Historical Fiction
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
June 2, 1930 – Nightfall The village of Kheda has always known how to listen to the wind. Tonight, it whispered hope. I arrived just before sunset, the horizon stained in hues of burnt orange and indigo. The air carried a scent of ripe millet and wood smoke. The children waited at the edge of the fields, barefoot and glowing with pride, each one clutching a small lantern fashioned from clay and filled with mustard oil. Their hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of what they were about to do.
By Alain SUPPINI7 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
April 30, 1931 – Near the Village of Kalol, Gujarat The soil is soft between my fingers this morning. I rise before the sun, the stars still winking overhead, and step barefoot into the small garden the villagers have let me tend while I stay here. It is not a grand field. It grows no great bounty. But in the gentle sprouts of okra, mustard greens, and tuvar dal, I see the rhythm of service, of dharma. The earth, humble and enduring, reminds me of our people—trod upon, yet full of life.
By Alain SUPPINI7 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
June 7, 1930 – Camp near Vadodara The air was warm, but in the stillness of the dawn, it held a quiet tension—like the breath before a song. In that pause, life prepared itself for one more act of resistance. I sat with a boy named Ravi today—a child no older than ten, who had once scrawled lessons in the dirt with a twig because his family could not afford slates. His handwriting, shaped by earth and necessity, now fills scrolls and letters that travel from hamlet to hamlet. He transcribes declarations, poems, maps, and secrets. His fingers move faster than the trains that still carry Indian salt to British ports, as if he’s determined to write a new destiny before the old one catches up.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Chang’e’s Flight: The Ancient Chinese Legend That Explains Why We Chase the Moon
The Day the Sky Burned The world was dying. Ten suns blazed in the heavens, scorching rivers into steam and cracking the earth like a broken eggshell. Desperate, the Jade Emperor—ruler of the gods—called upon the only man who could fix this: Hou Yi, the divine archer.
By sherryshen8 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
May 30, 1930 – On the Banks of the Narmada Today, I walked for several hours along the banks of the sacred Narmada River. Its water, though quieter than the sea, carries a different strength—steady, persistent, impossible to halt. Much like our struggle. It was still early, but already the banks had begun to fill with people. Some came barefoot from nearby villages, others had walked all night from distant hamlets. They came not to protest loudly, but to sit, to listen, to prepare.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
A Ship Was Gaining
1782, CHARLES TOWN, SOUTH CAROLINA Mary Read. Calico Jack. Anne Bonny. Our names were known to many upon the seas and outside of them. We were wanted, dead or alive. Although if we were to be brought back alive, we would just end up dead. Really, the saying should be dead or deader; you can’t win either way.
By Luna Jordan8 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
June 16, 1930 — Dharasana The sun was already high when I stepped out of the modest hut, my dhoti clinging damply to my legs. The air shimmered with heat rising from the parched ground. Though I had not marched at Dharasana myself — the viceroy’s order had seen to that — I could not remain still. I had come not as a leader, but as a witness. Dharasana had become the crucible in which the spirit of our movement was tested.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
Mary Read
1782, CHARLES TOWN, SOUTH CAROLINA The day we met Mary Read, we were anchored down at another dock, to resupply and celebrate our newest spoils. Our usual method of celebration was enjoying the pleasures of the local tavern, drinking our fill and flirting with anything that had legs.
By Luna Jordan8 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
Near Bhimrad, June 14, 1930 We arrived in Bhimrad just after the sun had begun its descent, the hour when the heat loosens its grip on the land but the dust still clings to the skin. The village seemed carved from the dry earth itself — low mud huts with thatched roofs, sparse trees holding out against the sky, and narrow footpaths where goats nosed for shade. There was no fanfare, no procession. Only silence and the keen gaze of villagers who had waited.
By Alain SUPPINI8 months ago in Chapters
