Historical
Asmara's Warrior
His name was Avak when I first met him. We were only children at the time, but I knew that one day we would marry, because he said so. Of course, at that time I firmly told him that he would have to get me to love him first. “Challenge accepted” was all he said. I could only laugh at how certain he was, but I’ll admit, I secretly wanted him to be right about it.
By Sapphire Blackgaard4 years ago in Fiction
Remnants of the fallen
When a tragedy happens not a nation but a world: a world connected by human relation can feel it in the very tendrils of their soul. While some treat it with indifference others feel it tug deep at their heart. either way we are a world joined together by the root of one planet. There are objects within these tragedies that have been given no thought. These are their stories.
By Marilyn Mortician4 years ago in Fiction
White Ribbon
“Sweat, that’s what I remember. Sweat.” he said in his low grizzly voice. He took a long draw from his cigarette and then spat on the ground. Ants came and began devouring the saliva. “It wasn’t just sweat, but back then it was mostly work. We ain’t had the time like y'all do now. People were simple, dumber too. They knew how to work and that’s it. They just worked” The fire crackled, the young man that sat opposite of him leaned in his chair, taking a small stick from the fire using its ember to light his cigarette. The old man liked to do this. Get in the backyard, out there by the field, build a fire, talk about old times, drink, smoke until he grew tired of himself talking. John didn’t mind, he liked the old man.
By SEAN WILDE4 years ago in Fiction
The intoxicating spell of Historical Novels from Tudor Times
Reading history allows us to understand what happened. Reading historical fiction allows us to be moved by what happened. Even after we know the facts, we continue to search for sense and meaning. That is at the essence of our humanity, it's easy to be drawn into the story, and I often find myself being pulled into the plot by imagining that I am one of the characters. The historical novelist exposes the reader to the inner lives of people across time and place, and in doing so illuminates history’s untold stories, allowing the reader to experience a more complex truth and experience.
By Pamella Richards4 years ago in Fiction
Crown of Old Men
The boots belonged to my grandfather. They are not easy to wear. It takes both hands to pull one of the boots up by the straps and they ride almost all the way up the calf. There’re golden fireflies engraved on the soles and there’s dust that clutters down from there. There’s a bullet hole in the left heel and a faded blood stain. They’re colored brown and red as it were the sun and the dirt itself which manufactured them. They were made from the skins of Tennessee cattle and white-tail Georgia buck and bull shark. The leather over the years has been caked some and the lined cracks appear throughout the boots how cracks come into stone. They’re old but they still walk pretty good. There’s still the smell of thoroughbred war-horse in them. They were my grandfather’s and he gave them to me for my thirteenth birthday, about three years before they fit me just right, about three years before he passed away from earth.
By American Wild4 years ago in Fiction
Above the Western Front
It was a cold and wet morning. It was always cold and wet in the morning in spring. April in France was normally a pretty site. Trees and flowers return color to a dreary landscape as they spring back to life after a long nap. Yeah, France is nice in springtime, normally, but in the year 1918, and for the last 4 years before that, Europe’s greatest powers have been using northern France as a battleground. Gone were the spring trees and fresh flowers, replaced by a line of opposing trenches, shattered stumps and mud. Mud everywhere, as far as the eye can see, mud fields with shell crater lakes all over the place.
By Robin Olsen4 years ago in Fiction
Braids and Coils
The gathering was small this year. Many tribes stayed home, or very close to home, to defend and rebuild. Many, many people were taken by the raids from the outsiders. Most should be buried with their ancestors now...well, those that could be found. Many younglings were missing as well. It did not bode well, though the outsiders had now been quiet for the last few months.
By Meredith Harmon4 years ago in Fiction
Nine Days Queen
It was the most nerve wrecking day of her life. The sun had barely risen over central England and it was casting beams of light so crisp that they almost seemed solid fixtures in the morning space. Anxiety plagued her chest and stomach as she attempted to control her breathing. The air was an usual coolness; the moisture of dew still spread about all the grass. The news she had just received was so overwhelming yet there are some who would no doubt enjoy to be in her shoes at this moment. Her small hands gripped at the lengthy cloth of her dress out of sheer nervousness as she stood at the back garden to her family’s home.
By Jermain Parker4 years ago in Fiction
A Harvest of Misery
‘Survival was a moral as well as a physical struggle.’ - Timothy Snyder on the Holodomor Mikhail ‘Misha’ Matkin awakened to the crowing of the village cocks, though by now they had become so enfeebled he was sure they would perish before the harvest even ended.
By George Line4 years ago in Fiction
Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves
In the old days, in one of the faraway countries, there was a good-hearted, poor man who spent his day by being a woodcutter. Every day early, he prayed the dawn prayer, present and carrying his axe, and heading towards the forest, in which he cut trees and pruned them, and sold firewood that he extracted from his work. hard; This man was known as Ali Baba, and he had one full-brother named Qasim, who was well off and had no financial problems, yet he was very greedy and greedy.
By Samara Ben4 years ago in Fiction
Don’t Pass Me Bye
The snow gently cascaded from the foggy night sky, blanketing the countrysides of England as Cillian Shaw jerked restlessly back and fourth on the crammed train with his fellow countrymen. On the outside he was trying to look clam, he was happy to be coming home. More honestly though to be on the ground; not a target in sky, where more bullets soared through the horizon than birds. But inside, his mind was a battlefield.
By Victoria Bezzeg4 years ago in Fiction
