Storyy Hut

Fathima woke up drenched in sweat, her throat parched, her breath ragged with panic, and her mind was singly focused on the terrible ordeal she had just gone through. A dream, however peculiar or daunting, could not have loosened her spirits, however it was the mystery around her dreams from the past week that seemed to unnerve Fathima. Every night, in the tranquility of her sleep, she dreamt of a man- wise in age and serene in disposition- who foretold her future… an event, a fair warning. Though she initially brushed it off as a mere coincidence, the repetition had begun to scare her and today, her fright had reached her Zenith for the man had possibly foretold her death- “The end of this life for her”- to be precise with his words. She glanced at the scar on her arm from her accident last week- yet another instance of her dream manifesting itself into reality. Icy shackles of fear gripped her and suffocated her, prompting her to gasp for breath. This continued for some moment...

Mud swallowed every step that private Thompson took. The November rain had turned the mooring lands of Hürtgen Forest into a sucking mire, its damp air reeking of decay and rot. He trudged forward, armed with his mud covered rifle, in this eerily silent forest with its trees casting a suffocating gloom over him. Last night, his regiment had been ambushed by the Germans, forcing them to disperse in the dead of night to avoid being gun down. He remembered losing the company of his comrades, and then his balance as he tripped midflight in this usurping mud land. The next thing he knew; he was in the middle of nowhere in this hellish battle land. Alone and forgotten. But then he saw them, in a distance, a heart-wrenching march of death. He hid, he crawled through the muddy swampy land till he reached a point where these wavering figurines took the shape of soldiers- slow but fluid and unwavering in their movements. They stood in the mist-shrouded trench ahead. Their uniforms were old—b...