Historical
The Hope, The Faith, The Fear, and The Fury.
April, 15th. 1912 It was the type of Spring day in Belfast when a man could find the whimsy of old Ireland in the skies. Reaching through the bronchial clouds, gold, watery, fingers of light stretched from the heavens to caress the castles of the merchants, the mill owners, and the ship builders. Each great crane of steel, each new hull of ship, each black slate roof along the endless lines of terraced housing, shimmered beneath the divine touch. Smoke from the stalagmites of chimneys rose up like genies into the warm, rolling, sea breeze, joining in its whispers of hopefulness.
By Caroline Jane4 years ago in Fiction
Plead with the Fishes
April 15th 2:34 am “Papa!” Harvey Sawyer woke, drowning. The water so ice-cold it felt as though it cut through his skin like glass. He was submerged from the neck down; as he awoke, with a gasp - the water slicing along his throat – his eyes flew open, but there was only darkness.
By Bella Nerina4 years ago in Fiction
The Journey Home
The waves lapped against the pier as I stared into the dark water, I didn't want to leave Dublin but Father decided it would be for the best. I knew it was difficult for my folks to find work, I would lay awake and eavesdrop on their discussions. The decision to emigrate was made months ago, our money was scrimped and saved to purchase the tickets for a ship. Leaving my grandmother behind was the hardest thing for me to accept. “Liam,” she rasped to me as the tears streamed down my face, “be a good boy. Help your Mam and Da as much as you can. I can't make this journey, but I feel that you will do great things in America.” That was the last thing she said before kissing my forehead and turning towards the window in her wheelchair. I turned back one last time at the door to say goodbye, but the words got stuck in my throat. Grandma had turned to watch me go, her wrinkled face forced into a smile but her blue eyes betrayed her. They had a sadness to them, a deep sadness that spoke deeper than words ever could express. I stood in that doorway for a long moment, memorizing every line on her hands and face, her wispy iron-gray hair pulled back into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. Tears welled up in my eyes and I ran to her again, hugging her tightly. We stayed like that for a while before she gently pushed me away, her unwanted tears flowing now. She stroked my cheek gently and motioned for me to go.
By Tiggerish Eeyore (Aaron Wood)4 years ago in Fiction
Survival Against the Odds
Liam O'Connor had made up his mind. The first twenty-one years of his young life had not been easy. Growing up in Ireland certainly had its challenges. His father had struggled to make ends meet and support his family, and Liam had seen the effects of famine ravish his community.
By Mark Kleimann4 years ago in Fiction
A Titanic Story: The Missing Chinese Sailors and the Haitian President's Daughter
Fang Lang looked at his wife from across the forward deck of the merchant ship, SS Ardent, they’d forcibly boarded. “To the hold!” Josephine called to her small contingent in Creole. She drove the dagger with the gold filigree handle into the spine of the nearest sailor and led the way.
By Krystena Lee4 years ago in Fiction
Music on the Titanic
It is 1892 and you have just graduated music school. Your focus was on the piano. You have been playing since you where 3 and to many a prodigy. You graduated top of your class. You have a choice to make. What to do with your degree and ability.
By Jeremy White4 years ago in Fiction
Strange Attractors
Vienna, Austria- 1908 “Please, Herr Feuerbach. Take just one more look at my portfolio. I can assure you- “ “No. Young man, The Academy of Fine Arts is for artists capable of creating fine art. This is the second and final time I will tell you this so listen carefully. Your application has again been rejected and you will not attend our institution- not now, not ever. Please do as I told you previously and apply to the School of Architecture, or join the military, or learn a useful trade better suited to someone of your caliber. Leave fine art to those with real talent, eh? Now get out of my office and close the door behind you.”
By Adria French4 years ago in Fiction
The Ship of Dreams: Chapter 7
There was something to traveling the open sea that was seemingly ineffable to describe by virtue of its own paradoxical quality. It was as if the very act of being lost amidst the vast expanse of ocean waves boldly proclaimed, “This is freedom.” One that signaled yet another one of humankind’s attempts to pit themselves against and come up on top of nature and her most basic elements. That somehow, by looking into the depths of those waters that stretched further beyond what the naked human eye could see was the means to complete liberation of one’s spirit, one’s very soul. As if it called to it, whispered to it, asking it if it so wanted to be unchained.
By Aaron M. Weis4 years ago in Fiction
