All Stories, General Fiction, Horror

   Colours by Amanda L. Wright

Oil running amber along a thin white line. In another time, in a different kind of world it would have its own strange grace. But here the amber turns to a sickly yellow green that rubs out the world.

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All Stories, Historical

Swords Hanging on the Walls by Richard Mark Glover



“My father, Franz Josef Schennach, was a gendarme, Hauptmann, in Tirol.  After the Nazi took over, he had to prove that he was Arian. He could not prove this,” Anna Stenson said. She looked across the room from her chair.

“Brown eyes go to Africa…  They taunted me. At school. Only the blue eyes would stay in Europe, if Hitler won. I was hoping he would not,” she said adjusting the hem of her skirt.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Historical

A Special Sort of Day by Diane M Dickson


Tommy let his head rest back against the sand.  It was hard, cold and wet.  He knew that in the dunes further up it was softer but he couldn’t be bothered with the climb for the moment. The others seemed to have gone on without him, never mind, he could catch them later.  He’d take a couple of minutes to rest here, nobody would mind surely and then he’d get back on the job.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Story of the Week

Flanders Fields by Tobias Haglund


Jack drives and I give direction. He stops at a smaller war grave cemetery in the countryside around Ypres. Large trees grow here and there, two by the entrance. He puts his hand on one of them and looks up along the trunk. He caresses the bark and repeats it on the other tree. Once in a while a car drives by, bird song comes from the tree tops and if you listen carefully you can hear the canal behind the bunker. We pass a few graves on the way to the bunker. Despite the daylight the inside darkens quickly, after only a few meters. Four small rooms, too small for Jack to stand up. He strokes the smooth mold. I also do. He closes his eyes towards the inner wall and breathes in and out. In and out. I step outside. A small brook flows below, not deep at all and it probably risks freezing every winter. Jack still kneels in the darkness. I call for him and he gets to his feet. He stops by the bulletin board outside. In Flanders Fields. Jack reads the poem by John McCrae and stands silent in front of it for a minute. He looks out over the thousands of poppies and says:

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