Robin Laurinec
Stories (37/0)
Messages in the Dark
Of the many questions that arise about the Titanic's sinking, one of the most haunting is: why didn't anyone get there sooner? Why was there such a delay in getting help? Though there are many answers to these questions, one is the difficulty and time it took to transmit messages to ships via Morse code. A general SOS could not be sent out to the general radio as can be done today. Rather, the Titanic had to send separate distress messages to each ship in the area, costing valuable time that resulted in tragic deaths. The radiomen were actively engaged in the process of translating language back and forth, and the time required to do so (though greatly reduced due to skill and training) was enough to lead to disaster.
By Robin Laurinec2 years ago in Fiction
And Still They Played On
They weren’t going to make it, of that John Hume was sure. There were too few lifeboats, too much panic, and too cold of water. When he had walked across the pier onto the “unsinkable” ship four days prior, twenty-one year old Hume could never have guessed that this would be his fate. He tore open the door, peering down the hallway as people rushed to and fro. Across the hall, Percy used his body to prop open the door as he hefted his cello in front of him. With a grim, hopefully reassuring smile, Hume grabbed his violin case and headed up to the deck. It was bitterly cold, the frigidness of the night sky providing no warmth as he made his way over to the piano perched upon the deck, where Theodore already sat, playing a church hymn that made Hume smile despite himself. He set his case on the ground, pulled up a chair, and began tuning his violin.
By Robin Laurinec2 years ago in Fiction
Panic of the Gods
"And, they've taken Corinth." A groan rose up from the crowd gathered around the large globe that spun slowly in the center of their lavish room. Hermes threw his hands in the air and began hastily gathering his stuff, flitting here and there in a way that annoyed every god around him.
By Robin Laurinec2 years ago in Fiction
A Portrait of My Grandparents' Home
You pull up in front of a white paneled home. Its lawn has long since fallen into disarray, weeds poking out of what appears to be every gap in the grass. A statue of Mary, beheaded by some rowdy teenagers and unreplaced, sits at the foot of a set of rotting wooden stairs leading up to a heavy white and green door. Entering there, you step onto what was once a sun porch, but has now become a cluttered assortment of random items that have accumulated there over the years. Though flanked with wide windows, the room is always cold when you visit, the sunlight filtering in doing nothing to chase away the chill of the brisk winter wind.
By Robin Laurinec2 years ago in Families
The Scent of Decaying Flowers
Everyone knew that the lady that lived in the house at the end of the street was a witch. Mothers would pull their children closer to their sides when they passed, and soldiers often lingered as though contemplating whether slaying this figure would bring peace to their village. On days where she ventured out into the forest to gather supplies for her potions, the roads into and out of Minara would be eerily silent and bare.
By Robin Laurinec2 years ago in Fiction
- Top Story - September 2021
Candy Bars and ChemotherapyTop Story - September 2021
I remember watching my father walk down the street, the bright yellow shirt with the solid black zigzag pairing perfectly with his bald head. An adorable Charlie Brown if there ever was one. He was laughing with my mother (who was dressed as Snoopy), watching my sister rushing ahead in a witch's costume as she darted from door to door. I had lingered slightly behind, trying to commit as much of the scene to memory as I could. After all, it was possibly the last Halloween I would get to spend with my father.
By Robin Laurinec3 years ago in Families
The Corpse Under the Pear Tree
December 4, 1951 France- The car pulled up alongside a field flanking a long stretch of road. The usually green expanse of crops was now dusted with a thin layer of snow. Detective Lebeau peered out the windshield at the small conglomerate of figures crowded around the base of an old, wizened pear tree. He pulled his collar up over his ears and stepped out into the cold morning air.
By Robin Laurinec3 years ago in Criminal