I entered this world covered in blood. #HistoricalFiction #Fantasy

The War Master's Daughter
by Elly Zupko


“This could not go on, Abern. A soldier is a part of the machine that is the unit. A unit is part of the machine that is the army. One soldier refusing to function can bring down her unit by simply neglecting the duties of her rank. But more than neglect, Borodin had put herself in a position to lead by example and was on the eve of bringing down the entire unit. We are at war, Abern, and this was treason.
“At first I beat her, then progressed to the cat. But I soon realized this would not solve my problem. Abern . . . you know intimately my passion for carnal justice. Messy deaths prove points. Blood stains prompt memories when time would fade the lessons. However, in the field we kill treasonous soldiers by breaking their necks. This is so no blood spills on their uniforms, because those uniforms can be worn by others. We waste nothing in the pursuit of the good of the whole.
“She screamed as I came to her.” Cashel sighed ruefully. “The weak ones always scream.”
Before Abern’s eyes, the room began to spin. He searched, wildly scanning the room. Found nothing.
“Sir, allow me to light the lamp.” He began to cough uncontrollably. “Please, Cashel. You needn’t do this. . . . Cashel, I held you as a baby.”
“Then you know more than any that I entered this world covered in blood, and I feel no remorse at my role in it. Farewell, Mr. Abern. It is for the good of the whole.”
Abern took his last breath and did not have time to exhale before the pillow was over his face, and his lungs gave out, his brain gave out, his heart gave out, and he was dead.

"Rih al-Khamsin." It was an eerie howl rather than a cry. #Historical Fiction

Khamsin, The Devil Wind of The Nile“Rih al-Khamsin!”

by Inge H. Borg


It was an eerie howl rather than a cry. It multiplied, and it traveled fast. The urgency of the warning sent the inhabitants scurrying. In great haste, children were collected, drinking wells covered, and home sites secured. All against the onslaught of the feared wind whose turbulent airs had gathered strength from far away.

Its father, the Sirocco, was spawned over the hot desert. Before it abandoned its cyclonic origins to reach across the Great Green Sea, clawing its young islands along the way, racing toward the densely forested virgin coast of the primitive Northern Continent, it gave birth to its unbridled son Khamsin, the Devil Wind of the Nile.

This new turbulence then grew into adolescence over the desolate sandy expanses of the great desert, gathering strength and hot dust, reaching merciless maturity as it slammed into the broad Valley of the Nile. With the Khamsin’s arrival, the populace knew to expect accompanying sand storms; and swarms of vermin covered the ground bringing widespread devastation to the already parched land.

Only when the Great Wind’s hot fury was spent, did its evil spirits seem appeased, and the land and its people could breathe anew, and anticipate the life-giving flooding of their river once again.

Just as once again, the principles of Ma’at would be adhered to. It was their cornerstone of all life, of all culture. Its teachings were to suppress all chaos stemming from ones emotions, feelings and reactions. To keep life in absolute order. No deviation was permitted. Those who offended its strict laws were severely punished - often by a cruel death.

But during those enervating days when the incessant wind raged, Ma’at was often breached; usually calm tempers flared; violent crimes were committed. And it was said, that people vanished without a trace.

Historical Fiction Kindle: "Race Against Time" by Sydney S. Song

Desegregation caused this historical riot at lunchtime in Florida in the 1970s...

 

What my psyche witnessed from afar included bodies- people- all over the place moving hastily then not at all.  Screaming accompanied this sight.  A riot finally registered in my soul; it clearly blocked the path between the gym and a row of bathrooms falling into the area in front of the main back doors.  Natural, student traffic couldn’t enter our main loggia or hallway to classes due to the violent storm raging in that region.

 

A few grown-ups got hold of students dragging them through the doors to the main building as the bell rang out. “Go to class!”  But, how? The passage remained blocked.

 

 I turned quickly walking between the building and the cows mooing in their pastures.  Were they warning me of trouble ahead or speaking to their owners? Was the noise a signal of a stampede ahead? In spite of these unknowns, it still felt smarter to pass as near as sensible to the herd bellowing as I led the impromptu parade around to the front doors into the high school building.

Satire Kindle Books: "Six of One" by JoAnn Spears

Chapter Twenty, The Chapter That Is All About Fashion:

Livy—Mary Livingston, I presume—was on the spot with a device that looked to me like a life preserver. Eyeing it suspiciously, I insisted on an explanation before I would let her get any closer with it. All I got, though, was a smart slap on my rear end followed by gales of laughter from Livy. After the laughter had subsided, the tallest of the four girls, who was likewise the most dignified, introduced herself to me as “Mary, call me ‘Seton.’”

“The bumroll goes beneath your gown, Dolly. It will make your skirts flare out becomingly, like ours do,” Seton said. She illustrated by placing her hands on the top of her skirt, which flared out from her waist with enough flat surface at the top to rest a teacup on.

Had all my years of Jazzercise, I wondered sadly, been in vain? I winced at the thought that a million plié squats had come to this but guessed it would be best to just bumroll with the punches.

“Maestro, a drumroll for the bumroll!” I said to Livy, proffering her my rear end with a jaunty wiggle. Betty Boop might have been impressed, but Livy was not.

"The Bluebird House" by Rae Ellen Lee

I open my eyes to a gray wool hat and a face so near I see individual wiry hairs in his brushy, walrus mustache.  I close my eyes and groan.  My teeth rattle against each other.  “Moose . . . help.”

 

   “Hold on.  I never found a half-dead person before.  Gotta get you into the truck.” 

   Curled in the fetal position on the seat of an old pickup truck, I am wrapped in a dirty blue blanket smelling of stale beer.  The pain, like knives, stabs at me, over and over and over.  My head rests against the man’s thigh that smells of oil and sawdust.  My feet bump against the door handle.  During the few moments I am conscious, the truck rattles and shakes and hammers the bumpy, icy road.  I doze and, moaning, wake up to the engine roaring in my ears.  Soon, white snowy silence.  Then I hear a growling rumble as the man shifts down, and the jarring clatter of loose tools and beer cans on the floor.  Am I worse off now than when I lay in the woods?

"Wild Blue Yonder" by Jack B. Rochester

Herman, Dieter and Thomas were a lot like us, except they were students at Heidelberg University. We said we were GIs and were ashamed of it, but they treated us just like any other kids our age and asked us why we were here in Germany.

“We’re total misfits,” said Tony. “We don’t fit into America because we’re hippies. We don’t fit in the military because we hate war and challenge authority. We don’t fit into European life because we’re Americans. And we don’t speak your language. If we don’t know who we are, how can we tell you why we’re here?” 

Thomas asked, “What are you looking for?”

 “A way not to think about being in the fuckin’ Air Force,” said Henry.

“Yeah,” said Tim, “but for me, I don’t want others to tell me what is truth.”

“You have your own truth?” Herman asked.

“I’m workin’ on it,” Tim said.

“Well, we’re all workin’ on it best as we can, aren’t we?” Tony said. “Maybe there isn’t a single truth, you know?”

“How about you guys?” asked Henry.

“Ja, we have found the truth,” said Thomas. “It is to know that there is no truth.”

From "Tom Fleck" a novel of Cleveland and Flodden by Harry Nicholson

The seventy year old called out in a strong voice: 'Men of England, I am Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, charged by your king to defend his realm. Many of you know me. Many of you are brothers-in-arms from earlier days.' 

    The front ranks stared up at his broad forehead and long, high-bridged nose. 

    'Witness our banners!' 

    He motioned to men guarding a row of flagpoles. They pulled ropes and an ancient cloth of velvet bearing the symbol of St George, a red cross on a white field, fell open. Next, the banner of the Tudors unfurled, a red dragon on green and white. Then the banners of the chief commanders: the quartered red of the Howard lions, the three stags' heads of Stanley, the white scallops of Dacre and the blue-and-yellow chequer board of the Cliffords dropped open, followed by the colours of lesser houses.    

    'Once again the Scots torch our land.' He pointed to the ancient cloth. 'Once again we gather beneath the sacred flag of St Cuthbert that has never failed to bless us with the strength to defeat them.' 

    A cheer went up.

From "Fallen From Grace" by J. R. Lindermuth

“How did you know your husband had come up here?”

 

            She took time for a sip of tea before replying. “He confided in a friend that he was in pursuit of the fiend. Later he wrote a letter to this friend and enclosed the address of the boarding house where he was staying. The friend grew concerned because Conrad said he wanted someone to know where he’d gone in case things went wrong. That’s when his confidant contacted me.”

            “Did you know your husband had engaged a detective agency?”

            She gave me a surprised look. “No. I had no idea.”

            “I found an envelope. The letter was missing. But perhaps that’s how he knew his quarry was here.” Leaning across the table, I took her hand in mine and asked, “Do you know the name of the man your husband was tracking?”

            “He was called Phoebus Potteiger.”

            The name didn’t mean a blamed thing to me.

From "Deare Sister" by Chris Wind

My dearest Nannerl, of course you have a right to be upset about the portrait.  After all, you performed right alongside your brother; in fact, your father had the bills printed to read “Two World Wonders.”  Two, not one.  You were with Wolfgang on the 1762 tour through Passau and Linz to Munich and Vienna; I remember Count Zinzendort called you (not Wolfgang) “a little master”.  And you went again through Germany, in 1763, this time to Augsburg and Ludwigsburg as well as Munich, on to Paris, and then to London where the two of you performed that sonata for the Queen of England.  And in 1765 you performed in Holland.  No, do not doubt yourself, Nannerl: you were quite correct in calling Carmontelle’s portrait inaccurate because it shows Wolfgang at the keyboard, your father at the violin, and you merely holding the music for them.  And he said you insulted him!  I do know how you feel about the matter and I am completely on your side.  Nevertheless, I must ask you to apologize.

From "The Raven Girl" by Kathy Cecala

On a remote west-coast isle in 15th-century Ireland, the boy Colm makes a startling discovery:

 

The girl lay on the sand just above the surf, looking as if she had been dropped from the sky. Her dark mane twisted about her body, her hair coal-black and shiny as a raven’s. Her face appeared rather serene, as if she were deep into a long, peaceful slumber. There was no wound, no sign of struggle or violence. She was a very young woman, and Colm could not guess her age. Perhaps she was fifteen, sixteen years…What truly intrigued him was the girl’s coloring and features. He had never seen another human being like her: So dark, her skin tawny and golden, like an oatcake left to brown on the griddle. About her neck was a fiber cord with a small orb, a dull gleam in the fog-shrouded light of dawn. He reached out to touch this shining pebble, round as a small bird’s egg or berry. Beneath his fingers, the girl’s skin was warm to the touch, not clammy cold as it should have been. She was alive!

From "MiG-23 Broke my Heart" by AK Dawson

Thomas was bored. He was down on his stomach and elbows in a shallow ditch scooped from the side of a dune, his R4 rifle aimed at the border. He was supposed to be watching for terrorists but his eyes were on the only cloud in the sky, a little cotton swab high over the heat and sand of South-West Africa. 

‘Hey, bru?’ he said, without looking away from his cloud. ‘Want to smoke a joint?’ 

‘Shut up, surfer boy. You’re not on Miami Beach.’ 

Thomas turned and squinted up to the lip of the dune. There, silhouetted against the sun like the periscope of some buried U-Boat, was the head, shoulders and rifle of one Pieter ‘Skeletor’ Venter. He was in the same nutria-brown uniform as Thomas and topped with the same standard-issue bush hat, but his uniform was free of creases and all the floppiness had been starched from his hat. 

‘You sure?’ Thomas had been brought up to be polite. ‘It’s Durban Poison.’ 

Skeletor said nothing. He was obviously too busy looking for something to kill.

From "The Shoemaker's Son" by Gayle Ramage

'Hey, mate. Strange question but I'll ask anyway; what year is this?'

She was right. It was a strange question. 'You don't know what year it is?' he asked, frowning, though he had heard that some people of nobility weren't very intelligent.

'I know. Silly me, I've went and forgot. So, what is it then? It's not 1827, is it?'

Now it was Brogan's turn to laugh. '1827? Sure, if it was, I'd be older than my da is now! It's 1807, of course.'

The woman let out a very rude word which made the boy giggle. She folded her arms and stared out into the rain. 'Bloody typical. My first job - one of the big ones - and they can't even get the bloody year right. I suppose it's not really their fault. It's the house. Knew there was something wrong with it when I arrived. I mean, that bathroom definitely changed when I was in it. And let me tell you, when you're in the middle of a pee and the toilet you're sitting on suddenly changes, it can be very off-putting.'

From "The Dragon and the Boar" by Brian Flint

Jasper, Henry Tudor's uncle, confronts the Earl of Lincoln and a soldier of King Edward while Jasper and Henry are trying to flee to France...

Jasper kicked his heels into the horse’s ribs and began his charge.  Lincoln raised his sword in the air and the soldier lowered his spear.  The three charged toward each other with thunderous speed, Jasper screaming the entire time.  The soldier reached Jasper before Lincoln and thrust his spear into the left shoulder of Jasper’s horse.  Anticipating the move, Jasper used his momentum to ram his body into the soldier.  They both hit the ground with a tremendous impact.  Caught by surprise, Lincoln thundered past the two.  Jasper quickly got to his feet and recovered his sword.  The soldier was on his hands and knees trying to recover his breath.  Jasper calmly walked up to him and thrust his sword into his back.  He pulled the bloody blade out of the soldier who collapsed on the ground lifeless.  Jasper turned around to see Lincoln had renewed his charge.  He raised his sword and awaited the galloping horse. 

From "Vengeance Is Sacred" by Peter Healy

 After experiencing a premonition, Paolo races to the scene of the infamous Triangle Waist Company fire to try to save a young friend from the disaster...

He frantically raced to the river and saw that a ferry was just departing. He poured on the speed, reached the wooden dock, and streaked to the edge. The wood planking gave him a bounce to his step and Paolo took a flying leap with every ounce of muscle he had in his legs. He sailed through the air, cleared the water, and landed with a crash against the back side of the boat. His hands grabbed desperately onto the railing as his body thumped against the wet wall of the vessel. A foamy turbulence was created by his dangling legs as they buffeted in the frigid Hudson. The icy water felt like piercing knives as it washed up and over him. The rail was wet and cold and he struggled to hang on. Finally, with a hefty effort, he managed to pull himself on board, soaked from the neck down.

Lying on deck, he fought to catch his breath as his dripping clothes shaped puddles around him. He wrangled to stand, then felt the river wind blow into his face and chill his wet body. Paolo already knew that his freezing torso would later be considered a blessing compared to the searing heat he would soon face.

From "Secret of the Dragon's Eye" by Derek Hart

Gavin was exceedingly disappointed, because he had expected much more upon entering the enchanted cottage...

            Suddenly, the enormous fireplace started coming apart, as each shaped stone began shifting and moving through the air.  Chunks and slabs sailed about the room, almost colliding, yet mysteriously always narrowly missing each other.  This magical display of unexplained levitation appeared random at first, before Gavin realized the rocks were coming together to form an entirely new shape.

            What once had looked like ordinary fireplace stones, now glistened and sparkled with pulsating radiant colors, including bright golden yellow, blood red, burnished copper, and bluest black.  These once inanimate objects now undulated as if alive.  In a painful moment of startling truth, Gavin realized they were actually scales, rippling with power and definitely not of this world.

            The poor lad could not move.

            His teeth chattered, but not from the cold.

            His knees knocked and hands shook.

            His heart was beating like a drum.

            Gavin could not blink, nor swallow, nor even take a breath of air.

He was frozen in terror.

            For there, standing before him, in awesome and terrible splendor, was….

            Was…

            Was…

            Gavin almost fainted.

It was a dragon. 

A real dragon!

From "The Plot Against Marlene Dietrich" by Henry F. Mazel

Rada shrugged. “I read the papers. And I go to the pictures. So?”
    
     “That why you here? One of them vaudeville stars you joined at the hip with – they have somethin' to do with this? You know the darky, too?" Detective Impolitari asked.

     “Never saw him before.”

     “Don’t hang around with entertainers, huh? I seen you with those Bojangles types. I could hold you as a material witness.”

     “Oh, c’mon. You’re not going to do anything, how's that goin’ to look, me beating you out here and all. And I took the train.”

     “La Guardia and the commissioner ain’t gonna like this, not at all. Hope this isn’t a murder, Rada.”

     “Murder? Who said anything about murder?” Rada took a last drag on his Old Gold and ground it out on the concrete. The swirls of surf pulsating in his ears came into consciousness. It gushed.

     He stared off at the sea, wondered about how she died, and about the Negro up the beach. Then there was a quick glance at Detective Impolitari.  “ . . . .You could always pin it on the Colored boy, I suppose.”

From 'The Accidental Spy' by J. R. Lindermuth

“Have you ever shoved the false?”

“Money?”

“Yes.”

“Never.”

“Would you?”

“I don’t know. It’s dangerous.”

“Are you a coward then?”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t be tempted. I’m just pointing out that the punishment can be a rope around one’s neck. Not something I take lightly. Still, if there’s profit to be made…”

Nell stood and moved behind me, She put a hand on my shoulder, and I felt her breath fan my neck. Her other hand came in to view, and I saw it held a small knife. The point now prodded my throat. “Here!” I cried.

“If you are with us, my love, you’ll find ample profit,” she whispered in my ear. “Should you betray us—“

I seized her wrist and pushed the knife away. “Profit is ample incentive. I don’t need threats.”

From "Sliding on the Snow Stone" by "Andy Szpuk"

It was 1941 and I’d just turned 14. I’d grown up in some very tough times. None of us expected things would improve much, but we wouldn’t be sorry to see the back of the Soviets. Like a spider spinning its web, the Nazis infiltrated and occupied every corner of our beloved Ukraine. The disorganised and bedraggled Soviet soldiers were easily driven back. Many times we cowered in the darkness of our homes in the chilly autumn evenings, listening to bombs exploding, some far away, others very close. Too close. It wasn’t long before the Nazis were amongst us.

As they drove through the village, some people greeted them with traditional offerings of bread and salt, and a large crowd assembled to cheer them. The procession of Panzer tanks, armoured vehicles, and Nazi soldiers on motorbikes was truly impressive. Everything about them, the vehicles, their uniforms, their weapons, all seemed superior. Would this mean the end of the purges and the terrors? Maybe people wouldn’t just disappear anymore. Soviet rule had left its scars on us. Surely things couldn’t be any worse under the Nazis?

From "Waltzing in the Shadows" by Dale Day

A farmer's inn located in the northern part of Austria...

A blanket of white covered the world during the night. The sun shone in a cloudless sky, the snow sparkling diamond-like.

The only discordant note of the morning came from a flock of crows fussing at each other in a big bare-limbed tree next to the road.

It took a bit more than an hour to reach the small village perched on the bank of the river with chips of ice strewn where water met land. Thirty houses huddled together around the usual village square, faced by a few shops and stores with living spaces on the upper floors.

Each building, three stories high, had different facades in varied colors, the windowsills empty of the bright flower boxes that would fill them in the spring. Steep roofs shed the snow and Hausfrauen had already swept the streets in front of their homes.

A half dozen rowboats rested upside down on the block wall against the riverbank, nets hung to dry in the weak sun. They saw a small tavern with three unoccupied tables, so the foursome sat down and ordered Glühwein, the perfect drink for a cold morning.

They strolled upriver six or seven kilometers, enjoying the surroundings. Bill learned more about his companion every step of the way.

From "Vestal Virgin" by Suzanne Tyrpak

Elissa Rubria is a priestess of Vesta sworn to chastity on penalty of death, and Nero is the emperor of Rome who recently executed Elissa’s brother...
 
“I—” Elissa’s voice caught in her throat.

“Do it!”

Nero moved toward her, pushing her against the wall, the heat of his body causing her to sweat, his breathing, rapid and uneven, rasping in her ear. Reaching above her head, he removed a knife from his collection. A pearl handled secespita, the narrow blade designed for sacrifice.

Elissa opened her mouth to scream.

“Don’t.” Nero pointed the secespita at her throat. “Your brother plotted with my long-lost brother, didn’t he?”

Elissa shook her head, her eyes focused on the knife.

“I could kill you now,” Nero said. “But I have other plans for you.” He drew the blade over his palm then took her hand in his, gently as a lover, and drew the blade again.

Blood beaded in her hand.

Pressing his palm against hers, he said, “My great-grandfather worshiped an Egyptian queen, dark and powerful like you. Be Cleopatra to my Antony.”

He’s madder than Caligula, Elissa thought.

“I’ll make you immortal. Declare you a goddess, and together we’ll conceive the heir to Rome.”

She tore out of his grasp, ran to the door, flung it open. Blood dripping from her hand, she bolted down the corridor.