Memories Forgotten - By Caroline Gron

Written By: Caroline Gron

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the haunting short story "Memories Forgotten" by Caroline Gron, readers are invited to explore a narrative that weaves themes of legacy and loss. As a participant in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Caroline Gron delves into profound reflections on the nature of memory and the impact of stories left behind. This piece captures the essence of remembrance and the silent witnesses to human emotion and tragedy.

About the Work

"Memories Forgotten" is a poignant tale that captures the essence of forgotten stories and the fleeting nature of legacy. Caroline Gron's narrative is imbued with a somber mood, rich with vivid imagery and emotional depth. The story evokes an atmosphere of mystery and sadness, as it explores the intersection of love, loss, and the inexorable passage of time. Readers will be drawn into its captivating and thought-provoking world.

Memories Forgotten

Original Submission by Caroline Gron

Gron

Memories Forgotten

Your story will only last for so long, your legacy only lasts as long as someone remembers what you did. Only as long as there is someone who gives you a margin of space in their head. But they had no family, no one to remember them. Except for me, but soon I will be gone too. Soon you too will forget me, but I will make sure that somewhere, somehow, they are remembered.

Their story started out as many do, a young girl who lived in a village, pretty; but not pretty enough to catch the attention of any of the young boys. At least that's what he told me. She was dutiful and obedient; would go around doing her chores, gave the day-old bread to the old woman who sat huddled in the corner, and never spoke unless spoken to.

One day, a new boy arrived in the village. No one knew where he came from, and he gave no inclination to tell anyone. He was, for the most part, peaceful. He worked hard and got an apprenticeship with the carpenter. He would faithfully collect wood from the nearby forest, and appeared to avoid the grand oak on the hill, rising above all other trees, just like everyone else. Stories gathered around it, stories that were told in hushed whispers, with fast-moving eyes, and frantic voices. These stories weren’t just to scare the children into listening to their elders. No, everyone believed them. And those villagers did not even know half the stories.

The young boy could be found sending longing glances at the young girl throughout the day. And one day, as the two of them passed, he slipped into her hand a small piece of paper, on which was written, “Meet me at the river as the moon begins its decline, tell no one.”

Now the girl was a sensible young woman, so she ignored the note. Telling herself that it was a silly note from someone trying to scare her. The next day though, she got the same note. This continued on for a week, slipped into her pocket, tucked into her baskets, before her curiosity got the best of her.

That night, a week after her first note. She went down to the river. Her slight figure came in and out of view in the dim light the waning moon provided. But the boy and I saw her. Slowly he crept down the hill, and under his bare feet the grass barely made a sound. Suddenly his hands struck out, one curling around the girl's waist, the other covering her mouth to muffle her screams. But I still heard them, they were so strong my limbs shook, not with fear for her. Never that. I have seen enough in my lifetime to not fear for something that trivial.

The boy whipped her around, and I saw her face for the first time. Her eyes were big with fear, until she saw his boyish smile, her body relaxed, and she let out a soft exhale.

I heard no words; I have never been good at that. Even when I was young. But after some time she left. And he stayed.

This happened over many nights, and slowly, ever so slowly. I watched him gain her trust. And every day, to the girls' ignorance, they inched their way up my hill, and towards me.

Finally, after many moons they were almost under me. Finally I could hear their conversations, watch them get lost in the others arms, and simply breathe together.

I watched their romance blossom, watched them brave the cold of the winter, risk getting caught by her father, losing both their lives and their good name. I began to crave their presence. No one has ever stayed with me before. The boy is the only one who has. He has talked to me, as he tears at my skin. He has stayed with me despite the stories surrounding me, but he also takes pleasure in using me, breaking me.

One night he comes to me in a fit of rage. Whispers that cut like knives, whispers that revealed the girl had a suitor, someone who has gotten her father’s permission. The boy lights a match, and holds it to my bark. Straddling the thin line of death. He stares at the flame, millimeters away from my thick skin. He tracks every motion of the flame, mesmerized by the way it moves, the danger it represents. Yet also the comfort it brings. Just as the flame burns itself out, the boy snuffles it on the back of his wrist. The sickening-sweet smell of burnt skin streams up into the air, following the smoke and then disappearing.

He sits on the grass, staring at the small circle of burnt flesh. And so quietly that even the air does not dare to move. He begins to laugh. It's not a pleasant laugh. Not like the girls. Instead it's the kind of laugh of someone who is losing hope. Of someone who has no options left. His laugh picks up in volume until even the grass ripples at the sound. And if one were to look at his face they would see tears. Slowly burning their way down his face, until they drop off and hit the dry dirt.

Then he is on the ground. His body was no more than a puddle on the ground. I would have thought him dead if I hadn’t felt the soft vibrations of his breath on the ground, stirring the grass.

I sat there, waiting for the girl to come. But she didn’t.

An hour before the sun would have risen, she came, running up the hill. She falls to her knees and shoke him awake. Tears were streaming down her face, not that he seemed to notice.

He is mad. She pleads with him, trying to make him understand, he sits motionless, staring off into the horizon. Eventually he softens. Says he understands. That it isn’t her fault. She didn’t choose this. Relieved, the girl places a tender kiss upon his lips, then runs back to her home. Just in time as well, I can see from my perch upon the hill that the town was beginning to wake up.

The boy stands up, and follows her down the hill. He is not happy. I can feel the anger radiating off of him. Yet there was laughter dancing in his eyes, and a smile pulling at his lips.

The boy and girl continue to meet. But it's different now. The boy is forceful and short with her. Forces himself upon her, leaves ghastly marks up and down her body, pulls at her hair. But she always has a smile on her face. One that wobbles, and doesn’t reach her eyes, yes. But a smile nonetheless. She acts as if what the boy is doing is forgivable.

Their relationship continues to deteriorate. One night, the boy says something. I didn’t hear what it was. But it was something horrible enough for the girl to finally react. She flinches away from his hand. This infuriates the boy, he pins her down. And for the first time she fights back. The boy is shocked for just long enough for the girl to untangle herself, and run. She ran faster than the rabbits that night. Down the hill, and towards her father’s house.

She needn't have run though. The boy didn’t give chase. Instead he sat defeated at my feet.

He came back later that night though. He was wrapped in a cold, calm rage that frightened me. He told me that she is to be married in the morning. He says that she too, has decided to leave him, that this is proof that no one wants him.

He then took the long length rope he had wrapped around his body. And began cutting it into pieces. Then he headed back to the village.

I did not know what he was doing.

A few hours before dawn he returned. He only had two lengths of rope left. And with him he dragged the girl. She kicked and fought him. But he continued on as if nothing was wrong. Once he reached my base, he hauled the girl up, using my branches as a ladder of sorts. Once he was half way up he stopped. By a remarkable feat of strength, he had managed to pull the struggling girl up with him.

He took the two ropes, and began tying them to my branches. He then grabbed the sobbing girl, made a necklace of the rope. And placed one over her head, then one over his own. He bent down to kiss her. If it could even be called that, it appeared more like an act of violence than one of love. He whispered something to her and then, he grabbed her in his arms. And jumped off my branch.

Their limp bodies hung there. Swaying in the wind.

As the day began to break. I looked towards the village, waiting for someone to notice the two missing children. But instead, illuminated by the sun's rays, I could see the town and the bodies of every one of its inhabitants hanging from a length of rope, in their door ways. The boy had not only taken the girl with him. He had taken everyone. The town had become empty, save for the few animals wandering around. Being kicked by the dangling feet of the townsfolk.

No one ever came or went from the town. And with no one to properly take care of the bodies they slowly began to deteriorate. Some bodies fell from where they were hanging, leaving the heads dangling in the noose.

And soon. Soon I too will go. I can feel the heat of the fire bearing down on me. This one isn’t controlled by someone though. This one is wild and free.

Flickering in the flames I see the ashen body of the girl, she is on the ground as the boy stands above her with a sinister smile. I see other stories as well, ones I had forgotten. There's the boy who would climb my branches every day to avoid his fathers beatings. There is the old couple who always talked about building a house from my wood. Yet never did. The winning of a war, celebrated under my branches. Women accused of witchcraft sent to burn under my branches. Everyone who comes leaves a part of their pain and joy embedded within me. Rarely did they leave me with happiness, I seem to be tied to their suffering.

Maybe, finally, I’ll be taken. And I will finally be rid of these memories. No one will remember me, or them. We will be burned away, forgotten, swept into the wind. No one will remember our story.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a prestigious forum for writers and poets to showcase their work on an international stage. This competition celebrates diverse voices and creative expressions, encouraging participants to share their unique perspectives through the written word. It is a celebration of literary artistry and the power of storytelling.

We extend our sincere gratitude to Caroline Gron for sharing "Memories Forgotten" with us. This poignant short story adds depth and richness to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, offering a powerful exploration of memory and legacy. Thank you, Caroline, for your thought-provoking contribution.

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.