Historical

The Rosetta Stone
It was a harrowing task but the Napoleonic force finally had their day of rest. The next day they marched for hundreds of miles to their current position. The soldiers had found a tunnel to the ziggurat they had come across. They started digging, and came across a room, it led to a corridor. They kept going further and further until they found a stone. It was a stone filled with inscriptions. The soldiers didn't exactly know what they were looking at. They told their superiors what they had found. It was the Rosetta Stone which translated Demotic and Greek script into the Hieroglyphs known today.
By Lee Roby4 years ago in Fiction
Coney Island
A stroll along the boardwalk, a glimpse out towards the sea, aromas blowing in from the beach, stirs memories so close, yet just out of reach.
By Freddy Zalta4 years ago in Fiction
My Father's Grave
December 1941, San Fernando Valley, California. A cabin built between the fields and forest, flanked by farmland, beside a stretch of dirt road running from the town a few miles north. The first rays of a brisk Saturday morning filter through a window in the kitchen, past the open curtains, illuminating the room and its furnishings with a soft golden light.
By Kent Ha4 years ago in Fiction
Hatty
Harlem, New York 1927. Its evening time, the sun faintly smiles from the clouds, cool breeze as the smell of rain-soaked soil fills your lungs. Langston Hughes the big cheese himself is having a book signing across the street for his new collection of poetry. I could be in that speakeasy introducing myself, shaking his hand after he finishes placing his signature in a copy of his new book I purchased, enjoying the hibiscus and lemon cake they placed out for those who attended. Instead, I’m up here hanging for my life in one hand and an old trumpet in other hand, praying to the Almighty that I will not die.
By Roman Kyle4 years ago in Fiction
Wolbachia
when it begins Diao Chan knew of three ways to break a man's arm and had practiced them all several times in the short course of her life, for the most beautiful woman in China was often also the most harassed. That she knew how to defend herself made the situation twice as intolerable.
By Mehrina Asif4 years ago in Fiction
The Time of War
It’s 1918 and you’re a German soldier on the Western Front. In a brief moment of repose, you slip your hand into your pocket and pull out a cigarette case. You open it up, slide one out and light it, closing your eyes as you put it to your mouth. You pay close attention to the feeling of smoke streaming into your lungs as you take the first drag. You’re alive. You’ve made it this far. Your body aches with exhaustion and your skin is decorated with bruises, cuts and scars, but no matter, because your feet still tread the land of the living, and the smoke dancing in your lungs is a sacred reminder of that fact.
By Peter Spering4 years ago in Fiction
Death of a Dream
In the warmth of a Georgia morning at a favorite spot on the bank of the Chattahoochee River, a young slave does what he most enjoys in life, fishing. The only thing that could top it would be a day of fishing with his father and today was just such a day. It wasn't very often that young Michael had his father all to himself. With doing the Masters' biddings and serving as a sort of spiritual leader in the community, there wasn't a lot of time for father /son bonding. As a sort of foreman of the field hands his father had become admired and respected because he never let pleasing the master keep him from being fair and just with his fellow slaves.
By Dr. Eugene G. Akins III4 years ago in Fiction
Time's Passed
In was mid-June in 1816, the sky was clear, the sun was bright. I could hear the horse-drawn carriages moving down the street. This was one of the most beautiful mornings in Liverpool. As I walked the grounds of my estate, I could feel the warm breeze graze my skin. In the distance I could hear the sea as the tides rushed up the shore to the beach. I sat down at the table on the back veranda, my companion was still sleeping. During these times it was illegal to be in the company of the same gender in such an intimate manner. Vera also preferred women, as much as I preferred the company of men. We have a mutual agreement that we will never marry, but will also keep our real relationship a secret, which was only friendship.
By Mark Hitz4 years ago in Fiction
Jorvik
Jorvik (Vocal Contest) Gunnar thought he had seen enough barren wasteland, much like the villages surrounding his village. Grey and desolate places where Hel, the goddess of the underworld reigned. He was charged with anticipation as his ship sliced through the cold seas to reveal the land of the Celts. Formidable and bleak, there were spots of umber and green pockmarking the surface barely visible on the distant horizon. His men had been grumbling for weeks on this vessel and now he praised Thor for delivering them into nirvana. Rumors abounded throughout the land that gold and jewels were in plentiful supply once you left the shores of Scandinavia. Shining goblets, ruby rings, and so much coin that you needed twelve wooden trunks to carry it.
By Michael J Massey4 years ago in Fiction
First of the Slut-Shamed: A Hymn for Helen of Troy
Hello, Helen. Helen Harlot, Helen Home-Wrecker, Helen Whore. Most beautiful woman in the world, hatched from a swan’s egg, product of yet another rape perpetrated by your divine slut of a father, the “omnipotent” thunderer. His many bedfellows tell a different story.
By Ivy Jong4 years ago in Fiction
I
T. S. Eliot wrote, "Here is how the world ends, not with a bang but with a whimper." I do not know how the world will end, but I am beginning to understand exactly what he meant. I am old, so very old. I have forgotten more history than has been written about. I age slowly; you might think me a grandfather, perhaps a great-grandfather, but I am ancient beyond anything you have ever seen. Only the rocks and oceans are older than I am. You may not think they are alive, but I know better. Sometimes I feel the rocks have more life than I do. Soon perhaps they will.
By Randi O'Malley Smith4 years ago in Fiction
The Silent Train
In-between me and my freedom, there's a wooded labyrinth of blood and tears, hunger and fear. Treacherous waters meet those who make it through, rushing rapids for the desperate or a river frozen over for the brave. On the other side, my freedom sits mockingly atop a steep grassy hill. With the confederacy a river's width behind me, along with the souls of which came before me, I am now free.
By Olivia Robinson4 years ago in Fiction