Historical
JACK OF DIAMONDS
iv “I want to know who she is,” Chernetsov said, his voice low, controlled, but threatening. He looked at the three men sitting in front of his desk. It was obvious, even to him, that he was fighting to keep himself under control—he could see that looking at his reflection in the mirror behind them—where it was obvious he was fighting to control the anger threatening to get away from him.
ben woestenburgPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe barn and the bog body
Breda walked to work each day as if she were walking to the gallows. Only a few nights had passed since a group of vagabond thieves—known among the Irish as Tinkers—had stormed Lord Andrews’ manor house, masked in old cut-out flour sacks that made them look demonic. But evil spirits they weren’t. They were common thieves who knew it was an auspicious evening to loot the teach mór—“the big house.” The owner, a rich English landlord, was entertaining rich guests that night. They knew because Breda had felt sympathy for the poor Tinker woman at the market. Breda had given the woman butter and a loaf of bread to feed her gaunt, dirty children, while letting it slip that Lord Andrews was hosting a Midsummer party.
Ashley HerzogPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Albion Kiss.
Southwest England, 1943. I want to kill my husband. It’s not entirely his fault; we’ve been stuck in this cold, claustrophobic house together for too long now. Trapped by the remoteness of the endless fields that make up our farm, the rolling hills beyond acting as mighty walls. Our only neighbour is a nosey woman in a cottage on the opposite side of the distant road. I can’t breathe. Nothing exciting ever happens here. Well, except for that Luftwaffe plane crash a little while ago. There was a big search for the pilot by all the locals, but he was never found.
Peter SperingPublished 3 years ago in FictionStarving for the Big Red Barn
The big red barn was America. Rose was absolutely sure of that. It had been in all the paintings, with the amber waves of grain, and the eagle soaring overhead, and always full of cows and crops. She held the image of the barn in her mind as the ship pitched and rolled beneath her. Rose’s people had been tenant farmers for longer than anyone could remember but the barns of Ireland weren’t red, they were stone. And they were empty.
The Bearing
She sat huddled in a pile of straw atop the old barn loft that was strewn with hay. She gently braided the strands together forming long ropes of parched silk like other girls braided their dolls' hair. She would have loved to own a doll. She would have been overly excited to get one for her 9th birthday, last week, if anyone had even known it was her birthday. But “Ma” and “Pa” never even knew it had come and passed. They never asked, and she never told.
Destiny D MitchellPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Red Barn
It happened again. Why was I so naive to think that even though he was 90 days sober, that his fucking rage wouldn't come out in full force. My mom, bless her heart, cared more about her vanity than her daughter.
Elizabeth CripePublished 3 years ago in FictionKing Farouk's Barn.
The bird, rushing about like a mad golfer in gelatinous plus-fours, was spraying the barn with crimson arcs. Its head, severed by my uncle, witnessed its body’s desertion like a fearsome guardian spirit, the spark of life dying in its eyes. My infant brain could hardly take this in. My screams were rather compounded when Francois began chasing the poor headless carcass with his cleaver. My world imploded. I decided then and there that I would create my own society, of which I was lord and sovereign, its realm, geographically spread to my ten toes in the south, five fingers east and west and the fuzzy headlands in the north of my brown curly crown.
Saul BoyerPublished 3 years ago in FictionI Heard Freedom Calling
“I hate to think that I slept through it all, but they mostly came at night to avoid the authorities,” wrote Uncle Martin. “Nighttime also protected the helpers, so they wouldn’t be caught. I was told granddad didn’t know how he was going to tell grandma what he had volunteered for. But Grandma Jean was already secretly helping those she encountered that seemed in need or afraid.”
Alice VargasPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Luck of Private Riley
PFC Andrew Riley hid along the tree line, about 200 yards from the barn. He had no idea where he was. The C-47 that had flown him and his company over the Channel had run into some serious flak as they approached the drop zone. Their pilot couldn’t get down to 700 feet, so they jumped from well above the expected altitude. All the parachutes and men were scattered around Cherbourg like dandelions in the wind. Riley found himself drifting away from his company as he came down. He fell through a tree that shredded his parachute on the way down and hit the ground hard enough that he suspected his ankle was broken. He was lucky to be alive, but being alone and lost behind enemy lines, Riley was pretty scared.
Antonella Di MinniPublished 3 years ago in FictionHidden in The Hay
The sun crested the hill behind the Big House, its rays bearing down on the farmyard. Della lifted her head and closed her eyes, breathing in the morning. A loud popping sound erupted from the sky, causing her to flinch and snap her eyes open. A massive iron bird shot across the blue sky, screeching as it passed by. Della scrambled to her feet, letting out a low of fear before shuffling quickly towards the Barn. The iron birds had become more frequent in the last few months, and they made Della uneasy. Heinrich and Liesel had certainly appeared more harried when they came to the Barn to look after Della and the pigs. Della could sense the tension in Liesel’s fingers as she pulled on Della’s udders, draining her milk into a pail. She had overheard Liesel’s hushed conversation with Heinrich about hiding the little girl, and Heinrich’s brow had furrowed in anxiety. Hiding the girl would bring danger to the farm, Della could tell.
Mackenzie DickesonPublished 3 years ago in FictionSic Semper Sicarius
Sic Semper Sicarius - Thus Always to Assassins He knew he should be scared, but truth be told, he was not afraid of dying. After what he did he knew that he would be hunted down. “Dead or alive, they say,” he laughed. “I think they will act as if it’s Dead or Dead. What about you David? Are you ready to die in this barn? Is this old barn the kind of place you expected to spend the last hours of your life in?”
Cleve TaylorPublished 3 years ago in FictionAnother Life
In another life, he knew this had to have been a barn. Resisting the urge to open his eyes, he took a deep breath and tried to imagine the old structure’s past. The smell of hay and manure was faint but he was absolutely convinced it was still there. Not that the others would have believed him, or cared. To his right, the stranger next to him coughed, abruptly. It sparked a chain reaction around the barn, echoes of coughs, smothered grunts and loud sighs. He turned his attention away from the men around him and focussed once again on the barn; his daily routine. Now old and decrepit, it still served its purpose; housing livestock and tools. As a city man, he’d never spent time in or around barns, and barely understood the life that accompanied them. It was a life that had been romanticised in literature and history; the glory of the pastures, the honest hard-working farm hands being the backbone of civilisation. Birdsong and nature, the soundtrack to an idyllic life. He longed for it now, but he could never escape his own reality. The man next to him continued to stir, an agitated shudder pulling him back to the present.
Holly JacksonPublished 3 years ago in Fiction