute before he stood up and said, “I’ll take your word for it.” I could see the worry lingering in his face.
#
After the consultation, I regained my concentration and caught up with my studies to narrowly get through the final exams in Contract Law. My parents wanted dearly for me to become a lawyer. I never pursued a job as a lawyer, but then I never tried to become an actor. Instead, I eventually gained a job in Graphic design for a national magazine. I remained a passionate fan of Lauren Bacall, and continued my entire life to watch movies of the Hollywood ‘Silver Screen’.
©hasanabdulla2025
Short Story 3
His Only Hope?
Philip looked deep into the clear blue eyes of Probation Officer Tina Holmes with adulation, and he smiled. “You look so beautiful,” he said, and he leaned forward to kiss her. He could not resist that milky white face with such smooth skin.
She darted her head back, so that his lips failed to touch her face. Then she slowly straightened herself and said, “We need to discuss the community service you have done since leaving the prison over the course of this week.” Making an effort to sound like a policewoman, she continued, “from what your residential worker Bob Paine has told me, your work seems promising, so_”
“So how about a cuddle at least?”
“Philip Daniels,” said Tina, raising her voice, “do you know where you are at this moment?”
“In a probation hostel”
“Exactly,” she said, “so please try to avoid such teenage pranks.”
“Tina,” said Philip, with a sombre expression on his face, “you are my only hope of being a normal citizen. Please don’t discharge me from your care so soon. Don’t you see I love you?”
“You,” she said, pointing her finger at him, “are at the probation officer’s desk, not a dating club.” Her pulse quickened, and her limbs stiff with anger.
Bob Paine, a burly giant of a man with a close cropped haircut, knocked and entered the interview room. “Is he behaving himself?” he asked Tina, with his finger pointed at Philip, a slim built twenty year old in his red-checked cotton shirt and navy blue jeans.
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Tina said. “The interview has come to close.” She grabbed her notebook and diary, and shoved them into her briefcase. “Bob, I need to talk to you in your office if it’s convenient.”
“Yes of course,” Bob replied. He looked down at Philip and with cold disapproval said, “Here is a letter just come for you this morning. You can read it when you return to your room.” He put the envelope firmly on the table in front of Philip as though it would slip away to the floor.
Philip kept his glance on Tina. He did not pick up the letter. “I’ll read it later” he said.
He continued looking at her when she sprinted out of the room, and even as Bob stared at him with anger. He looked away only when Bob followed Tina out of the interview room.
#
“I’ve had enough,” Tina said, while Bob opened his office door to let her in. “I swear I’ve had enough of this Philip.” Bob ushered her to a chair, and she slammed her briefcase onto his worktable. “I am resigning from this job. That slob won’t stop making his advances. I’m sick of it.”
Bob pursed his eyebrows. Puzzled by her extreme language, he replied, “I admit he is a difficult parolee. But don’t leave your job. You’re doing fine, Tina. I mean it.”
“No,” she said. “I really want to quit. That Philip keeps staring into my eyes as though he’s madly in love with me. He gives me the creeps. I can’t take this anymore.”
Bob noticed her eyes simmering with rage. “Wait. Just give yourself a short break for a week or so. Then you might feel better.” He offered her a cup of coffee, and on accepting his offer, he saw her muscles relax.
“Oh, well. I’ll try.” Tina settled down to drink the coffee.
#
Back in his room after the interview with Tina, Philip sluggishly pulled out the letter from his trouser pocket, ready for the worst news about his probation period. He could never be Tina’s husband, but he felt he needed her. Perhaps the probation office knew about his advances, and wanted his return to prison? He opened the envelope slowly with trembling fingers. “What the deuce?” he said aloud. “It’s my sister’s handwriting. Hope to God everything’s okay at home. And what’s this? A photograph.”
“Dear Phil,” wrote Susan his elder sister, “I thought you should know that your partner Lisa is divorcing you. She has found another man. I’ve always believed you never should have married that useless slut. But I can also inform you that Lisa gave birth to your baby son while you served time in prison. Lisa has told us she cannot look after your son, so she handed him over to us. Little Tommy keeps asking where his papa is. Your dad and mom and I are looking after Tommy and we cannot wait until you return home.”
Philip looked at the photograph. A little baby boy seemed to look at him with a smiling expectant face. The gloom lifted from Philip’s heart. The sunshine illuminated the room more brightly, and a fresher wind drifted in through the window.
#
That evening, Philip heard the customary knock on his door to announce dinner-time. Before Bob could move to the next parolee’s door, he called out to the residential worker. “Bob, I got news.”
“Really?” Bob turned round to look at him. “I hope it’s not another mischief. Come on, let’s have it. What have you been up to?”
“I just found out I got a son,” said Philip, as though he didn’t hear Bob’s derogatory remarks.
“Congratulations,” said Bob, without any sign of pleasure or happiness. “You may be on the mend eventually.”
“Can I go home soon. The family can’t wait to have me back.”
“I’m not sure about that. You’ll have to stay on probation for the required time.” Bob replied, and he turned to go while saying, “By the way, Tina is no longer your probation officer.”
#
A week later on a Monday, Bob Paine knocked at Philip’s door at the early hour of eight in the morning. “I’ve got news,” Bob said to an astonished Philip, “You can return home this week on Thursday. Your probation officer will no longer be Tina Holmes, but a gentleman by the name of James Campanella.”
hasanabdulla©hasanabdulla2025
Short Story 2
Smugglers Road Trip
By Hasan Abdulla
“All set?” Jeffrey asked Rick and Dave with large open eyes that scanned the road out of Toulouse in France, searching for signs of any unwelcome police or army officers. Dressed in dark brown khaki jackets and trousers, the three men were outside the city at a petrol station, and Rick the driver of the Range Rover, took his seat ready for the four hour road trip to San Sebastian in Northern Spain. In San Sebastian they planned to deposit their ‘cargo’ ready for shipment to the United States.
“Yes, all set.” Rick took the steering wheel and began to drive out of Southern France, with Jeffrey seated next to him and Dave at the back of their vehicle to keep an eye out for ‘trouble’.
“San Sebastian, here we come,” Jeffrey said, with a broad grin from ear to ear as soon as Rick drove towards the Pyrenees mountains at a menacing speed.
“I say, Jeffrey.” Rick began to speak, but immediately coughed because of his dry and parched throat. The three men ignored drinking spring water for several hours before their journey, fully occupied with the preparation of their ‘cargo’ for export. “I mean, you know.” He coughed again. “After we sell all this cocaine?”
“We’ll have fun of course,” replied Jeffrey. And he coughed loudly. “With lots of alcohol and women strippers.” He coughed again and laughed.
#
After over an hour Dave glanced at the road ahead after a long watch at the back of their Range Rover. “I have a feeling we’re coming close to the Spanish border,” Dave said, and coughed violently. “I suppose there will be checkpoints?” He coughed again for a longer time of five minutes.
“So what?” Jeffrey said emphatically. “We’ll just smash our way across. Those Spaniards can’t stop us.”
The mountain roads became increasingly bumpy with potholes and every minute the Range Rover jerked up and down while Rick drove onwards to Spain.
Soon they were within sight of a border checkpoint. Rick was ordered to stop his Range Rover by the guards standing at the crossing. One of the guards placed his hand on the door of the vehicle. “Can we see your passports?”
“Of course,” said Jeffrey. He handed three seemingly genuine passports.
“What is the purpose of your_”
“Sergeant,” said one of the border guards who had gone to the back of the Range Rover to check for anything suspicious. “Look at this.” He held up a damaged toy, a stuffed cuddly bear that leaked out a white powder.
Rick hit the accelerator and drove the vehicle at over ninety miles an hour. The border guards shouted “Stop” repeatedly and fired their semi-automatic rifles but Rick continued to drive forward at a punishing speed.
Within seconds five armoured police cars pursued the smugglers and closed the distance between them every minute. Rick stared at the dashboard. There were only twenty minutes worth of petrol left. He increased his speed.
Jeffrey and Dave took aim at the police cars and fired shots with their handguns with a furious intensity. The police fired back relentlessly. With the blazing hot sun now shining in Dave’s direction, he began to squint and kept missing his target. His hands began to shake with exhaustion. With sweat pouring down his face, Rick swerved around and fired twenty times at the police. But on doing so, he lost control of his vehicle, and the large Range Rover hit a pothole and fell over the edge of a mountain slope. All three smugglers were trapped in the vehicle, that tumbled down to the valley floor, and all three instantly died in a large explosion at the foot of the Pyrenees mountains.
copyright©hasanabdulla2025
Short Story 1
THE PHOBIA
It was January 2022 in Wimbledon, London when together with our neighbors Jack and Bethany, Nicola and I celebrated the end of the Covid-19 pandemic with a New Year dinner party. Jack looked immaculate with his navy-blue dinner jacket and trousers as did Bethany with her glossy green dress. Seated opposite at the dinner table at our home, Jack kept a fixed gaze at the kitchen door waiting for the food Nicola prepared.
“The dinner will be ready soon,” I said with a chuckle, “I can see you are hungry.”
Within a minute, Nicola came to the dinner table with a large serving dish covered up with a steel lid.
“Here comes the dinner, hooray,” said Bethany. She clapped her hands and soon Jack clapped his hands in delight.
But an unexpected thing happened when Nicola placed the serving dish on the centre of the table and lifted up the cover. Jack stopped clapping and said “Oh no, no.” His face became pale white with terror. “I can’t eat that. I mean I can’t…..” He quickly pulled a paper tissue from his shirt pocket and covered his mouth. I could see him shivering.
“What happened?” I asked. “It’s only a roast chicken.”
“I can’t. I can’t eat that.” Jack replied, his voice muffled by the paper tissue he still kept on his mouth. Beads of sweat trickled down his face.
“Are you feeling sick?” Bethany asked him, her hand holding his arm.
“Yes, I’m terribly sick. I’m frightened.” Jack’s hand trembled while he covered his mouth.
“Did I make the wrong meal?” Nicola asked the couple. “I’m so sorry. I thought Jack enjoyed roast chicken.”
“Don’t,” Jack said, “don’t even say that word.” He struggled to stand up and leave the table. Bethany gripped his arm to stop him from falling to the floor.
“What on earth is the matter with him today?” I asked Bethany. I felt disappointed and angry. So much time, so much work was done by Nicola and I in hosting the dinner party. And this is how Jack behaved.
“He’s not usually like this,” Bethany replied, “I better take Jack home. So sorry about all this.”
I stood up and watched in silence as Nicola opened the door to let the couple leave for home.
#
The following evening, I received a hastily written note from Jack that Bethany had brought to our door. He explained in the note that his mother, his only parent, died of food poisoning as a result of eating roast chicken ordered online from a takeaway only six days ago, and he now suffered from psychiatric depression.
copyright©hasanabdulla2025
