Historical

A Harvest of Misery
‘Survival was a moral as well as a physical struggle.’ - Timothy Snyder on the Holodomor Mikhail ‘Misha’ Matkin awakened to the crowing of the village cocks, though by now they had become so enfeebled he was sure they would perish before the harvest even ended.
By George Line4 years ago in Fiction
Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves
In the old days, in one of the faraway countries, there was a good-hearted, poor man who spent his day by being a woodcutter. Every day early, he prayed the dawn prayer, present and carrying his axe, and heading towards the forest, in which he cut trees and pruned them, and sold firewood that he extracted from his work. hard; This man was known as Ali Baba, and he had one full-brother named Qasim, who was well off and had no financial problems, yet he was very greedy and greedy.
By Samara Ben4 years ago in Fiction
Don’t Pass Me Bye
The snow gently cascaded from the foggy night sky, blanketing the countrysides of England as Cillian Shaw jerked restlessly back and fourth on the crammed train with his fellow countrymen. On the outside he was trying to look clam, he was happy to be coming home. More honestly though to be on the ground; not a target in sky, where more bullets soared through the horizon than birds. But inside, his mind was a battlefield.
By Victoria Bezzeg4 years ago in Fiction
Rotterdam
The sun rays are shinning down on the streets of Rotterdam, to be precise piercing through the debris, to strike the blood doused ground. Not more than 23 minutes ago, the Dutch troops had everything under control and were defending their port from the German forces. Buildings were reduced to ashes and the bombings had set the sky ablaze. Human remains were left scattered, thousands were dead in a war they weren't fighting. Amidst the commotion, a lad of 19 years, with cobalt teal colors on his chest was crashed against a collapsed bookstore. The badges on his uniform were slightly visible as the blood gushing out of his arm was drenching him, he could breathe for only a few more minutes. Those around him were all dead, he knew the air in his lungs wouldn't be enough to take him miles in search for help. He was bound to breathe his last, and what broke him more was that he had orders to be delivered to the navy regiments to hold their fire till further directives. The river of Meuse was now in red, he recalled his captain's unwavering words.
By Harshini4 years ago in Fiction
One Final Kick At the Can
What can I say the night seemed out of place like walking into a room and catching static from everyone who notices you walk in, except, that there was no one around this Christmas. The light filtered off the streetlights like some kind of wild flurry of dust that resembled to him like so much flour drifting in the air. Blowing by in the light to come falling softly to the ground covering the paved streets and sidewalks with its fine dust.
By Juniper Jones4 years ago in Fiction
Birth of a Nation
Birth Of A Nation (Vol.1) (The Great Awakening) Chapter 1 “Slow your ass down!” An older man walking down the sidewalk said as he was nearly knocked over.
By All Life4 years ago in Fiction
Plague Dr
Venice, the Floating City of Italy, reached its most significant prominence at the dawn of Rome's 15th-century "Resurrection".
By Michael Anthony Alberta4 years ago in Fiction
The Diary of a Shakespeare Groupie
April 2nd, 1600 Dear Diary, 'Tis another night spent at The Globe. They've charged us working men two pennies to see the first performance of His play Richard III. Two pennies is a day's wage at the tannery, which means that I haven't eaten since yesterday morning, but 'tis worth it to see another play from England's greatest playwright. 'Tis only my mind that needs sustenance, and tonight my mind has amply supped on language so beautifully spoken by the stage's finest players. Aye, what was language before him?
By Maggie Blaha4 years ago in Fiction
Last Climb
Grandpa Gene was not the typical grumpy old man that most kids talk about when they are going over to visit their grandparents. In fact, not once did I ever hear him utter gruffly, “You kids get off my lawn.” Grandpa had a smile that always made you feel welcome. When you first arrived at his house his lanky frame would grab you up in a tight hug.
By Don Money4 years ago in Fiction
Wren of the East
01-Wren of the East The sun offered no warmth in the grey morning. The clouds hung low, and a light mist filled the air. The only sounds on the road were the horses' hooves against the stone. The trees were even desolate and offered no cover for birds or humans alike.
By R.A. Thomas4 years ago in Fiction
Illness in the trenches
The illness took its time to set in. At first, it started as a cough. It wasn't until mid-afternoon it turned into a fever. James tried to hide it, but this was no place to be sick. Exposed and open to the elements the trench offered little respite. Not sure what he should do he couldn't help but shiver and shake uncontrollably. It wasn't long before a Lance Corporal noticed. A tall man with ginger hair. He was compassionate and expressed great concern. The Lance Corporal whisked James off down the trench. Away from his PALs. The duo weaved in and out of trench lines past soldiers. Board soldiers. Waiting, soldiers. Not sure of their fates, but sick of waiting to meet it all the same. A growing sense of anxiety that no amount of tobacco could fix. It was too late now to head back out of the trench and to seek medical attention...
By Charlie Smith4 years ago in Fiction
Prologue
1886 I sit on the floor in front of Mama, playing with my doll and a top. Since my older siblings have gone away it is very quiet. As quiet as it has become inside, it is now loud outside. Waves of shouting and pop, pop, pop followed by times of silence. Mama cries often now. Papa, when he comes, slips in and out like a ghost, only at night, never staying long. Sweet Franciszka who used to take care of me is gone, as is Cook and the others.
By Cathi Allen4 years ago in Fiction