Historical
Dancing 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.
By Shelby Rider5 years ago in Fiction
Iron 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.
By Joachim Mizrahi 5 years ago in Fiction
The 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.
By James Bell5 years ago in Fiction
Van Gogh In A Field, In the Rain. First Place in SFS 1: Old Barn Challenge.
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.
By Eric Dovigi5 years ago in Fiction
Blowing My Own Horn, Part One: The Troika of Osip Teitelbaum
Blowing My Own Horn, Part One: The Troika of Osip Teitelbaum “I cannot take comfort in the lie of the Germans. I was not ‘only following orders.’ I was a machine. I machine of my own making. I am the New Soviet Man. And hell is my destination.”
By Grant Patterson5 years ago in Fiction
JACK OF DIAMONDS
i Chernetsov stood on the upper floor of Marlborough Estate sipping a drink and looking down into the large foyer below. Two sets of stairs wound their way down from the balcony where a massive chandelier, hanging from a chain as thick as a man’s arm, was suspended. The chandelier was at least two hundred years old and was the first thing he’d wanted to get rid of when he bought the house. His wife, he remembered, had other ideas. He was glad she’d talked him out of replacing it. There was a large Turkey rug laying on the black and white tiled floor, with two potted urns placed under each of the winding staircases. It was a nuisance as far as he was concerned. Again, his wife had a different opinion, filling the urns with silken flowers crafted by local women.
By ben woestenburg5 years ago in Fiction
