Five Microfictions After Osman Hamdi Bey, by Sarp Sozdinler

The Tortoise Trainer, by Osman Hamdi Bey (Ottoman Empire, modern day Turkey) 1906

The Tortoise Trainer
 
The room is heavy with the scent of dusty scrolls and the faint musk of ancient parchment. In the center, a man sits cross-legged, watching over a group of tortoises, his eyes as steady as the creatures themselves. The tortoises move at their own pace, slow and deliberate, while he guides them with a tender, almost reverent hand. He isn’t a man of many words, and his discipline is one of patience, his mind fixed on something distant. The rumour has it he’s a descendant of a long line of scholars, men and women who have spent their lives studying the quiet wisdom of nature. His hand raises slightly as if to prove a point, a subtle gesture that directs their movements. Yet, there’s something else he trains—not just the tortoises, but the very act of stillness, the quiet rebellion of time that refuses to be hurried. The tortoises have taught him more about life than he ever expected: that to move slowly is not to be weak, but to endure. He wonders if the world will ever understand that lesson.

Girl with Pink Cap, by Osman Hamdi Bey (Ottoman Empire, modern day Turkey) 1904

Girl with Pink Cap
 
She stands there, a child caught in the threshold of an age she doesn’t yet understand. Her pink cap, almost too large for her head, gives her a look of vulnerability, as though she has been placed in a world that doesn’t quite fit her. Her eyes, deep and thoughtful, don’t quite belong to her small frame. They are the eyes of someone who has seen too much already, someone who is already beginning to know the weight of silence. The room behind her is dark, as though it holds secrets she hasn’t yet uncovered. She seems distant, as though she’s caught in a reverie—looking at something or someone far beyond the canvas, her hand casually tucked by her side. There’s an innocence to her, but it’s fleeting. She has just enough awareness to realize that the world outside that room is not as gentle as the one she holds in her imagination.

Weapon Merchant, by Osman Hamdi Bey (Ottoman Empire, modern day Turkey) 1908

​Gun Salesman
 
The man stands confidently behind the wooden counter, the polished barrels of firearms gleaming in the light, each one a silent promise of power. His eyes are sharp, calculating, and the weight of his gaze is enough to make anyone pause. There’s something unsettling in his calm—he’s too comfortable in this role, too familiar with the dangerous goods he sells. His face is unreadable, his posture stiff, as if he’s not just selling weapons but something much more valuable: control. He doesn’t need to convince anyone; the weapons speak for themselves, their metal surfaces reflecting a world of conflict. Yet, there’s a tension here, an unspoken question: is he the one who wields power, or is he simply the hand that supplies it? His face betrays nothing, but the air in the room hums with the knowledge that what is bought here may never be returned.

Lilac Collecting Girl, by Osman Hamdi Bey (Ottoman Empire, modern day Turkey) 1881

Lilac Collecting Girl
  
The girl bends low to the earth, her hands steady as she gathers the lilacs, the purple flowers so bright against the green of the meadow. She moves with grace, each petal she collects a small treasure in a world that seems to pause around her. The breeze shifts the hair on her head, but she doesn’t notice—it’s the flowers that occupy her mind, their sweet scent filling the air and wrapping around her like a secret. She is part of the landscape, as if she’s always belonged here. The flowers she collects will never last long, and yet, they don’t seem to need to. There’s something in the act of picking them that feels eternal. She’s a part of a fleeting moment, a whisper of summer, a reminder that life is as fragile as the blossoms she gathers—beautiful, temporary, and gone too soon.

A Lady of Constantinople, by Osman Hamdi Bey (Ottoman Empire, modern day Turkey) 1881

A Lady of Constantinople
 
She stands like a queen among her surroundings, a figure of elegance, but there is more to her than just the finery. Her velvet gown, rich and dark, contrasts sharply with the delicate glow of her skin. Her gaze, soft yet unwavering, is turned slightly away, as though she’s watching the world without fully engaging in it. Her hands are placed carefully in her lap, holding nothing but the stillness of her presence. She is not just a lady of Constantinople; she is a monument to the city itself, both a part of it and set apart from it. There’s a hint of melancholy in her eyes, a sense that she carries the weight of history with her—something unspoken yet understood. Her beauty is not only in her appearance but in the quiet resilience she embodies, the grace of a woman who has lived through seasons of change and still stands, unmoving, watching the tides of the city ebb and flow.

Sarp Sozdinler 

A Turkish writer, Sarp Sozdinler has been published in Electric Literature, Kenyon Review, Masters Review, and Fractured Lit, among other journals. His stories have been selected or nominated for such anthologies as the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Wigleaf Top 50. He is currently at work on his first novel in Philadelphia and Amsterdam