Historical

Them Cracked Old Boots
These boots, cracking from the ware and tear. The daily rigors of coming and going. The old lady tells me, "Boy throw them raggedy boots out honey. You make enough money to buy you some mo'."
By Michael J. Harris4 years ago in Fiction
The Pantheon Project
On a cold winter morning in the heart of the Appalachian mountains of southern west Virginia a small black food truck pulls into a parking lot of a local market near a small community college. “Zach's Taco Truck” printed in blue over the gloss black paint job. The small store would not be open for an hour and the sun would not be up for two. Getting out of the truck he busied himself setting up for the day.
By E.B. Ray4 years ago in Fiction
Dark Moon
i. A stripe of dull gold ripples across the fire - red wing of the biplane as it turns into a nosedive. I grit my chattering teeth as I plummet, the dark wine ocean becoming closer and closer. I jerk the lever back, rising upwards just before I hit the water. My pursuer isn't as good as I am, according to the scraping sound of bending metal. His partner looks between me and the wreckage, hovering, before deciding to cut his losses. In the mirror, I see him circling like a vulture until they become dots on the horizon.
By A Baptiste4 years ago in Fiction
Of God and Godless Men Alike
Something stirred James from his sleep. He’d been dreaming he was in large, labyrinthine stables, frantically checking the stalls. There were hundreds of horses, but he could not find Gambit among them.
By Talbot Finch4 years ago in Fiction
The Flower Faced Owl Godess
Once upon a time in the Realm of Sky - the dwelling-place of the Gods and the origin of the great cosmic pattern. As The doors Open to the kingdom the cosmic gateway to divinity we find the Paradise which is of course, ruled by a loving law. All places of purity to live in are governed by laws of Love . Within paradise there are many kinds of trees, with different fruits, each fruit has it's own use. We can also see beautiful flowers with unique colors which carry meaning as well as their own healing properties for our bodies to eat them and absorb their energies into us so that we may become more powerful in the physical world..
By Titan Godess4 years ago in Fiction
The Beginning
Everything was heavy. Her eyelids, her arms, her legs. She felt as if a vise was wrapped around her, squeezing the life out of her. She pushed down the panic because she knew she was dreaming, she often had nightmares of drowning at sea. All she had to do was wake up and it would be over.
By Katie Warwick4 years ago in Fiction
PICTURES TAKEN ON A BOX CAMERA. Runner-Up in Return of the Night Owl Challenge.
I arrived on the four-thirty train and fully intended to stay on board, go to the end of the line, and shunt back; but how could I do that without feeling like an utter fool, a total coward? How could I travel back to where I started without doing what I set out to do? Alighting with a mass of excited schoolchildren, and a hoard of hopeful-looking adults eager to join their families for the holidays, I held back.
By Rosanne Dingli4 years ago in Fiction
All New York Bows to Miss Manhattan
Chelsea On 22nd street, in Chelsea, Audrey Munson discovered that every automobile in New York City was listening to her at the same time.
By Eric Dovigi4 years ago in Fiction
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