Historical
Harbinger
Beechey Island is a small speck of land within the Arctic circle. It would be unworthy of note if it had not once been the winter harbor for the Franklin Expedition. The expedition left England in 1845 to seek the Northwest Passage. They never returned. What happened to them is still a mystery, but Beechey’s place in history was cemented by a particular relic—the graves of the first to die.
By Lauren Triola4 years ago in Fiction
Widow's Walk. Top Story - October 2021.
Day after day, I climbed the steps to the cupola on the roof to watch for my husband’s ship. I hated that Charles had had to go back to the sea; only last year he had retired from the long trading voyages. With the profit of thirty years as captain, he had purchased his favorite ship and another of similar design, and a large warehouse. Thus settled in business, he had our present home built to his specification: red brick, with the servants’ quarters and kitchen on the ground floor, and dining hall and study above. On the top floor were the bedrooms, ours and two smaller rooms for our sons, Henry and William, all surmounted by a low-ceilinged attic. A trapdoor brought down a stairway to the roof, where the cupola, surrounded by a railing, stood – a captain’s walk, he called it, so that he might watch for his ships’ comings and goings. He had seen them in one of the southern colonies and determined that he should be the first merchant he knew to have one on his own home. His ships were called Salem Town and Colonial Bull – the latter a reference to his favorite tavern, the Bull’s Horns, which he also owned a half-stake in and where he always took his crews for dinner upon arriving safe in harbor and again before setting sail. I confess the ships looked the same as any other in the harbor to me, save that I recognized the officers aboard when they docked, but Charles could see a mast barely peeping over the horizon and know whether it was his own or another’s. He would watch as she approached the wharf to see that the proper number of men were on deck – there always being a risk of illness or accident at sea – and once she was tied up, he would hurry downstairs and across the square to supervise the unloading of cargo. There were usually contracts for most of the goods to be sold on to shops, but there were always some goods that someone was trying to move quickly, and Charles’s captains were savvy in what might or might not be worth finding room aboard for.
By Randi O'Malley Smith4 years ago in Fiction
The Ridge: The Whisper of the Leaves - Chap. 46
The grogginess was now gone, and Marshall was fully back to his senses. Lawrence had the pistol jammed hard into the side of his head, but the youth still knew he had to do something. He couldn’t count on anyone else saving Jenny and himself. If they did, fine. But he wasn’t about to turn the saving of his, and especially his little sister’s life, over to anyone else.
By Dan Brawner4 years ago in Fiction
JACK OF DIAMONDS
CHAPTER 20: (part 1) WHEN YOU’RE DEALING WITH A KNAVE… i “Why are there no fuckin’ lights out this way?” Reggie asked, the single beam of the torch he was carrying barely able to light a path through the warehouse. There was a threatening darkness eating at the edge of the light. “Is it too much to think they might get electricity out here sometime this century?” He shot the beam upward, trying to see into the rafters. The light was too weak, and was soon lost in the shadows.
By ben woestenburg4 years ago in Fiction
The Ridge: The Whisper of the Leaves - Chap. 44
Gerald saw everything from his vantage point in the alleyway. He saw Lawrence speed by toward his place, then he saw the cops head east toward the Ridge and finally, he saw Marshall’s Dad turn toward the south, right beside where he stood.
By Dan Brawner4 years ago in Fiction
The White Indian
April of 1775 In the darkness of the forest that enveloped the winding, treacherous Headstone Hill, over which many a neighbor had stalked in silence toward the sprawling 100 year old plantation, the old Greaves Estate, it was whispered that a young Indian war chief lived within those very walls. At Black Hollow, he often lingered, and was seen gliding beyond the little railway fence that barred his way, reappearing far on the other side of it without a sound. It seemed the very wind carried him in silence, leaving not a trace of his presence save for the faint half-print of a moccasin. A domesticated rascal, he had been tamed and taught to act the part of a gentlemen within the house, but the people of the wood knew better. He was nothing short of the best rifleman in all of Virginia, and certainly a mighty boast for those who lived in Woodstock, Virginia. In short, the boy had grown to be a renowned figure of the forest.
By Erica Nicolay4 years ago in Fiction
The Ridge: The Whisper of the Leaves - Chap. 43
“Ere they go.” Lawrence said to his Katie as he pointed at the two figures walking away from the ditched police sedan. He and his daughter had been waiting six miles south of Wynne at a village called Colt. They knew that they would be driving up from Forrest City and wanted to grab Marshall before he got to Wynne. The snow, however, had thrown a kink in their plan.
By Dan Brawner4 years ago in Fiction
