Historical
The Chirping In Your Ear
“Rich wankers, the whole lot of them,” George Patrick mumbled under his breath as he pulled another message from the outgoing message bin at the edge of his desk. His frustration had been growing as the evening wore on. He was quick on the wire machine, but with the machine being down the day before, clearing the backlog was proving to be quite the challenge, especially as the messages kept pouring in from the ship’s clerks at an increasing pace. He had been at it for the last two hours without a break. His fingers were cramping and his mind was starting to get foggy. He checked the clock on the wall. Only 8:45pm. It would be another five hours before the junior operator was scheduled to relieve him. Edward Flannery was a competent operator, but as a matter of pride, George wanted to clear as much of the backlog himself as he could.
By Kathryn Dorbeck4 years ago in Fiction
"What Music They Make
“They were drawn to it as creatures were unto the Ark, some of every kind, as they were from different walks of life, different cultures, and different races; though surely, as they boarded, they knew not that they were as sheep being driven to the edge of a cliff, nor that, they would be lambs being led to slaughter. Yet, at this hour, the flock found itself upon the brink of an analogous bluff.”
By Thurman Golemon4 years ago in Fiction
Nothing But Water
I don't recall her face, but why would I? We were in different classes, different lifeboats and, from what she's just told me, she spent all her time on the Carpathia stealing napkins to use as diapers. I, on the other hand, alternated between mourning my 19 lost trunks and collecting business cards.
By Lori Lamothe4 years ago in Fiction
Forever Sinking
I was very early to stir most mornings, well awake to the pitiable weather of my head and the view of my ceiling all fraught with a meddling flotsam of spectres that’d ripple over it in the hours before dawn. It nettled me to be so restless, and even before any hope of first light, to already be upright and drawing into my goose-fleshed ritual of winter dress.
By Rebecca Kahler4 years ago in Fiction
Comes the Quiet
“Of course we’re all going to die” shouted the stout black-haired man in the top-hat to the priest on the Bridge Deck of the Titanic as it pulled loose its moorings at Queenstown, Ireland April 14, 1912. But Jack Sullivan wasn’t interested in idle conversation at all. He was looking over his shoulder as the dock slowly receded from sight. Only then did he exhale and lean into the railing, fairly certain he had evaded capture.
By Tammy Castleman4 years ago in Fiction
Titanic
The year was 1912, I was 20 years old and I'd gotten a job aboard the Unsinkable Titanic. I was just a general crew hand so anything and everything that was needed of me, I'd help where I could when I could. Essentially sun rise to sun set I was working and afterwards I was free to do what I pleased. It was good money I could send back home to my wife and son. Forgive me, where are my manners? My name is Howard Trevor, pleasure to meet you. This is my story aboard the Titanic.
By Dyllon Rodillon4 years ago in Fiction
The Wrong Right Way
Belfast streets at this moment in time were just that bit easier to make your way around then they would be in the years to come. The 2nd of April 1912 in Ireland, the country on the brink of divide politically which would ultimately lead to decades of war. A year that would directly lead to riots on the very streets this story takes place, currently on standstill.
By Robert Hammond4 years ago in Fiction
By the Pricking of My Thumbs
“I trust you know why I’ve brought you here,” the man said, his dark eyes locked on the woman across from him. His long fingers trembled as he lit a cigar, a thin black mustache quivering above his upper lip. He inhaled, let out a puff of white smoke. It hovered, thick, between them.
By Zachary James4 years ago in Fiction
The Fate of Wet Paper
11 April, 1912 It wouldn't be so terrible if some these fools just perished. How childish yet potent this feeling! I spent the better part of the day attempting to gather notes for a casual ethnography of the people on board this ship. The “important” ones, of course. I came up to first class upon the invitation of Mr. Hawthorne, a great and curious patron of the arts and sciences, whom I briefly met at Cambridge. Even his humility started to wear off as he stooped down to the common denominator at the dining table, as social customs require him to do. For that, I cannot blame him.
By Scott Hardy4 years ago in Fiction
Depth of Emotion
Dr. Michael Lee checked the mini-sub’s depth gauge for the third time in the last ten minutes. There were still over three thousand feet until they reached the bottom. At a 100 feet per minute, Dr. Lee would have to endure another 30 minutes of babble from Mrs. Marie Teller. This was his seventh trip to the wreck of the Titanic, and it was the first time that his anticipation had been replaced with something new: dread. How would he ever endure this voyage with the dreadful woman at his side?
By Antonella Di Minni4 years ago in Fiction
