Historical
Forever Sinking
I was very early to stir most mornings, well awake to the pitiable weather of my head and the view of my ceiling all fraught with a meddling flotsam of spectres that’d ripple over it in the hours before dawn. It nettled me to be so restless, and even before any hope of first light, to already be upright and drawing into my goose-fleshed ritual of winter dress.
By Rebecca Kahler4 years ago in Fiction
Comes the Quiet
“Of course we’re all going to die” shouted the stout black-haired man in the top-hat to the priest on the Bridge Deck of the Titanic as it pulled loose its moorings at Queenstown, Ireland April 14, 1912. But Jack Sullivan wasn’t interested in idle conversation at all. He was looking over his shoulder as the dock slowly receded from sight. Only then did he exhale and lean into the railing, fairly certain he had evaded capture.
By Tammy Castleman4 years ago in Fiction
Titanic
The year was 1912, I was 20 years old and I'd gotten a job aboard the Unsinkable Titanic. I was just a general crew hand so anything and everything that was needed of me, I'd help where I could when I could. Essentially sun rise to sun set I was working and afterwards I was free to do what I pleased. It was good money I could send back home to my wife and son. Forgive me, where are my manners? My name is Howard Trevor, pleasure to meet you. This is my story aboard the Titanic.
By Dyllon Rodillon4 years ago in Fiction
The Wrong Right Way
Belfast streets at this moment in time were just that bit easier to make your way around then they would be in the years to come. The 2nd of April 1912 in Ireland, the country on the brink of divide politically which would ultimately lead to decades of war. A year that would directly lead to riots on the very streets this story takes place, currently on standstill.
By Robert Hammond4 years ago in Fiction
By the Pricking of My Thumbs
“I trust you know why I’ve brought you here,” the man said, his dark eyes locked on the woman across from him. His long fingers trembled as he lit a cigar, a thin black mustache quivering above his upper lip. He inhaled, let out a puff of white smoke. It hovered, thick, between them.
By Zachary James4 years ago in Fiction
The Fate of Wet Paper
11 April, 1912 It wouldn't be so terrible if some these fools just perished. How childish yet potent this feeling! I spent the better part of the day attempting to gather notes for a casual ethnography of the people on board this ship. The “important” ones, of course. I came up to first class upon the invitation of Mr. Hawthorne, a great and curious patron of the arts and sciences, whom I briefly met at Cambridge. Even his humility started to wear off as he stooped down to the common denominator at the dining table, as social customs require him to do. For that, I cannot blame him.
By Scott Hardy4 years ago in Fiction
Depth of Emotion
Dr. Michael Lee checked the mini-sub’s depth gauge for the third time in the last ten minutes. There were still over three thousand feet until they reached the bottom. At a 100 feet per minute, Dr. Lee would have to endure another 30 minutes of babble from Mrs. Marie Teller. This was his seventh trip to the wreck of the Titanic, and it was the first time that his anticipation had been replaced with something new: dread. How would he ever endure this voyage with the dreadful woman at his side?
By Antonella Di Minni4 years ago in Fiction
Carpathia
For the first day after the girl moved into their cabin, Abigail never heard her speak. The girl’s mouth moved, Abigail could see that. But she never spoke out loud for Abigail to hear. Instead, the girl whispered strange and secret words to the small, porcelain doll that she clutched in her hands so tightly that Abigail thought it might have been frozen to her arms in the icy waters of the sea.
By Steve Hanson4 years ago in Fiction
