Literary Fiction

The sun beat down mercilessly on the shifting sands as Nadia adjusted her headscarf, squinting against the glare. Her weathered Land Rover bumped and jolted across the dunes, the familiar rhythm almost lulling her into a trance. But she couldn’t afford to lose focus - not when she was so close to her goal. For years, Nadia had searched for the legendary Oasis of Zerzura, following whispers and fragments of ancient texts. As the foremost expert on lost desert civilizations, she knew the oasis was more than just a myth. It was the key to unlocking the secrets of a vanished people, their knowledge and culture preserved in an impossible paradise hidden among the endless sands. ...

Evelyn Marsh stood at her kitchen window, gazing out at the overgrown garden she’d once tended with care. The weeds had taken over now, choking out the flowers and vegetables her late husband Jack had loved so much. She sighed, running a hand through her graying hair. At forty-two, she felt decades older, worn down by grief and the monotony of small-town life. The sharp ring of the telephone cut through the silence, making her jump. Evelyn hesitated before answering, steeling herself for whatever fresh misery awaited on the other end of the line. ...

The autumn breeze carried a hint of woodsmoke as Evelyn Marsh stepped out of her rental car. She inhaled deeply, savoring the familiar scent of her hometown. Millbrook hadn’t changed much in twenty years—the same quaint storefronts lining Main Street, the towering elm trees now ablaze with fall colors. But Evelyn’s return wasn’t about nostalgia. She was here to shake things up. Her heels clicked purposefully on the sidewalk as she made her way to Town Hall. A few curious glances followed her progress—Millbrook didn’t see many smartly-dressed professionals on a Tuesday morning. Evelyn felt a twinge of self-consciousness. Perhaps the tailored pantsuit was overkill for small-town New England. But first impressions mattered, especially today. ...

The elderberry bushes stood like silent sentinels in the early morning mist, their branches heavy with clusters of deep purple fruit. Mara Thorne moved between the rows with practiced efficiency, her calloused hands gently testing the berries for ripeness. The farm had been in her family for generations, and she knew every inch of it like the lines on her own weathered face. As she neared the far end of the field, Mara’s steps slowed. Something wasn’t right. The bushes here looked different - leaves curled and discolored, berries shriveled and pale. Her stomach clenched as she bent to examine them more closely. ...