Historical
Glory
“John, it’s me, Glory. Guess where I am? I came back to the farm to say goodbye to this old barn. Tomorrow a big-business chicken farming corporation will tear it down and turn this land into a factory farm with hundreds of chickens that will never see the light of day. Can you believe that?”
Nancy BrissonPublished 3 years ago in FictionKeller
( Note from the author: as an added challenge, I've decided to include all 8 elements from Vocal's Summer Challenge Series in this submission. See if you can find them! Happy writing everyone :] )
We'll Meet Again
There was only one rule when Juliette visited her grandparent’s farm growing up... “Don’t go near the old barn!” Juliette had grumbled and asked why on many occasions, but it was the one question she’d never received an answer to, her Grandpa Albert leaving the room and Grandma Edie humming instead and staring off into space.
Elissa DawsonPublished 3 years ago in FictionJACK OF DIAMONDS
iii Magda was the first one to see him. She’d heard the sickening thud as he landed on the carpeted floor, and turned to see him trying to sit up before he fainted. Her scream echoed through the open foyer. She was at his side before she knew what she was doing—panic stricken—not knowing what to do, or how she should hold him. His face was ashen, his lips turning blue, and then she looked down the length of his body seeing the damage to his leg.
ben woestenburgPublished 3 years ago in FictionHide and Seek
My name is Evelyn Meijer, but I hate when people use my full name; I like “Evi” better. I was born September 21, 1934. I am a Jew.
Matthew StanleyPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Bludding
The Gathering happened only once a decade. We traveled over mountains or along winding fjords, only the elderly and the women with suckling babes left behind. I was a swaddling bairn the last time, so this was my first Gathering, and I had talked about nothing else for weeks.
Angel WhelanPublished 3 years ago in FictionDancing Through Time
I dipped my brush into the powder blue paint, and ran the edges across the lip of my paint can to remove any excess. The brush felt heavy in my hand as I reached up to swipe it across the old wood once more. I had painted half a wall in the run down barn on our land. My arthritic fingers throbbed from the labor, so I balanced the brush carefully across the can’s rim to give myself a break.
Shelby RiderPublished 3 years ago in FictionAngela meets her Nephew and Bride
(Author's note: Some literary license has been taken to meld historical and fictional characters into one story) ~ Sunday, June 30, 1864 ~
James BellPublished 3 years ago in FictionIron Scales
His feet ached. Isaac and about a dozen others like him had trekked from Lafayette, Louisiana to the borders of Texas. Three hundred miles on foot; barefoot. They were accompanied by four overseers over the course of five days, occasionally being tossed an apple along the way to keep their energy up.
Joachim MizrahiPublished 3 years ago in FictionThe Rose
~ June 12, 1637 ~ The tavern door opened, and everyone braced themselves against the chilling wind and rain. An unseasonable cold front had moved through the area. Through the door came a big man, whose size seemed to make his own door as he entered sideways. He quickly shut the door, pulled off his hood and surveyed the people in the room. Through the darkness and smoke, he saw the woman behind the bar. He was not interested in anyone else.
James BellPublished 3 years ago in FictionBack in My Hay Day
I remember the day of my birth. Folks from miles around converged on this property, driving wagons laden with hand forged tools and roofing material. The lumber arrived the day prior, drifted down the Mississippi. My logs were lashed together and floated down river as giant rafts. A log driver steered, utilizing powerful oars. On the day of my barn raising, those handy with hammers and nails started building walls while the lady folk set out tables spread with feasts fit for kings. By noontime, my walls stood firmly anchored to the ground; by nightfall some stacked hay in my loft while others lead horses into their new stalls.
- First Place in SFS 1: Old Barn Challenge
Van Gogh In A Field, In the Rain
When I was very young I would leave the old barn, cross the wheat fields into town and sit by half of a bridge until the sun rose. Once the sun had risen high enough to illuminate the north-south streets, I would move quickly—all children have no time to lose—to my mother’s house, where she would give me food and kick me back out into the street. Then I would wander around, sit by the half-bridge again for a while, eventually make my way to the house by the edge of the wheat field. I thought the man who lived there was my father because he would always give me something to eat when he saw me and he was handsome.
Eric DovigiPublished 3 years ago in Fiction