Vivid Visions is a collection of tales that explore the fragile line between reality and the unknown.
Each story dives into human emotionsâgrief, regret, fearâunravelling dark truths and eerie encounters that blur the familiar with the surreal, leaving readers questioning what lies beneath the surface.
Vivid Visions is a collection of tales that explore the fragile line between reality and the unknown.
Each story dives into human emotionsâgrief, regret, fearâunravelling dark truths and eerie encounters that blur the familiar with the surreal, leaving readers questioning what lies beneath the surface.
The sound of the auctioneerâs voice sliced through the dense air of the underground market. âLot 326: A childâs laughter, a memory of love, purity, and motherhood. Starting bid: 500 credits.â
Elara stood at the back of the room, her heart pounding. She hadnât intended to come, not again. The last time she had left the Memory Auction, her head was fogged with fleeting glimpses of lives that werenât hersâpurchased moments that only deepened the emptiness she couldnât explain. But this memory, this one, with the word âMomâ laced through it like a thread of silver, drew her forward.
Her hand shot up before she could stop herself. Others in the crowd turned toward her, curiousâshe was familiar enough in these circles. The woman who never stayed long, always vanished when the memory ended, as if haunted by something she couldnât outrun.
âFive hundred credits. Do I hear five fifty?â The auctioneer scanned the room, but no one raised a hand. Not for this. Not for the memory of a child. Some bidders avoided itâparental memories carried a weight that could suffocate. Others came for simpler pleasures: the thrill of a loverâs touch, the adrenaline of their first crime, moments of glory snatched from war-torn lands. Not this one.
âGoing onceâŚâ
Elaraâs hand clenched the edge of her coat, her mind racing.
âGoing twiceâŚâ
The finality of the hammer rang in her ears. âSold!â
She was ushered into the back room, a cold and clinical place, the whirring of machinery the only sound. The memory broker, an older man with wires dangling from his wrists, didnât bother with pleasantries. âLay down,â he said, gesturing to the worn recliner.
Elara obeyed, eyes shut, heartbeat wild in her chest. The metal circlet fit around her temples, and for a moment, there was nothing but darkness. Then, the memory flooded in.
â-
She was sitting on a sun-drenched porch, an autumn breeze swirling orange leaves at her feet. A childâher childâran toward her, arms wide, with the softest voice in the world calling out, âMom!â Elaraâs heart soared, filling with warmth she had never known. She lifted the child into her arms, feeling the solid weight, the sweetness of their small body resting against hers. There was laughter, pure and full of love, the kind that only existed between a mother and her child.
For that brief moment, she knew what it was to be someoneâs mother.
â-
When she awoke, the weight of the memory clung to her, as if the child was still there, whispering her name. She staggered out of the recliner, the broker already distracted by the next client. But Elara couldnât shake the feelingâthis child, the one who called her âMom,â was out there. And she had to find them.
â-
Days turned into weeks. Elaraâs search for answers consumed her. She combed through databases, public records, everything she could find on children, mothers, missing families. The city was vast, its streets filled with people who had given up on the past, their memories stolen or sold, traded like commodities in the auctions. But Elara couldnât let go. She started visiting orphanages, shelters, asking about children who might fit the hazy image from the memory.
The memory didnât fade, as most purchased ones did. Instead, it grew sharper, more insistent, haunting her dreams, the childâs laughter echoing in her mind even when she was awake.
One afternoon, she found herself at an old, rundown orphanage on the outskirts of the city. The director, a tired woman with graying hair, eyed Elara warily as she asked her questions. âWeâve had many children through here,â the director said, flipping through records. âBut nothing unusual lately.â
Elara nodded, defeated. But just as she turned to leave, a small voice called out from the shadows of the hallway.
âMom?â
She froze.
A little girl, no older than five, stood at the doorway. Her dark curls framed her pale face, her eyes wide with recognition. âMom,â she said again, running toward Elara, arms outstretched.
Elaraâs heart thudded in her chest as she knelt to catch the child. âNo,â she whispered. âIt canât beâŚâ But the girl clung to her as if theyâd never been apart.
Tears burned Elaraâs eyes. âWhatâs your name, sweetheart?â
âSophia,â the girl answered, her small hand tracing the lines on Elaraâs face as if sheâd known them forever.
â-
The director cleared her throat behind them. âWe found her about a year ago, no records, no family. Weâve been calling her Sophia, but⌠sheâs never responded to anyone like this before.â Her voice wavered, a note of confusion seeping in. âSheâs yours?â
Elara nodded slowly, though the answer didnât make sense. Could a memory bought at auction lead to this? Was it just some cruel twist of fate, or had the memory been real after all?
â-
That night, Elara took Sophia home. The apartment felt different with the little girl in it, filled with the soft hum of life and warmth that had never been there before. Sophiaâs laughter filled the spaces that once felt hollow, and Elaraâs heart ached with the beauty of it.
But something lingered at the edges of Elaraâs mind, something unsettling. The child was perfect, too perfectâlike she had stepped straight out of the memory. And though Elara wanted desperately to believe that this was her daughter, that fate had somehow reunited them, a gnawing doubt festered.
One evening, as Sophia slept, Elara went back to the auction house. She found the broker, demanded answers. He shrugged, lighting a cigarette. âMemories donât come from nowhere,â he said casually. âTheyâre taken, stolen, copied⌠But once theyâre in your mind, they feel as real as your own. Whoâs to say they arenât?â
Elara felt cold. âWhere did my memory come from?â
The broker leaned back, blowing smoke into the air. âFrom someone who doesnât have them anymore.â
The weight of his words crushed her. âThe motherââ Elaraâs voice broke.
âShe sold the memory. Gave it up. Maybe sheâs gone, maybe not. Doesnât matter. Itâs yours now.â
Elara stumbled from the building, her breath ragged. Sophiaâs laughter echoed in her ears, but now, it was tinged with a darkness she couldnât shake. She had bought a piece of someone elseâs life. And the child she had come to loveâwas she a daughter, or just the echo of a forgotten past?
â-
As the days passed, Elara watched Sophia with a growing sense of dread. The child was perfect. And one night, as she tucked Sophia into bed, the girl looked up at her and whispered, âYouâll forget me too, wonât you?â
Elara froze, her heart shattering. She pulled the child close, whispering, âNever, I could never forget you.â
But deep down, she knew that wasnât true.
â-
The following day, Elara woke to an empty bed. Sophia was gone. The apartment was silent, the warmth gone, replaced by the cold ache of loss. No matter where she searched, no one remembered the little girl. No one had ever seen her.
It was as if she had only ever existed in the memory Elara had bought.
And now, even that was starting to fade.
â-
Elara stood in the doorway, her heart hollow, as the faint sound of a childâs laughter echoed from the edges of her fading mind.
This month, I had the pleasure of reading Seyed Mosayeb Alamâs short story collection titled, Vivid Visions. At several points throughout this book, I was taken aback by how eloquently and easily he built up an image from the feelings of each character. Despite only spending a maximum of seven pages with our protagonists, Alam succeeds in making their experiences feel realised and hard-hitting. No narrative within this book is out of place and all serve to enhance the themes.
One aspect of this collection I grew to appreciate more with every tale were the last lines, which I cannot include here, of course. But what I can tell you is that the finality of these lines felt crafted for each individual conflict, rather than feeling like generic, disconnected endings.
Whether itâs a mother dealing with her grief in a unconventional way, a man mourning his wife suffering with Alzheimers, or a group of friends confronted with loss in a way they could never have expected, Alam takes the reader through nine varying experiences starting at different stages of grief. One line that beautifully encapsulates the last stage of grief (acceptance), appears in The Christmas Confession, âThe house didnât answer back, but in her heart, she felt something shift, like a door closing gently behind her.â Having the protagonist describe herself speaking to something that represents a desire as ingrained in humans as âhomeâ and knowing it will not reply, is a wonderful example of how Alam uses subtlety to convey the intimacy of loss in such a masterful way.
My personal favourite from this collection is The Whispering Woods. Alam manages to immediately communicate the uncertain atmosphere of the setting. A clever method Alam uses to convey the charactersâ slow journey to the truth of the situation is having the terrain of the woods become more unstable the closer they get. Other than the last line, which just so happens to be my favourite of this collection, a quote that continues to stick with me is, âDust clung to everything, like a layer of time that had forgotten to move.â This line alone describes the reality our characters are about to face.
If youâre searching for a quick, yet inspired read that uses fantastical and eerie imagery to walk you through a diverse collection of tales surrounding loss, I highly recommend checking out Alamâs Vivid Visions.