Historical
The Lost Tale of a Vasilija Vukotic
In 1998, I was attending the first Women’s International Networking Conference in Milan. A wet-behind-the-ears journalism graduate from Columbia University and male, I suspected my Pittsburgh-based editors were having a bit of fun at my expense. On my way home, a little vacation time banked, I stopped at Hotel Fortaleza do Guincho, a resort on the Estoril Coast in Portugal. Sipping my vodka gimlet on the terrace, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, my only companion that late fall afternoon was a woman of that certain age where propriety and nobility is her all-encompassing demeanor. She seemed to me a very well-kept late eighties or early nineties. She was sipping an alvarinho. I asked the waiter if he knew her and his response, “She is here every day. She is a crazy old lady who thinks she is the Queen of Bulgaria or something.” My knowledge of history is not everything it should be, but, what the hell, I am American. Generally, I remember that after World War II, the Soviet Union put a nail in the coffin of the remaining monarchies in Eastern Europe. Forgetting that I was on vacation, I dug into my online data services (pre-Google) and tracked down the facts of Bulgarian royalty. The last Tsaritsa of Bulgaria was born in 1907 and would be 90-something. In exile, she had fled to Alexandria, Egypt to be near her father, who, similarly, was in exile from his kingship of Italy. Later, Franco had given her sanctuary in Spain. Eventually, she had settled on, of all places, Estoril, Portugal. I am no statistician but if a 90-year-old woman in Estoril purports to be the exiled Tsaritsa of Bulgaria and she is spending every day at its most expensive resort, I am willing to place a bet. The next afternoon, I am there, she is there. “Princess Giovanna, what an unexpected surprise!” Her response to her Italian title would be telling. “Young man, no one has called me that in almost 70 years. I would have liked to know you when I was that young girl.” Even now, she was able to affect a coquettish expression. Feeling more convinced, “My apologies, Tsaritsa Ioanna. It is not every day a boy from Pittsburgh, America meets anyone so interesting.” “Interesting?”, was her sole response. Her English was impeccable, which for a woman who spoke, by necessity, Italian, French, Montenegrin, Bulgarian, Spanish, and Portuguese is extraordinary. My response, “Yes, intriguing”. She talking with me intently listening, we spend the next two hours reliving her last fifty years. A lull, I shared my assignment in Milan. Her response was unexpected. “You young people think that you invented everything. Let me share a story my mother told me, frequently, of a woman, my cousin, stepping up in a way that few men can imagine.”
By Alexander J. Cameron4 years ago in Fiction
Imagine Me This: A Velveteen Sky
News of the sinking of the Titanic hit the headlines on April 15, 1912. She woke early as she always did to receive the paper, only this time the newsboy was frantic and his bike shook like a wobbling leaf as he rode as fast as he could down the lane. When he handed off the paper, he hung his head and said, “Terrible business, ma’am. It’s a right poor thing what happened to all those people, ma’am. Oh— and, good morning, ma’am. Although, I’m not so sure it’s very good.”
By Krystal Katz4 years ago in Fiction
Ticket #330958
The day started off just as any other. I saw Miss Madeline Straus walking her brown terrier Airedale, Cora Bell who obviously couldn't help but give ruckus to Mr. Johannes McMeans. He never really bothered the poor thing, he'd just be jogging his normal route to the pier at Roches Point by the Commodore, round Spy Hill and then back to the Deck of Cards Houses. This was everyday. Even Mr. Martin from the United States, was acting all but excited taking his trash out to the street way. He was a peculiar one, why with his three piece suits and briefcase. He'd almost pass as one of those Swizz types, but him staying here, where income weekly would match an average shoe size, he just doesn't fit in. He's not bad to glance at either way.
By Lamar Wilson4 years ago in Fiction
Bread
Edith Forster's gaze skipped from the brass bed to the horsehair sofa to the dressing table. The large teak box sat at the center of the table, an inch or so from where it had been when she dressed for dinner just six hours earlier. Katie stood by her side, ready to pack up whatever her employer deemed worth saving.
By Lori Lamothe4 years ago in Fiction
Voyage Of Broken Dreams
It was a bright and cheerful, yet slightly chilled morning. Anticipation hung in the air so thick that you thought you could almost taste it. The dock was bustling with people milling everywhere finishing last second tasks before the grand event happening later. Everett Simmonds adjusted his coat as he stared at the massive ship docked in front of him. The H.M.S Titanic was to be the grandest passenger liner of its kind and he let out a whistle at the sheer size set out before his eyes.
By T.D. Zummack4 years ago in Fiction
Inspector Bassé and the Winter Wolf
When I arrived at the end of the street, I caught the overwhelming aroma of sardines being grilled. The scent, laid on a bed of frosty air, started my stomach off on a cry for sustenance. I quietly scolded it for blasphemy. Supper could wait.
By SJ Carpenter4 years ago in Fiction
Forbidden Traveler
The year was 1912 in Southampton, England. My family was considered lower class because instead of having servants, we were the servants. Other girls my age were married whilst I worked to help my father afford to feed my seven siblings. My mother couldn’t work as she was gravely ill. She had a severe case of pneumonia. We weren’t able to afford her medication so we kept her as comfortable as we could. Father worked constantly to make and shine shoes. He rarely slept and forgot to eat most days. He always swore that once we were out of debt he would start saving to pay for my mothers medication. As far as I know, that day never came.
By Alexis Whitehead4 years ago in Fiction
Message In A Bottle
The wind was blowing more than usual and forced her to go back inside. Putting away her sketchpad was the opposite of what she wanted to do, but she didn't want her crazy dad to find it. It was the only escape that she had, and the only way she felt she could truly express herself. Shareya had no choice as the chilly gusts went through her pages and her hair. Practically shivering as she put it away she hid the book in her blanket and got up to go back inside.
By Ruby Estelle 4 years ago in Fiction
