Kale Sinclair
Bio
Author | Poet | Husband | Dog Dad | Nerd
Find my published poetry, and short story books here!
Stories (284)
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Lapis Lazuli
Sicily | 1943 The two hour bicycle ride from Canicatti to The Church of Saint Agatha was far more difficult than Rosalie had originally projected. The four bicycles they were able salvage were old, rusted, and weathered from years of neglect, but they were the only four that had usable tires.
By Kale Sinclair2 years ago in Fiction
Oh brother, where art thou?
Sicily | 1943 5:38A.M “Rosalie? Rosalie, can you hear me?” She stirred at the sound of her name being called to her from beyond the darkness. She could not see who was calling her, so she continued to follow the sound of the familiar voice until the small ball of light off in the distance bubbled into the room’s dangling, ceiling light bulb. Garret’s tired face blinked in and out as her eyes adjusted to her surroundings.
By Kale Sinclair2 years ago in Fiction
The Beginning Of The End | Pt. 5
Sicily | 1943 9:05A.M Garret forcefully pushed, and shoved himself through the stampeding crowd of fleeing citizens. In the tussle, someone had tried to grab onto him, but when he turned around all he saw was the face of a young nun, with her arms stretched out, getting washed away in the rippling wave of people.
By Kale Sinclair2 years ago in Fiction
Berber
Casablanca, North Africa | 1943 2:23A.M A tall shadow stepped forward, and into the moonlight of his cell’s window. His face was brown, scarred, and wrinkled with age from years in the heat. A blue headdress covered his entire head, neck and shoulders, exposing only the features of his face. He was dressed in a long blue and white tunic, flowing with golden patterns weaved throughout, and he wore crude, leather sandals on his feet. His left hand was gripping a MP40 machine gun, and his right hand held a ring of brass keys - which dangled and clinked together as he stepped across the sandy floor.
By Kale Sinclair2 years ago in Fiction
The Beginning Of The End | Pt. 3
Sicily | 1943 9:00A.M Like an apparition, Nadine slithered in silence through the dense crowds of Sicilian Citizens - her shoulders never coming into contact with anyone else's. The fingers of her right hand remained on the silver cross around her neck, fondling its smooth holy-coating. But the fingers on her left hand were intimately woven around the hilt of her dagger.
By Kale Sinclair2 years ago in Fiction
