Historical
Swiss Remains
Forty-eight hours ago, Duane Tungstien was snapping pictures of some scumbag husband meeting his girlfriend in a sleazy hotel outside Chicago. Now, he is trapped in a ski chalet 100 miles from Zurich in the middle of a freak March storm with a motley crew of guests and a trunk with ghoulish carvings and no heat — a nightmare that has no beginning and no end. Who knew he would be longing for the endless sex scandals like a drug instead of being trapped with a cast of characters from Clue.
By Michael J Massey5 years ago in Fiction
jack of diamonds
ii The train out to Plymouth was s slow and plodding thing, and Reggie looked out at the passing countryside wondering what he’d gotten himself into. Guns; dope; Russians; the Solomon brothers? It was enough to make a man want to pull his hair out and scream at the top of his lungs. He’d have to be on top of his game, though; he’d have to be at his best. He’d been out of the game for so long now, that while Charlie may have felt confident having him back on board, Reggie didn’t feel the same way. He kept looking at his watch and looking up at the conductor, wanting time to press on. He wanted this over with; he wanted to get back to Chumley Grove, and Claire, settling back into the life he’d chosen, not this. He looked at his watch again. He had to get into the station and set up before six o’clock. The deal was set for eight o’clock tonight, so it’d be dark enough not to attract attention, Charlie said, and Reggie saw the sense in that. There were no electric lights along that side of the docks, and while an inconvenience, he thought it might work to his advantage by keeping the meeting area small. But he wanted to get there earlier because he didn’t trust the Solomons; he didn’t trust Charlie either, but then, he knew Charlie. Still, there was always going to be that nagging doubt in the back of his head, wasn’t there? An itch that just wouldn’t scratch; a pain that wouldn’t go away.
By ben woestenburg5 years ago in Fiction
What if Mahabharata Character Roles Were Played by Bollywood Actors and Actresses
If you are an 80’s or 90’s Kid, you must be awaiting the Mahabharata tv show telecasted on Doordarshan in the early morning of every Sunday. And if you aren’t an 80s or 90s kid and have no clue what we are talking about, think Game of Thrones, but only a gazillion times more awesome and with a way better plot. Now imagine if Mahabharata was to be made into a Bollywood movie.
By Rakshit Shah5 years ago in Fiction
The Destructors
Navigius is It, which means I have to hide well. If I didn’t know better, I would say my brother has a sixth sense when it came to me. Last year, on my fifteenth birthday, we were playing hide and seek, and I had camouflaged myself with some dead leaves and climbed high up a tree but he found me within minutes. I knew he didn’t cheat because I saw him counting with his head buried in his lap. Perhaps it is nominative determinism. Or something in the stars. (Mother would not approve of me saying that, of course).
By Tristan Stone5 years ago in Fiction
The Forlorn Hope
I “Rejoice, ye who abide within the camp of the saints!” The Reverend Hájek lifted his crosier above his head like a corpulent Moses striving to summon motion from a sea of wan, sunken faces. He searched them for a vestige of acknowledgement. The mouthing of a hosanna. But the congregation did nothing save behold him with taut anticipation. It occurred to him that if his crosier turned into a serpent, his parishioners would only prostrate themselves in their attempts to eat it.
By Samuel David Medley5 years ago in Fiction
Once Upon a Pear
The professor brought the lecture to a close with a wave like a conductor’s baton. John ducked his head and began gathering his notes together. Murmured voices filled the hall as the rest of the class filtered out. He tucked his pages into the ratty briefcase his father had generously loaned him only a few short weeks ago. Already, John’s heart ached for the comfort of home. Even if he did return to Georgia, the comfort wouldn’t be there. Ever again.
By B. M. Valdez5 years ago in Fiction
The Lyric-less Song
Angela was enjoying an unusually cool and sun-kissed late summer’s day, sensing some hope and excitement as she walked along the street lined with stately mansions and carried the box of precious Belgian lace, shielding it carefully from the mud and manure splashed by passing carriages. The recently wealthy Mrs. Whitcomb had purchased the lace as part of Mr. Hoover’s war lace program designed to alleviate the suffering of the Belgian people caught in the riptide of the Great War’s trade embargo. Sixteen-year-old Angela would help her Mama sew the lace into a beautiful wedding gown custom ordered for the Whitcomb’s eldest daughter. Wouldn’t their landlord be surprised when they paid their rent ahead of time!
By Julia Schulz5 years ago in Fiction
