Historical
Call him by his real name
“Don’t worry if it spills over. The patrons like it that way,” Mary Gannon explained to Breda. Mary was the Whiskey Island dance hall owner who called herself Calypso. She was teaching Breda the art of pouring ale. “’Tis better than filling the glass halfway, which induces the men to complain that they didn’t get their money’s worth.”
By Ashley Herzog4 years ago in Fiction
One Special Delivery
My name is Levi Meijer, and I want to be a world-famous artist. I was born August 12, 1930. I am a Jew. My family lived on a small farm near Arnhem, May of 1940, when the Germans destroyed our home. We had to run to the woods in the dead of night to escape, while the house our family built was ruined. I hate the Germans.
By Matthew Stanley 4 years ago in Fiction
Forbidden Love
In her youth, Teodora was considered by most a handsome girl. She was of average height, slender, and of fare complexion. She boasted long dark brown hair that she always kept in a braid, was well blessed in the chest, and had wide hips, good for birthing. Her deep blue eyes under her dark eyebrows were the talk of the village.
By Jason W Schaefer4 years ago in Fiction
To the Marshal's Surprise
The jail door clattered closed behind Doc as he followed Wyatt into the dusky streets. They surveyed the surroundings then ambled up the street toward a nearby saloon. The hammering of Doc’s heartbeat began to ease as the adrenaline seeped out of his limbs. Exhaustion tugged heavily on his eyelids. He was grateful for it. Sleep would welcome itself in as soon as he lay down.
By B. M. Valdez4 years ago in Fiction
The Devil and the Debutant
The Duke of Portland’s affairs were not as far in the dregs as he had originally been led to believe. It took only a little investigating to learn that the estate, all though disorganized and inefficient, was still prosperous and therefore lucrative. It took only a few weeks of browbeating, bribing, and throwing his title about for the people to realize he was no ordinary Duke and that he would not neglect what was his.
By E. J. Strange4 years ago in Fiction
The King Is In Town
The king was in town. Peter had correctly thought that the king’s would bring with him glory and splendour, a mighty army, and a fearsome, awe-inspiring presence that commanded homage. He had naively misunderstood that the king bringing an entourage of soldiers meant that greedy, armed, untouchable men would be prowling the streets, demanding whatever they pleased, and unkind towards resistance.
By Christy Davis4 years ago in Fiction
JACK OF DIAMONDS
Chapter14 (second installment: part 3) iii Claire looked up at what she’d always considered was the elegance of Marlborough House, marvelling at the beauty of it; the ivied gables seemed to give the house an air of grace she felt was missing from many of the other Manor houses in the area. That’s because Marlborough House is the oldest, she told herself. It was a distinction she’d never taken into consideration before, but she knew it made a difference when you worked in a place like this. She’d told Greggson as much when she’d first made arrangements two weeks earlier to bake three dozen pies. Artie had insisted she make the effort, and while Greggson had been reluctant to accept her help at first—and what cook would want her in their kitchen, she wondered?—she’d explained exactly that to Artie, and a week later Greggson had reluctantly agreed.
By ben woestenburg4 years ago in Fiction
Gift to the Gods
Dimitris listened with a panicked mind. He had been summoned to the house by Kyriakos himself. The senator’s courtyards were magnificent and meticulously kept. Dimitris was awed by the archways and hallways he was hurried through by two guards. He could not keep Kyriakos waiting.
By Chelsea Peterson4 years ago in Fiction
JACK OF DIAMONDS
Chap 9 pt2 (IS LOST TO ALL CONVENTION...) Lunch was a sumptuous affair served in a gazebo overlooking the gardens; the only access to it was an outdoor staircase forty feet wide bordered with rhododendron, hyacinth, and azalea no longer in bloom. Artie counted thirty steps before losing count. The gazebo was built on a landing above the garden, its base a wall of solid brickwork stained green by lichen, moss, and time. Artie looked out at the endless passage of walkways, their red and white brickwork meandering through the garden Artie imagined would be a mosaic of colours during the summer. There were decorative benches and delicately made arbours that were almost hidden in tight recesses. Two streams of water tumbled down two troughs of broken stones—the water eagerly catching the afternoon sun in a cascade of colours. Willow trees wept in the distance, near a greenhouse, their tentacled branches dancing in a light breeze, scratching at the sky—but the sky was a clear blue, what few clouds there were earlier, blown out to sea long ago.
By ben woestenburg4 years ago in Fiction
