Fading Glory - By Wendy Greeff

Written By: Wendy Greeff

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Wendy Greeff presents her compelling short story, "Fading Glory." This entry showcases her participation in the competition’s short story category. Greeff’s narrative delves into the complexities of memory and identity, inviting readers to explore the poignant and intricate world of her protagonist. As part of the competition, this story reflects the rich tapestry of human experience that the annual event seeks to highlight.

About the Work

"Fading Glory" is a testament to Wendy Greeff's ability to weave a narrative rich with emotional depth and introspective themes. The story captures the haunting echoes of a fading mind, blending suspense with a deeply personal exploration of the protagonist's inner world. Through vivid imagery and a keen sense of atmosphere, Greeff crafts a tale that resonates with the universal struggle of holding onto one's identity amidst the inevitable passage of time.

Fading Glory

Original Submission by Wendy Greeff

FADING GLORY

The lights went out. The wind was screaming wildly around the windows of the old house, moaning mournfully in the bare branches of the trees. Jagged lightning split the sky. Rain fell in big drops on the steep slate roof. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. Then there was a footfall on the stairs!

‘Mrs T?’

I stop typing and turn around. The woman in the blue tunic is standing in the doorway.

‘There was a footfall on the stairs,’ I announce, wanting to see her reaction. I suspect she thinks I’m a bit mad, and I like to bait her.

She just rolls her eyes. ‘My goodness, that’s exciting!’ she says. ‘But right now you have a visitor waiting for you downstairs. Isn’t that nice?’ And she comes over to me, takes my arm, pulls me up, and propels me toward the wheelchair in the corner. ‘Can you guess who it is?’

I can’t, so I don’t say anything. I just slump down in the sagging leather seat, and wait while she fusses around, putting a tartan rug over my knees, and tucking it in. It’s all so tedious. I look around the room, wanting a distraction of any kind, and I notice that someone has left a novel called Pro Patria Mori on the bedside table. Oh no, it isn’t new, I remember now that I was browsing through it yesterday. The story is about the mother of a young white soldier killed on the Angolan border in the mid-1980’s. It’s well written, though a bit too heavily politicized for my taste. I’ve got to the part where she’s being confronted by the mother of a black freedom fighter, who her son had murdered in a futile quest to protect South Africa from ‘the Communist threat,’ a phrase I suspect the author used tongue-in-cheek. According to the cover, the book won the Commonwealth Prize. All the same, I’m finding it predictable. I often correctly guess what I’m about to read in the next paragraph, or on the next page, and though I’m only halfway through, I’m willing to bet the book will end with reconciliation and a deep bond between the two mothers. That’s the thing about anti-apartheid fiction. Despite its acclaimed profundity and relevance, despite all those belaboured accolades, it has become one of the worst clichés in modern literature.

‘That’s quite a good book,’ I say, pointing. ‘But I think I already know how it’s going to end.’

Blue Tunic ignores me. Instead, she drapes a cardigan around my shoulders. ‘Better stay warm, Mrs T.,’ she says. ‘It’s very cold today, isn’t it? Never mind, it’s mid-winter tomorrow, so we can soon start looking forward to lovely warm spring days!’ I nod because I can’t be bothered to reply. Has the woman nothing better to do than talk about the weather? This intrusion is really irritating me, and all I want is to get back to my story. This morning I noticed someone had put a typewriter on the table by the window, and I decided to use it, just to have something to do, though I don’t think I’ve written a story since the “compositions” I wrote in primary school. And now I realise I was enjoying myself before she so rudely interrupted me. Perhaps I should pass the time by doing creative writing. It’ll make a change from sitting in the armchair reading or staring at the walls.

Blue Tunic pushes the wheelchair into the lift, and we go down. If I remember right, there’s a sitting room somewhere on the ground floor, where hotel residents can receive visitors. The lift stops, and she pushes me out into a foyer. It has a thick, intricately patterned blue and yellow carpet, and on a polished table there’s an imposing flower arrangement in shades of orange, rust, and apricot. This is an up-market establishment, I’ll say that much for it. I look at the flowers as we pass them, recognising some of them, though I don’t know their names. But before I can try to guess what they are, I’m wheeled through a double door.

As I thought, it’s a lounge. Armchairs and couches stand grouped around small low tables. Most are occupied, and for some reason there seem to be lots of elderly people here today. Some are staring at a large wall-mounted television, where Oprah Winfrey listens to a woman talking about her son, who was killed in Iraq. The world seems to be full of women who have lost their sons to war.

We approach the table in the corner, and someone stands up.

Good heavens. It’s Dawn. She’s looking well, and I suspect she must have had a face lift, as she has fewer wrinkles than she had the last time I saw her – God, when was it? At Douglas’s funeral? She’s never bothered with us since he died. That long, shapeless hair makes her look like mutton-dressed-as-lamb, though. I’m surprised. She usually looks impeccable and used to have her hair elegantly cut by a poncy French hairstylist who charged her a fortune.

‘Hello, Dawn,’ I say. ‘Long time no see.’

Her face twitches. ‘No, Mom,’ she says. ‘It’s me. Janice.’

So I’m to be the butt of an elaborate, far-fetched joke, am I? Dawn has always had a corny sense of humour. Is it April Fools’ Day? No, of course not, it’s almost mid-winter. But I’m going to play along. That’ll frustrate her.

‘Gosh, really? How old you’re looking, Janice.’

Dawn is very vain.

Her forehead crumples. ‘Now don’t be silly, Mom,’ she says, confirming my suspicions.

‘So why are you here – Janice?’ I think I’m getting to her. She’ll soon stop this absurd charade.

‘To visit you, of course.’ She’s frowning, and her hands are restless. I’ve obviously spoilt her fun, and that makes me smile.

‘How about some tea, ladies?’ asks Blue Tunic, still hovering.

Dawn shakes her head. ‘Not right now, thanks,’ she says, though I wouldn’t mind a cup.

I scrutinise Dawn. It’s a long time since I’ve seen her, and she still dresses well, though she’s wearing tailored trousers and a silk shirt today, instead of her usual chic shift dresses. Perhaps she can’t wear them anymore. She may have had a face lift, but her figure’s not what it used to be. She isn’t exactly fat, but that extreme slenderness she maintained through ridiculously rigid dieting has given way to a solid, out-of-condition look. Serves her right.

‘Are you okay, Mom?’

‘Of course I am – Janice. Why wouldn’t I be? I’m just sick of this hotel. I want to go home.’

‘Been writing?’

How fast news travels. Blue Tunic must have seen me tapping at the typewriter this morning and has obviously told her I’m now a budding author. I wish she’d go. I can’t wait to get back upstairs to continue with my story. I think I’ll aim for a full-length novel, a thriller. I must think of a catchy title.

‘Jamie and Sasha send their love.’

Jamie? Sasha? Who on earth are they? Sasha sounds like it could be a dog’s name, and she’s always had small, yappy dogs, though I can’t remember what she calls them, let alone their pretentious pedigree titles. ‘I take it you’ve still got your dogs, Dawn?’ I ask. I meant to call her Janice, but it doesn’t matter, I’m now sick of playing along with her pathetic little joke.

She sighs. ‘Oh, Mom, don’t you remember?’ she says. ‘Auntie Dawn passed away after a stroke three years ago. We all went to her funeral.’

I’ve had enough. I turn to Blue Tunic. ‘I’m tired,’ I snap. ‘Take me back to my room. She’s getting on my nerves.’

She nods. ‘Okay, Mrs T,’ she says. She glances at Dawn. ‘I think it’s for the best,’ she says. ‘She’s not having a good day, Mrs Judd.’

Judd? Has Dawn remarried? She was Dawn Elliott last time I saw her. The name Judd seems familiar, though I can’t remember who’s called that. Unfortunately, my memory isn’t what it used to be, which I hate.

‘Yes, I’ve noticed,’ says Dawn.

‘Goodbye, Dawn,’ I say as Blue Tunic begins pushing me away. Because she’s annoyed me, I won’t deign to say anything else, and I don’t bother to look back.

‘’Bye, Mom. I’ll see you next week. And - thank you, Sister,’ she calls after us.

The woman’s ridiculous. This prank of hers, pretending to be someone else, is infantile. If she wants to take the trouble to visit me, why can’t she just sit down and have a cup of tea and a chat like any normal person would? I hope she doesn’t come back. I’ll refuse to see her if she does.

‘That was my late husband’s sister,’ I tell Blue Tunic.

‘Oh,’ she says, pushing me into the lift.

I shut my eyes. When I get back to the room, I will have a cup of tea, and then I’ll continue with my story. How far did I get? Oh, yes, the lights had gone out, and then there were footsteps on the stairs. I must now introduce my heroine. I think I’ll call her Julie Tate.

‘Here you are, then, Mrs T. Back in your room.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Can I get you anything?’

‘Well, I’m sure you can, and you even may.’ Poor grammar really gets up my nose. ‘I’d like a cup of tea, please.’

‘It’s nearly teatime. Mary will be bringing the trolley round shortly. I hear they’ve made scones today, you’ll like that, won’t you?’ She helps me into the chair at the table and leaves the room before I can ask her why she offered to bring me something if she had no intention of doing so.

I turn to the typewriter in exasperation, wind up the sheet on the roller, and read what I’ve written. Yes, it’s good, full of suspense, and the reader should already be itching to read on. My fingers reach for the keys.

Julie froze on the spot, catching her breath sharply. Who could be in the spooky old house with her? A ghost? An intruder? No, no, I’m just being silly, she told herself sternly…

There’s a sound in the doorway behind me, but I don’t turn. I’m so sick of all these interruptions. Besides, the story’s getting exciting. Julie’s about to spot a man coming up the stairs with a blood-stained knife in his hand, illuminated by a flash of lightning.

‘And this is Glory Turnbull.’ It sounds like Blue Tunic’s voice, but she’s speaking softly, she isn’t addressing me. ‘Alzheimer’s, of course. Terribly sad – she used to be a world-famous novelist. She wrote that book Pro Patria Mori which won some major literary award, you may have heard of it. Sometimes she’s still quite lucid, but today… well, the lights are on, but nobody’s at home.’

‘Oh, shame.’

‘Mrs T.?’

I glance over my shoulder. Blue Tunic is standing in the doorway. Next to her is a short, fat black woman, similarly dressed.

‘Mrs T, I’d like you to meet our newest staff member, Sister Sithole. She’ll be working the nightshift on this floor from next week.’

‘Hi, Mrs T. Glad to meet you.’

‘Good afternoon, Sister Sithole,’ I say, detesting her attempt to be pally so early in our acquaintance. I’m a great believer in formality between strangers. Young people have no manners these days.

Without so much as a ‘goodbye’ or ‘thank you for your time’ they move on, and I turn back to my typewriter. Where had I got to? I can’t remember, because suddenly Blue Tunic’s voice is echoing in my head. The lights are on, but nobody’s at home…

No. She’s wrong. She’s very wrong. The truth is right here, typed on the page in front of me.

The lights went out.

And I am at home, and sitting alone in the darkness.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is an esteemed platform that celebrates the art of storytelling and poetic expression. The competition attracts a diverse range of entries from around the world, showcasing the creativity and literary talents of participants across multiple categories. It offers writers an opportunity to share their unique voices and contribute to the global tapestry of literature and poetry.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Wendy Greeff for her captivating submission, "Fading Glory," to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her story enriches the competition with its profound exploration of memory and identity. We look forward to witnessing more of her literary endeavors and thank her for sharing her artistry with us.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.