Historical
Pendarvis, The Reaper
Pendarvis looked upon a world that should have died ages ago, once afflicted by disease, suddenly given mercy by the forces outside its comprehension. But while the people in this city celebrated, balance was torn from the universe. There was too much life given and not the fair amount of death returned. And now, death was wanting.
By Joy Muerset4 years ago in Fiction
G-26
The train was cold, dark and long. They gave us no light, no food to eat, no place to relieve ourselves. After a while we wondered if it would continue to draw on forever, waiting for us to stop fighting for the last licks of life. Maybe this was the camp, and there was no place to stay after all. Just endless darkness, swimming in the foul, thick odor of death and feces, the moans and screams of the ill and injured, who we all knew wouldn’t survive the trip. It was a hopeless nothing.
By Pass The Pomegranate4 years ago in Fiction
A War of Whispers
I never developed a fondness for the taste of coffee, nor sweets and pastries. In fact there were few culinary items that I would suffer the presence of others for in public, yet the Cafe du Croissant was where I was instructed to wait. I sat alone at a small table along the wall. It was evening now and the shift to night allowed me to wait in the shadows. I was offered soup, but couldn’t eat at a time like this. My heart was pounding. In my pocket, a vial of poison and a strip of paper with the address of a journalist, followed by her handwriting. Bring me his ear.
By Lindsey McNeill4 years ago in Fiction
the knower
He knew that he would not be executed and that they would not be able to execute him no matter how hard they tried. He knew that God would not oppress him as humans did and did wrong to him. His manhood was violated and he was wronged. They wanted his death and execution, but he knew that he would not be executed. He was called the Arif, yes, he was the Arif who knew that he would die safely on his bed while his body was warm, and would not die on the execution platform alone in a dark well.
By Samara Ben4 years ago in Fiction
Soul Man
Christopher remembered the day he shipped out. It was a sultry Sunday afternoon after a tearful Mass where the entire Russell clan prayed fervently for his safe return to this Dublin parish. He could have used their pitiful moaning when he was wrecked by a gang after a pub fight, or spent months in a dingy cell for stealing or the years of hunger and beatings at the hands of his Da. All of that made him into a holy terror, feared by his family. Now the war was raging in the Pacific and the British Empire needed strong hungry lads like Chris to help defeat the Japanese.
By Michael J Massey4 years ago in Fiction
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
