Erica Nicolay
Bio
I have written stories since I was thirteen and enjoy releasing short stories online. I have published one book about the Hitler Youth Program titled True to the End, which you can buy on Amazon.
Stories (35/0)
Joining the Jungvolk
The day was bound to come. Ever since Franz had left, it seemed there had been a mental countdown of the days before young Ernst should be forced to leave home. Each year left to remain was a treasure, each moral discussion a memory for a lifetime. As his father had hoped, Ernst held true to everything that was taught him, while under his father’s roof.
By Erica Nicolay2 years ago in Fiction
An Unexpected Friend
I don’t want to go. I don’t want to face another day here, grumbled Otto, as with wide eyes full of fear, he trudged through the gate to the school. It was in town—in town where there were numerous streets, bustling people, and plenty of places for a fight. With slouching shoulders, in dread, he approached the great doors that divided him from his classmates, and the openness of the outdoors…
By Erica Nicolay3 years ago in Fiction
The White Indian
April of 1775 In the darkness of the forest that enveloped the winding, treacherous Headstone Hill, over which many a neighbor had stalked in silence toward the sprawling 100 year old plantation, the old Greaves Estate, it was whispered that a young Indian war chief lived within those very walls. At Black Hollow, he often lingered, and was seen gliding beyond the little railway fence that barred his way, reappearing far on the other side of it without a sound. It seemed the very wind carried him in silence, leaving not a trace of his presence save for the faint half-print of a moccasin. A domesticated rascal, he had been tamed and taught to act the part of a gentlemen within the house, but the people of the wood knew better. He was nothing short of the best rifleman in all of Virginia, and certainly a mighty boast for those who lived in Woodstock, Virginia. In short, the boy had grown to be a renowned figure of the forest.
By Erica Nicolay3 years ago in Fiction
The Village
“Come now, Michael!” A flustered old woman, with a tart mouth and stern eye, chided her young charge. She came scurrying down the lane of the little one-way street of the village. Apparently never having been there before, she seemed to have lost her way, and rather than asking someone which way to go, seemed to take greater pleasure in scolding the little boy who followed her, at a safe distance. “We’d never be in this mess if it hadn’t been for you, you stupid boy. Come now! Hurry up!” She caught up her skirts and made a dash across the street, crossing to the other side, and impatiently beckoning to the boy, who was reluctant to cross.
By Erica Nicolay3 years ago in Fiction
The Old Bog
A man fell into the old bog and was never heard from again. The bog is also where there was a man the villagers called Mr. Toad. He resembled a toad, in many ways—he was a toad. He had the disposition of a gathering storm that lurked in his countenance whenever his ironed frown lines settled around his crooked, drooping mouth. He hardly spoke, and when he did, it was only to gurgle out a guttural, rhythmic croak of a note or two.
By Erica Nicolay3 years ago in Fiction
The Chase
It was with cool, quiet desperation that man in the dark overcoat deliberately approached the teaming swarm of angry gestapo. He still clenched the stub of a smoldering cigarette between his numb fingers, and blew the last bit of smoke through his nostrils with grim foreboding. The blond haired boy, who clung to his side, with his bloodstained nazi uniform, could scarcely disguise his terror while he glanced knowingly at that mad frenzy brutes as they tore past the two.
By Erica Nicolay3 years ago in Fiction
Longing for Love
On my long, plodding way down (in my nurse’s arms), I took notice of the many dark paintings on the walls. They were all much bigger than I--some ten feet by five, some made up of layered bush strokes that seemed unconnected (I learned the term impressionistic later), light-hearted and colorful--but the majority seemed fit for dungeons--with iron bars, moldy castles, surrounded by the turbulent waters of the sea, often with an erie creature decked in a white gown, poking its pale face out a gothic window. They were altogether revolting pictures to me. I have never learned since to like them.
By Erica Nicolay3 years ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Child
It was a twelve year old slump-shouldered youth who crawled over the rusty gate to the farmhouse. By his cautious demeanor and furtive glance, one would have guessed he were a trespasser come to perhaps steal a few scrawny chickens—but he was no thief. The house was his own…or at least, he lived there.
By Erica Nicolay3 years ago in Fiction
