Historical
The Forlorn Hope
I “Rejoice, ye who abide within the camp of the saints!” The Reverend Hájek lifted his crosier above his head like a corpulent Moses striving to summon motion from a sea of wan, sunken faces. He searched them for a vestige of acknowledgement. The mouthing of a hosanna. But the congregation did nothing save behold him with taut anticipation. It occurred to him that if his crosier turned into a serpent, his parishioners would only prostrate themselves in their attempts to eat it.
By Samuel David Medley5 years ago in Fiction
Once Upon a Pear
The professor brought the lecture to a close with a wave like a conductor’s baton. John ducked his head and began gathering his notes together. Murmured voices filled the hall as the rest of the class filtered out. He tucked his pages into the ratty briefcase his father had generously loaned him only a few short weeks ago. Already, John’s heart ached for the comfort of home. Even if he did return to Georgia, the comfort wouldn’t be there. Ever again.
By B. M. Valdez5 years ago in Fiction
The Lyric-less Song
Angela was enjoying an unusually cool and sun-kissed late summer’s day, sensing some hope and excitement as she walked along the street lined with stately mansions and carried the box of precious Belgian lace, shielding it carefully from the mud and manure splashed by passing carriages. The recently wealthy Mrs. Whitcomb had purchased the lace as part of Mr. Hoover’s war lace program designed to alleviate the suffering of the Belgian people caught in the riptide of the Great War’s trade embargo. Sixteen-year-old Angela would help her Mama sew the lace into a beautiful wedding gown custom ordered for the Whitcomb’s eldest daughter. Wouldn’t their landlord be surprised when they paid their rent ahead of time!
By Julia Schulz5 years ago in Fiction
Pears Forever
Theo strolls the grounds to think. Bright sunshine warms the air. The scent of fall assails his nostrils. The cool breeze causes him to shiver and button his jacket. He glances at the pear tree branches full of ripe, golden fruit. A branch dangles in front of him proffering its pears for him to taste, to enjoy. He plucks one and takes a bite. The juice runs down his hand and onto his jacket.
By A. L. Jobrail5 years ago in Fiction
Winter at Walden
Henry has lived in the cabin in the woods by the pond for two years. He now knows this woods, and this pond, as his closest friends. Closer than the frequent guests he invites for dinner, his friends among the writers and thinkers. No, his friendship with the pond is as close as the footprint in the snow that caresses his boot, or the amicable darkness that hangs about at dusk when he sits on his porch and muses, as he often does.
By Anna Hamilton5 years ago in Fiction
A Curse of Gold
The wind began to carry a malicious tune of change in early September. By the last week of that month, the first delicate flakes of frozen water fell from the clouds, signaling the onset of winter. It was far too early, far too soon for the seasons to be changing.
By Vonne Vantablack5 years ago in Fiction
Christmas in Maine
One of my closest friends moved to Florida last year to ease his arthritis. I’ve always thought there’s nothing like New England living, but you do feel the cold more with age. He sent me a postcard with a palm tree on it last week. “Merry early Christmas, you old fart,” it read. “And happy birthday.” I was one of those kids always hoping to get two separate gifts. I don’t think it happened once.
By Danielle Stoller5 years ago in Fiction
