Historical
Requiem in White
It must be said, with some degree of temerity, the occult and I are intimate. So, yes, I am known in the Halls of Shegorab. I am versed in the labyrinthine passages that descend the Mad Stairs beneath our very feet. My meditations on the cryptic and obscure, my dissertations to those unafraid to dabble in the darker ways—these are all matters of record, albeit a record viewed by singular few. Some would call me charlatan. My calling is Truth; let what will come of it rise to the surface of its own accord.
By Erroneous Monk3 years ago in Fiction
Pirates Ahead
My grandfather was right about many things. He called the World Series winners many years in a row, how we’d put a man on the moon, Nixon – he knew things, or he was an excellent guesser. His 86 years of experience included both good things and bad, the good things being what he shared with his grandkids. Besides his love of chess, he loved making us laugh. He would take us into his lap and point to his mustache. We’d go to touch it, and he’d pretend to bite our fingers. My father did that, too, come to think of it. We’d break out into a fit of giggles.
By Barb Dukeman3 years ago in Fiction
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.
By ben woestenburg3 years ago in Fiction
The 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.
By Ashley Herzog3 years ago in Fiction
The 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.
By Peter Spering3 years ago in Fiction
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.
By Destiny D Mitchell3 years ago in Fiction
King 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.
By Saul Boyer3 years ago in Fiction
I 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.”
By Alice Vargas3 years ago in Fiction