Historical
Doleria
I was just 8years old when I snuck aboard the famous Titanic. I was making my way to the States and this was the closest thing to getting there. My mother became a widow unable to care for me decided to send me off to her kin folks near the bay. I was saddened to leave my mother and extremely nervous about boarding a huge ship like the Titanic. I was a very fair skin child being of French and black origins my mother said I would be able to pass aboard the ship without trouble. We waited early that morning before the ship took off she held my arm and Natasha my doll in the other. I was crying. Doleria! Please don’t cry. She held my two hands kissed my cheek and pointed at a pale face woman standing near the front entrance to the ship. “You see the ticket man taking luggage and items from the passengers?” I nodded. “ Go up to that lady and tell her you were separated from your parents that are already aboard. Hand them this picture and note”. She handed me a picture of my father who was French. She told me that she would occupy me halfway but to not make notice that she was my mother. I rushed up on the ramp. Excuse me sir my father is waiting for me inside. Oh okay little one,you sure are brave to be traveling alone. I looked back in a distant I saw my mother waving to me to hurry on. I started to hurry on Hi sorry to hurry onto aboard the ship when I heard a noise voice familiar voice I turned around to see who was all I heard was little girl little girl around to see with where the voice was coming from. It was my mother I like surprise afternoon any instructions that she had given me she was holding my dog Natasha In order not together away I cause any attention to her I said thank you ma’am and I took the dog that was the last time I saw my mother. The door was locked and the boat was ready to sail. As I walked inside the boat with my luggage and then I can hear the whispers of the individuals As I pass by his child is that? must be one of the workers down below child. I thought I was very fair skin chat I think it was a text to my hair they made me look a bit piculure. All the individuals there a fancy dress and attire umbrellas most of the women Wore lipstick. I’ll take me to the photograph of my phone right hand. I ever wondered what is the story treat of my mother told me my father it passed away Or have you abandon us. Secure the least curly strands of my hair underneath my bonnet. I cannot believe it it was a board the unsinkable titanic. If only my mother could see the grand of this shit the painted walls extraordinaries design. I miss him I like sitting near Boston or ahead over her to women speaking about a wealthy negro that aborted the shit with his mulatto children. It was a sign of relief to know that I was not the black child on this ship. It was a blur outside but inside the ship was warm the light shine bright and the dance floor is crystal clear filled with happiness laughter in music. The ticket that my mother had gotten for me with on the lower deck it was the only one she can afford. I was ready for whatever adventure that awaited on this icy sea.
By Cingram LeCocq4 years ago in Fiction
Rowling's Discovery, or the Titan's Ghost. Runner-Up in Ship of Dreams Challenge.
Jonathan Rowling barely managed to dodge the tail of a huge tuna fish. The poor fish fellow whipped around excitedly as it tried to escape its fate. After the close call, Rowling managed to get a secure grip on the tail and pull the fish further onto the deck.
By Bryan Warrick4 years ago in Fiction
A Titanic Mistake
The champagne is flowing and the twenty-piece band is just getting started in the grand ballroom at the Waldorf-Astoria hotel in New York City. All the celebrities and socialites are in attendance for the event of the century. The familiar clinking of knife on glass brings a hush over the clamor of the dancefloor. Benjamin Guggenheim takes the stage with a microphone and a beaming smile.
By Cody Daniels4 years ago in Fiction
Destination of Dreams
"New land." "New opportunities." "Same old dreams." That is what Peter Duncan had always sought. He was of a very affluent lineage in the United Kingdom and could have ridden the coattails of his family's three-generation's-old banking business. That had never been an aspiration for Peter, fresh out of university and looking for his escape. His family called him a stubborn dreamer; his own friends said that he was unrealistic in his expectations and aspirations for the world around him. Peter was determined that they were wrong; he admitted to being a romantic and, therefore, of romanticizing what his next venture could come up with for him. However, his expectations weren't so "unrealistic" or "simply achievable in dreams" to him. Following in his father's footsteps, after his grandfather's, into the banking industry would have been a simplistic goal; he was determined that there was a new world outside of Europe's borders with any plethora of new opportunities. Furthermore, he was convinced that he was traveling with the one person who seemed to understand him...
By Kent Brindley4 years ago in Fiction
The Swedish Woman
Crying, the passengers held each other close as the ship began to tilt and fill. The lights had long since gone out, and they only had each other to hold onto as they awaited their fate. Somewhere off in the distance, a woman began to sing, voices slowly joining hers in unison. Anna and Jonas held each other tightly, his voice whispering an apology as he brushed her hair with his hand, tears streaming down his face. She thought not of her life as a little girl, nor of her mother’s cooking that she loved, or of the man who sealed her fate on the ship, but of her sweet daughters whom she left behind when they began their journey.
By Paige Ouellette4 years ago in Fiction
The Lost Tale of a Vasilija Vukotic
In 1998, I was attending the first Women’s International Networking Conference in Milan. A wet-behind-the-ears journalism graduate from Columbia University and male, I suspected my Pittsburgh-based editors were having a bit of fun at my expense. On my way home, a little vacation time banked, I stopped at Hotel Fortaleza do Guincho, a resort on the Estoril Coast in Portugal. Sipping my vodka gimlet on the terrace, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, my only companion that late fall afternoon was a woman of that certain age where propriety and nobility is her all-encompassing demeanor. She seemed to me a very well-kept late eighties or early nineties. She was sipping an alvarinho. I asked the waiter if he knew her and his response, “She is here every day. She is a crazy old lady who thinks she is the Queen of Bulgaria or something.” My knowledge of history is not everything it should be, but, what the hell, I am American. Generally, I remember that after World War II, the Soviet Union put a nail in the coffin of the remaining monarchies in Eastern Europe. Forgetting that I was on vacation, I dug into my online data services (pre-Google) and tracked down the facts of Bulgarian royalty. The last Tsaritsa of Bulgaria was born in 1907 and would be 90-something. In exile, she had fled to Alexandria, Egypt to be near her father, who, similarly, was in exile from his kingship of Italy. Later, Franco had given her sanctuary in Spain. Eventually, she had settled on, of all places, Estoril, Portugal. I am no statistician but if a 90-year-old woman in Estoril purports to be the exiled Tsaritsa of Bulgaria and she is spending every day at its most expensive resort, I am willing to place a bet. The next afternoon, I am there, she is there. “Princess Giovanna, what an unexpected surprise!” Her response to her Italian title would be telling. “Young man, no one has called me that in almost 70 years. I would have liked to know you when I was that young girl.” Even now, she was able to affect a coquettish expression. Feeling more convinced, “My apologies, Tsaritsa Ioanna. It is not every day a boy from Pittsburgh, America meets anyone so interesting.” “Interesting?”, was her sole response. Her English was impeccable, which for a woman who spoke, by necessity, Italian, French, Montenegrin, Bulgarian, Spanish, and Portuguese is extraordinary. My response, “Yes, intriguing”. She talking with me intently listening, we spend the next two hours reliving her last fifty years. A lull, I shared my assignment in Milan. Her response was unexpected. “You young people think that you invented everything. Let me share a story my mother told me, frequently, of a woman, my cousin, stepping up in a way that few men can imagine.”
By Alexander J. Cameron4 years ago in Fiction
Imagine Me This: A Velveteen Sky
News of the sinking of the Titanic hit the headlines on April 15, 1912. She woke early as she always did to receive the paper, only this time the newsboy was frantic and his bike shook like a wobbling leaf as he rode as fast as he could down the lane. When he handed off the paper, he hung his head and said, “Terrible business, ma’am. It’s a right poor thing what happened to all those people, ma’am. Oh— and, good morning, ma’am. Although, I’m not so sure it’s very good.”
By Krystal Katz4 years ago in Fiction
Ticket #330958
The day started off just as any other. I saw Miss Madeline Straus walking her brown terrier Airedale, Cora Bell who obviously couldn't help but give ruckus to Mr. Johannes McMeans. He never really bothered the poor thing, he'd just be jogging his normal route to the pier at Roches Point by the Commodore, round Spy Hill and then back to the Deck of Cards Houses. This was everyday. Even Mr. Martin from the United States, was acting all but excited taking his trash out to the street way. He was a peculiar one, why with his three piece suits and briefcase. He'd almost pass as one of those Swizz types, but him staying here, where income weekly would match an average shoe size, he just doesn't fit in. He's not bad to glance at either way.
By Lamar Wilson4 years ago in Fiction
Bread
Edith Forster's gaze skipped from the brass bed to the horsehair sofa to the dressing table. The large teak box sat at the center of the table, an inch or so from where it had been when she dressed for dinner just six hours earlier. Katie stood by her side, ready to pack up whatever her employer deemed worth saving.
By Lori Lamothe4 years ago in Fiction
