Historical Fiction
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
June 7, 1930 – Camp near Vadodara The air was warm, but in the stillness of the dawn, it held a quiet tension—like the breath before a song. In that pause, life prepared itself for one more act of resistance. I sat with a boy named Ravi today—a child no older than ten, who had once scrawled lessons in the dirt with a twig because his family could not afford slates. His handwriting, shaped by earth and necessity, now fills scrolls and letters that travel from hamlet to hamlet. He transcribes declarations, poems, maps, and secrets. His fingers move faster than the trains that still carry Indian salt to British ports, as if he’s determined to write a new destiny before the old one catches up.
By Alain SUPPINI9 months ago in Chapters
Chang’e’s Flight: The Ancient Chinese Legend That Explains Why We Chase the Moon
The Day the Sky Burned The world was dying. Ten suns blazed in the heavens, scorching rivers into steam and cracking the earth like a broken eggshell. Desperate, the Jade Emperor—ruler of the gods—called upon the only man who could fix this: Hou Yi, the divine archer.
By sherryshen9 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
May 30, 1930 – On the Banks of the Narmada Today, I walked for several hours along the banks of the sacred Narmada River. Its water, though quieter than the sea, carries a different strength—steady, persistent, impossible to halt. Much like our struggle. It was still early, but already the banks had begun to fill with people. Some came barefoot from nearby villages, others had walked all night from distant hamlets. They came not to protest loudly, but to sit, to listen, to prepare.
By Alain SUPPINI9 months ago in Chapters
A Ship Was Gaining
1782, CHARLES TOWN, SOUTH CAROLINA Mary Read. Calico Jack. Anne Bonny. Our names were known to many upon the seas and outside of them. We were wanted, dead or alive. Although if we were to be brought back alive, we would just end up dead. Really, the saying should be dead or deader; you can’t win either way.
By Luna Jordan9 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
June 16, 1930 — Dharasana The sun was already high when I stepped out of the modest hut, my dhoti clinging damply to my legs. The air shimmered with heat rising from the parched ground. Though I had not marched at Dharasana myself — the viceroy’s order had seen to that — I could not remain still. I had come not as a leader, but as a witness. Dharasana had become the crucible in which the spirit of our movement was tested.
By Alain SUPPINI9 months ago in Chapters
Mary Read
1782, CHARLES TOWN, SOUTH CAROLINA The day we met Mary Read, we were anchored down at another dock, to resupply and celebrate our newest spoils. Our usual method of celebration was enjoying the pleasures of the local tavern, drinking our fill and flirting with anything that had legs.
By Luna Jordan9 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
Near Bhimrad, June 14, 1930 We arrived in Bhimrad just after the sun had begun its descent, the hour when the heat loosens its grip on the land but the dust still clings to the skin. The village seemed carved from the dry earth itself — low mud huts with thatched roofs, sparse trees holding out against the sky, and narrow footpaths where goats nosed for shade. There was no fanfare, no procession. Only silence and the keen gaze of villagers who had waited.
By Alain SUPPINI9 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
Sabarmati, June 5, 1930 Today, the sun rose heavy with unease. The wind carried a quiet tension, a stillness charged with questions. We had returned from our march, from our arrests, from the trials that sought to stifle our breath. Yet the air felt thick, as if the movement itself was listening, waiting for something unseen to begin again.
By Alain SUPPINI9 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
May 22, 1930 – Yerwada Jail, Pune Letters Through Stone The wall speaks. Not in words, but in tiny scratches — the slow script of silence. I found them this morning, behind my cot, where the damp meets the mortar: initials, dates, nameless prayers etched with nails or fragments of metal. Some are just lines, some letters faded into shadow. One reads “M.K. 1923.” I do not remember carving it, but I believe it was mine. Another says simply: “Truth.” One is shaped like a river, looping, as if it refuses to flow straight under any authority.
By Alain SUPPINI9 months ago in Chapters
Journal of Mohandas K. Gandhi
May 19, 1930 – Yerwada Jail, Pune Charkha in the Dark Today, they brought my spinning wheel. It arrived without ceremony, tied with a coarse rope and bearing the dust of some forgotten storeroom. Yet when I touched it, I felt a pulse — not of wood, but of memory. This charkha has turned in my hands through seasons of both freedom and captivity. Now, it waits again to sing.
By Alain SUPPINI9 months ago in Chapters
