Chapter Six – The Oak at Midnight The moon hung sharp and cold above Norfolkshire, silvering the frost-bound fields, when Jasper roused his brother from uneasy slumber. Jeremy started from his bed, heart racing, for he had dreamt again of Willie’s pale face, lips moving soundless words. Yet Jasper’s hand was upon his shoulder, urgent and hot with fevered purpose. “Up, Jeremy,” he whispered harshly. “Dress thee and come. W...

The Fitzroys: Part One Chapter One – Shadows of Norfolkshire It was in the waning years of that restless century, when revolutions smouldered abroad yet the ancient privileges of rank held firm in England, that the Fitzroy estate stood in grim isolation amidst the flat expanses of Norfolkshire. A house of venerable stone, weather-beaten by many a winter gale, it looked out upon fields where peasants bent their backs in ce...

Chapter I: The Pharaoh’s Blood London’s fog-wreathed streets lay quietly under the first hush of midnight, yet in grand Mayfair drawing rooms, candles burned bright. Beneath crystal chandeliers and atop Persian carpets, figures draped in velvet and silk murmured over claret. They were the city’s finest: dukes, industrial magnates, famous artists—each unknowingly enmeshed in a centuries-old web. At the center of the larges...

Chapter 1: “A New Beginning” Alice Greaves rang the bell at Flat 0A and stepped inside. The spacious ground‐floor apartment had been newly refitted: pale oak flooring, brushed-steel fixtures, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a manicured courtyard. Agents had boasted “heritage chic,” though the block itself was barely ten years old. After her divorce, the quiet of this upmarket development in southern England promi...

I am the wind’s first whisper at dawn, Talons pressed to crag and cloud, Wings unfolding like ancient prayer. I ride the sun on thermal currents, Eyes aflame with amber light— Each shadow a secret, each valley a promise. I taste the chill of mountain air, Feel the heartbeat of the earth below, As rivers wind through canyon lungs. I watch the field mice tremble in their tunnels, Snared by my silent shadow, Life and death i...

It is a fact of life these days that everyone seems to be in a rush, speeding from here to there and then back again. People seem to have no time to do the things that are important any more, rush, rush and rush some more. I find it as no surprise that the majority of the population are stressed out and tend to be more aggressive to others, what can you expect of people who lead such hectic lives and deny their bodies the...

The moon rode high above the inlet when Jonah first stumbled into its hush. He’d come to escape his restless mind—a late shift in the grocery store, too many nights spent counting cans instead of dreams. The sea wind curled through the dunes, salt and pinewood in one breath. Silvery light spilled over the tide pools, stirring reflections in the rock’s shallow hollows. Jonah paused at the water’s edge. A soft murmur rose f...

Chapter One: The Devil’s Ante Marseilles, 1928. The humid breeze off the Mediterranean did little to chase the stench of sweat and cheap perfume from the back room of Le Serpent Doré. Inside, shadows clung to the stained walls, punctuated only by the dull glow of a single green-shaded lamp hanging over a scarred poker table. Cigarette smoke curled like ghostly fingers toward the ceiling, and somewhere in the gloom, a cloc...

Bingly Ironhart was Manchester’s most enthusiastic ironmonger—enthusiasm measured, of course, by the number of squeaky hinges he polished before breakfast. Each morning, he burst through his shop doors at precisely 6:03 am (never 6:00, for dramatic flair), straightening rows of horseshoes like they were little silver soldiers. His apprentice, young Marmaduke, tip-toed in behind him, carrying a teetering stack of coil spri...

A Short Play in Three Scenes Setting: England, 1642–1643, in the early months of the Civil War. Dramatis Personae: • SIR THOMAS FAIRCHILD: A Royalist landowner, traditionalist, late 40s. • ELIZABETH FAIRCHILD: His daughter, sympathetic to Parliament, early 20s. • CAPTAIN RICHARD HALE: A Parliamentarian officer, idealistic, mid-30s. • SERGEANT JOHNS: A rank-and-file Parliament soldier, dutiful, late 20s. • LADY MARGARET: A...

Just an Old Country Boy Verse 1 I was raised where the red dirt roads, Wind through fields where the tall corn grows. Mama sang hymns on a Sunday morn’, Daddy worked the land ‘til his hands were worn. Chorus I’m just an old country boy, simple and free, Don’t need much money, don’t need much to be me. Give me a guitar, a porch, and the stars to enjoy— That’s the life of an old country boy. Verse 2 I learned young how to f...

The World’s End The last tree leaned into the wind, its branches skeletal, its leaves as brittle as old paper. Across the horizon, cities were winking out one by one, each extinguished light another heartbeat silenced. A child knelt in the dust, her palm pressed against the ground. She whispered to the soil as though it might whisper back, the way her grandmother once said the earth used to sing. But the ground was silent...

Chapter One: The Corner Jayden Reed hated standing still. At sixteen, his mind buzzed like the traffic outside his block of flats — restless, loud, impossible to switch off. School felt like a cage. Teachers droned about exams and futures, but all Jayden could see was the present: cracked pavements, graffiti-tagged walls, and the crew of older boys always holding court at the corner shop. Everyone in the neighborhood knew...

Chapter One – The Summons Sir Aldric of Highvale had fought in more wars than he cared to remember, but the summons from King Theodric was different. This was no border skirmish or bandit raid. The royal messenger’s words had chilled him: “A dragon has taken the king’s daughter.” Aldric rode through the crumbling gates of Eldraleth, the mountain valley where few dared to tread. The air smelled of ash. The sky, tinged with...

I still hear the roar of guns when I close my eyes—an endless thunder rolling over black volcanic sand. I’m Corporal Ira Hayes of the United States Marine Corps, a Pima Indian from Arizona, and what I’m about to tell you is etched in me sharper than any rifle scar. We hit Iwo Jima on February 19, 1945. At first light, the beach looked like a nightmare—smoke choking the air, bodies half buried in ash, and cliffs bristling...