[FICTION][05/15/2026]Ottoman
by Nicholas Wang
“Can you believe that’s the only surviving remnant of an entire empire?”
“What?”
“Your footrest.”
“Huh?”
“That little cushion you have your foot propped up on.”
“Yeah…”
“It’s called an ottoman.”
“Uh huh…”
“From the Ottoman Empire.”
“What’s that?”
“The Ottoman Empire?”
“Mm…”
“You don’t know about the Ottoman Empire?”
She shook her head slightly and made a small noise, her eyes still glued to the glam magazine.
“Well, that’s the whole thing,” he sighed, looking out the window. “No one really knows about the Ottomans…”
The ottoman was a small, simple one, made of a dark material that probably wasn’t real leather. It sat there, meekly, holding up the heel of a socked foot. A small tear ran down the corner of the seam, exposing some fluffy material.
He stared at it wistfully.
“But can you imagine,” he continued, holding his hands out in front of him, “a whole empire, the most powerful people on the planet, one that commanded vast armies and built grand palaces, one that governed millions and millions of people, reigned over hundreds and hundreds of years, all of that, eventually reduced…to this?”
“Nm nm,” she sounded, shaking her head slightly.
“Can’t…”
She licked her finger and flicked over a page.
“…imagine.”
***
The Sultan sat there, on his enormous gold-embroidered couch—if one should call the extravagant thing a couch—and smoked out of his nargile pipe. Done with his day, he unwrapped the large, ornate turban from his head and pulled on a simple robe and trousers. Simple for a Sultan, that is. It was always a relief to unburden his body from the heavy, elaborate garments that were required for his daily responsibilities. Sending his army to battle, approving a new piece of legislation, ordering an execution—it could all be very tiresome. Tiresome, but rewarding, he admitted, nodding to himself and taking another puff.
To say his palace quarters were grand would not do them justice. The walls were decorated with intricate designs of red, blue, and gold, and adorned with giant paintings of the Sultan and his army, courageously charging into battle. The domed ceiling was so high that you couldn’t make out the art displayed, and the exquisite canopy hanging above the couch was embellished with thousands of tiny gold pieces, depicting images from the empire’s war campaigns and scenes from the Holy Quran.
He looked out of the western-facing windows towering above the canopy, their thick, velvety curtains drawn back and tied, and observed the desert landscape. The sun, a glorious orange orb, was inching its way down towards the horizon. A man and his camel walked in silence, returning from a long venture. Millions of sand particles swept over the dunes in a dusty blur, whittling some down while building others up, a few grains at a time.
He pursed his lips and blew out a smoke ring, watching it grow and grow until it disappeared. The shisha filled the room with the rich, natural aroma of tobacco which was neither harsh nor burnt nor bitter. He stroked his beard as if feeling it for the first time.
The Haseki, his primary wife, entered the room carrying a small tray with two tiny cups of coffee. She gave the Sultan a tender kiss on the cheek and crawled onto the couch beside him, drawing in her legs like a cat.
She watched him for a few minutes as he stared off into the distance. “You’re troubled, aren’t you, my sweet,” she said finally, frowning and caressing his cheek. “What is on your mind, my life?”
He drew a long breath from his pipe, allowed it to travel deep into the saccules of his lungs, and exhaled. Then, he took a ginger sip of coffee and returned the cup to the tray.
“Look at all I have accomplished,” he started, holding his hands far out in front of him. “The places I have conquered, the people I have ruled. My beautiful palace, my vast army…”
“Yes, my love,” she said, wrapping both arms around his shoulders dotingly. She laid her starry eyes on his. “And what of it?”
“I wonder,” he said, pausing. “How much will still stand in the years to come? What of our empire shall persist?”
He took a deep breath and looked down at his rug.
“Someday we will fall, as all empires do.”
“Dear!” she gasped. “Do not say such things! We shall continue to rule and prosper for many years!” She closed her little eyes with their long lashes and clasped her hands over her chest. “I know this in my heart.”
“Perhaps for many more years, but not forever,” the Sultan replied curtly. He took another draw from the pipe. The coal burned bright red as he inhaled, then returned to grey, slowly becoming ash with each breath. He let the white wisps crawl out of his mouth this time. Then, looking directly at the Haseki, he said, “Someday I will die, the same as you. Someday another empire shall rule these lands, be it the Byzantines, the Venetians, or maybe even the Chinese.” He chuckled dryly and coughed.
“Everything we built shall wither and fade and become something else.” He began to cough again, as if he had something stuck in the back of his throat. When the action became violent, the Haseki drew slightly aback, but in a few more seconds, the fit had subsided.
The Sultan swallowed a bit of coffee, collecting himself, then turned to the desert window and cleared his throat.
“That is how the world works, after all.” He swallowed once more. “As certain as the sun sets.”
The grains of sand above the dunes flew around fiercely, whipping a wispy red blur through the air. The Haseki shuddered.
“How will we be written in history? How will our empire be remembered?” the Sultan asked, gazing wistfully at the sands.
“What will remain…of the Ottomans?”
Outside, a brilliant streak of crimson ran across the horizon, transforming the dunes into a deep blood orange. At this precise moment in time, the sun was exactly halfway to the other side of the world. Very coincidentally, the Sultan was exactly halfway to the end of his long, fortunate Sultan life, and the Ottoman Empire was also exactly halfway to its certain, although somewhat anticlimactic, demise.
The Sultan sighed and adjusted the cloth by his crotch. Then he lifted his bare feet and crossed them onto the cushioned footstool laid out in front of him. It was expensive and well-crafted, if not all too comfortable.