Historical
Golden Hour
The color of the gown that I wore when I first entered the imperial palace harem was the deepest of reds. Being selected as a candidate for Consort came as no surprise to me nor my parents. I’d been groomed for that very moment since the I could talk—there was nothing else I could do; nobody else I could be but the Emperor’s Consort.
Flower of 1348
The ombre shades of death hung heavy along the skyline. With her head slightly turned, she could just make out the black outline of the becchini (coffin bearers). Moving in wearied cadence, six of them were etched against the early morning sky. Carting away the newly dead and even some who were still clinging to a bit of life. At this distance, she could not distinguish between the two. All she could see were mounds of human flesh being jolted and jiggled in a horrid movement toward the exit of the Citta’ di Firenze (City of Florence).
Brenda KlugPublished 3 years ago in FictionA Gunslinger's Flower
The morning sun shown bright over the tree tops warming the land around me as I sat puffing on a cigarette poking the embers of a dying fire. Hearing a rustle behind me I turned to see the entrance of the tent part and her reddish brown hair dance in the breeze as she stretched out with a yawn.
Jake XagasPublished 3 years ago in FictionNO MAN'S LAND
1918 I left from one war and found myself coming home to another. One would argue it wasn’t the Great War’s trenches that destroyed me, but what was waiting for me when I returned home. I had nightmares about it, the terror of returning to no wife, no baby girl. As if covered in debris and the spits of war wasn’t enough – I was burdened by nightmares while sleeping in those trenches. They say war brings you closer to life and death, that some soldiers lose themselves in it that they begin to see things, moments that haven’t happened yet, relatives long dead and buried. I never believed such things could happen; but it seemed life and death met in the battlefields of men in more ways than one.
Patrick SantiagoPublished 3 years ago in FictionFORBIDDEN FLOWER
Violet lifted her glasses and rubbed her eyes; she had been staring at the screen too long and she had a headache. She was about to tell a story that she had never shared with anyone before. She went to the kitchen to drink some water, at 75 she was still very agile and independent, she noticed it was 9.30pm, she’d forgotten to eat dinner again. Since beginning to write her memoirs she had often become so caught up in the past that she forgot to attend to the present, her daughter Moira would have something to say if she found out, so Violet opened her cupboard and fished out a can of soup which she microwaved and put in a mug. Sat back in front of the screen she re-read her last few paragraphs, ‘and that is when I first saw her, the beautiful Mari Gold. Her father and mine were business associates and friends.’
Julia BrennanPublished 3 years ago in FictionCempaxochitl
Shadows pass along a wall, soft voices murmuring in tongues. For the longest time the elements consume me, bone-chilling cold replaced by burning fire. Each thought disappearing with the horror of crashing, monstrous waves. Faces and hands fading each time I cry out, reaching for terra firma, God help me! So then, it is true, in my first moment of consciousness it comes to me that even a heathen will cry out at his end. Only, it does not end.
David QuastPublished 3 years ago in FictionRed Mary
This lake was once part of the sea. On warm nights, salt and brine’d carry upon the breeze like a ghost. Pulling off her coat, Mary loosened her corset and flopped down on the gray, pebbly beach.
Sabah KaliPublished 3 years ago in Fictionjack of diamonds
“How are you?” “How am I? I’m still hungry. I told you I was hungry hours ago.” “Maybe later. We still have to make a decision about tonight,” Sonia said, brushing a strand of hair out of her face as she slipped her notebook back into her pocket. They were walking along George Street, approaching Fore and The White Hart, the local hotel and eatery. The sun was starting to set. Nigel supposed it would be another hour at the most. The east side of the street was Saunders’s pig farm, where they’d just come from; the west side of the street was thin, spindly birch and aspen trees which had lost most of their leaves. The sun came through the trees at an angle, dappling the paving stones ahead of them with light and shadows. The breeze had a bite to it too, but Nigel wasn’t about to tell her he was cold.
ben woestenburgPublished 3 years ago in FictionIn Hiding
I heard this story once, about a woman who was taken from her home because she was not of the same religion as the new settlers in her neighborhood.
Maryam AsjadPublished 3 years ago in FictionIvory and Marigolds
Sharp, crisp notes lilted through the parlor. John’s long fingers danced over the ivory keys while his mother swayed nearby, a tea cup clutched delicately in one bony hand. Each chord John struck brought Chopin’s masterpiece to life. He would play the piano forever just to see his mother smiling like that. His father hated the sound—like broken glass clobbered under a horse’s hooves—because it stood to remind him that John would never be the son he’d wanted. Despite his mother’s efforts to shield John from his father’s disdain, John could see it clearly.
Blaze HollandPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Devil and Debutant
Jane's dress weighed her down in both body and spirit. A woman always knows when she is beautiful, and that knowledge could make even the most heavily laden woman move like she floated on a cloud. Jane was not floating. She was drowning in the ugly yellow froths aware of how washed out the color made her look. However, the material had been of the bargain variety, which made it look oh so wonderful to her mother. Jane knew her place and did not have the funds to provide her own dress, so she had resignedly worn the damn thing.
E. J. StrangePublished 3 years ago in FictionA Joyous Sound
My name is Pepi Aussenberg and although my body lives, I lost my soul at the age of four. Ever since I’ve been nothing but a mere walking corpse, barely breathing; my heart, barely thumping.
Alex KellyPublished 3 years ago in Fiction