prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",fcug2g,The Amber letter,Magdalena Brynard,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/fcug2g/,/short-story/fcug2g/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Romance', 'Drama']",33 likes,"
	A heavy shudder shook the window panes as she wrote. The rushed keys of the typewriter pounded in unison as mortar after mortar fell decimating the city. London was falling but the letter had to reach him by morning. Emily wrote as fast as her fingers could but the ink on the ribbon seemed to fade after every turn of the paper. She couldn’t run out of ribbon at this exact moment but try as she might the ink would not stick to the paper.
	She jerked the paper from the typewriter and ran to the next; abandoned by its typist. The rushed words still seemed to swim in front of her. She aligned her page and resumed her familiar position as her fingers struck the letters with its usual rhythm.
 
	The heavyset man sat motionless as he waited. Lord Archibald became agitated as the news from the front was delayed in its arrival. He was certain he heard his butler, Patrick, come through the door. He expected the man to be as punctual as the soldier inside of him.
      “Patrick, has the post arrived?” Archibald hollered down the hall.
	 Patrick wasn’t excitable but as soon as the amber envelopes arrived he became energized. The mistress in the letters was unknown to him, but her flair for words excited him more than anything else. He felt a little ashamed to scramble through Archibald’s letters but the gluttonous man didn’t deserve the admiration he was afforded.
	Patrick secretly despised the old soldier sitting in his wing-back chair. He watched closely as the man yelled his inquiry. The whiskey glass filled to the brim sat next to the old man untouched.
    “The mail Sir.” Patrick handed the packet of letters to the old man.
       “I had a rather inconvenient morning Simmons.”
   	  Archibald looked over the rim of his spectacles at the handsome young man, looking for any sign of discomfort.
      Patrick knew that Archibald expected deception at every turn and should he seem rattled the nasty secret he carried could be uncovered.
     Archibald was satisfied that Patrick knew nothing and that pleased him. He turned to the letters in his aging hands. He untied the ribbon and let the letters fall into his lap searching for the familiar amber envelope that stopped arriving a few weeks ago. He recollected the letters in a heap and continued.
      “I had a terrible dream. I was standing on the front lines at Normandy, looking to see if there had been any action at all. It was all gone, the ships, the German soldiers, all of it. The beach was clear, just as in my youth with the noonday sun shining brightly on the azure waters.”
     Patrick frowned heavily, angry that such silly dreaming can cause any distress at all.
    Archibald could sense the anger emanating from his young butler. He shoved slightly in his chair knowing that he had touched a nerve.
         “Do you think it frivolous Patrick?” he challenged.
     “No Sir, it sounds rather beautiful knowing what the beach actually looked like.”
       “Do you not wonder why the dream was rather unsettling?” Archibald challenged.
         “No Sir, my opinion is of no importance. Have a drink sir and catch up on your reading.” Patrick had no desire to know more and started to walk away.
           “Patrick.” Archibald commanded.
           “Yes Sir.” Patrick paused mid turn.
      “I know what you’ve been through. I experienced my own tragedies in France during the previous war, expected it to be the last, but alas here we are yet again. My dream was unsettling because it is incorrect. I was angry when I awoke to find the dream mocking me. I wanted you to know that.”
        Lord Archibald seemed rather honest and his insistence upon the explanation triggered a sense of panic in Patrick’s heart. He felt the pain in a flutter of emotions as images flooded his mind. He lost Lionel on D-day. He felt nauseated just thinking about the moment his younger brother by eight years boarded the Higgins boat ready to take him to the shores of Normandy. The beach was crowded by swarms of men, falling one after the other as they were bombarded by German artillery. If only he could have taken his place and suffered instead.
         “I know Sir, thank you.” Patrick turned quickly and left the old man to his letters where he surely delved into the action of the war he was no longer able to partake in.
 
		Emily rushed through the rubble down to the train station hoping to get a nice spot. The nights were freezing and the tunnels offered little warmth. This time she would avoid the open tunnels gushing icy winds though its corridors.  She held the letter tightly in her hands wanting to re-read it again, its poetry running like a river over her tattered soul. She didn’t know who her correspondent was but she was a hundred percent sure it wasn’t Lord Archibald.
	 The man was ancient in his sixty year old body. He might have been a valiant soldier once but his time in the trenches ruined his legs and he would forever be in a wheelchair, maimed beyond belief. She felt sorry for the man she was supposed to be corresponding with.
		Her agency was a secret one. Writing to heroes of old, stroking their egos and enticing them with a little action, not much from the battlefront but rather form the bedroom. She despised her job, but the current trend was paying the bills and during the war her modesty had to give way in order to survive.
		What she didn’t expect was the response to her eighth letter. Emily was following her usual pattern when the response changed. She instinctively knew that the man replying was indeed not Archibald himself. The handwriting was almost identical and one could see an imitation was attempted, but the prose failed. It was a little startling at first, but as their correspondence grew it became real, more personal than anything she had ever encountered. She found herself slipping away into the arms of a stranger she longed to embrace.
		“Emily!” she heard her name called above the clamor.
		Emily spotted Margaret waving at her from the opposite track. Emily pushed through the crowd and climbed the stairs that led to the opposite platform to find her.
		“Where have you been?” Margaret demanded.
		“I had to finish the letter to Archibald.”
		“You are incredulous, writing to a poor old man only to deceive him with your affections.”
  		Margaret didn’t agree with Emily’s line of work. Even though they grew up in the poorest district of Manchester; they had more etiquette than the Queen. 
		“Selling your soul to pay for your bills is not the way we were raised.”
	Margaret tilted her eyebrows at her awaiting an answer but Emily just smiled, trying to avoid the accusation once again. She rolled out her bed and made herself as comfortable for the night as possible. The shelling had ceased and she had hoped that this night would be their last in the tunnels. She admired Margaret but still hated her a little for her condescending nature. Emily wasn’t a reject and she didn’t sell her soul to the devil. She scoffed at the thought but remained quiet.
	As soon as the crowd settled and silence engulfed the cavernous tunnel she re-opened the letter and read softly to herself. The words spoke of unification and all her heart wanted to do was say yes, but her mind told her otherwise. If she attempted to meet the man that spoke softly in prose to the empty void in her heart she might be disappointed. What was the purpose of a meeting if it would mean the end of their conversations? She had learned a long time ago what men were really like. They speak nothings into your ear until they have you under their spell. Then they break you and discard you, leaving you to mourn the loss of their embrace as the war takes them for fodder.
	Tears started to roll down her cheek as the thought obliterated the image she had been building in her mind; an image of being loved and cared for. Maybe even a person who honestly wanted her for who she was and not for her fabrications in the confines of a bedroom.
	The tunnel shook violently as a stray missile crashed into the earth hundreds of feet above them. Emily hardly noticed as she re-read the letter over and over expecting the hero to come to her rescue, but always the cold nights kept him away.
 
	Archibald tried to twist onto his other side but the lack of movement from his legs inhibited him to utter frustration. He pulled himself up into a seated position, lit the lamp by his bedside and opened the drawer. Lying neatly in a pile of eight letters were the last vestiges of his desire. The amber letters were the only remaining items he cherished. Archibald knew that they must be a fabrication of affection but still he held onto them as if it promised vitality.    
	More than once he started to write, demanding new letters but dreaded to be written to by another lady. It was evident that his correspondence had stopped and that something dreadful must have happened to the lass he preferred. She would never just stop writing. London was a pile of rubble and still some mortars fell from time to time. Sole pilots brave enough to cross the channel into enemy territory.
	Archibald was furious and yet he knew that these would be his last letters he would ever receive. A solitary thought crossed his mind. What if he asked to meet the girl? Admittedly she would be a shadow of the woman in the letters, but if he promised protection and offered money, she might agree to come and live with him. He so longed for company, especially that of a young woman.
 
	Emily shook off the restraint of aching fingers as she stood to deliver her latest envelope to her employer. With every letter she handed over to the editor she felt the grime of prostitution stick to her fingers. Words were like actions, although it was entirely fictional, she still felt the betrayal of her virginity.
	She dusted off her shoes, sticking to her cheap polish, readying herself to go home. The shelling had ceased and the news from the front grew more positive by the day. Soon the war would be over and time to rebuild would ensue. But it meant little to her. She would still be writing her dirty letters to broken men hoping to make a pretty penny to buy bread.  
	She was about to leave when her employer called her to her office.
		“I have a very big proposal for you young lady.” Rose was radiant as she explained the news in simple terms.
	Emily was excited but was overtaken with surprise.
		“You mean to say that I will be going to see Lord Archibald at his estate in the Lake District?”
		“Not just to visit but to live. Imagine a new life away from the broken walls of London. A life filled with opportunity and even love.”
		“Love, I dare say that Lord Archibald only knows my depraved mind. My letters aren’t exactly filled with hope or opportunity, if you know what I am saying?”
		“Emily, the man needs a companion, not a lover. He is unable to use the lower part of his body; the offer is solely platonic in nature.” Rose was unwavering.
 
	Patrick was surprised to find Lord Archibald dressed to the tee and ready to apprehend the day. It had been months since he even dressed in anything other than a pair of slacks and a faded shirt. He had ample helpers and Patrick feared that his presence would not be required for much longer. He entered the parlour to find Archibald awaiting him with a thick envelope in his hand.
		“Good morning Sir, what is the purpose of the packet in your hand?” he asked dubiously.
		“Simmons it has come to my attention that you are a well versed young man and to keep you here as a butler is rather selfish. You are capable of so much more. I have decided to let you go. I have arranged for lodging in a cabin on the USS Trinidad. You will leave tomorrow afternoon. It will take you to New York. An old friend owes me a favour. He will collect you from the harbour and set you on a train to Los Angeles where you can work as a scriptwriter, a position I feel would be far better suited to your character and flair. Do you accept?” Archibald waited for the impact of the news.
	Patrick was stunned. This was a childhood dream and now the road was paved for him. How could he refuse, yet his heart was still in London. Was he able to leave the woman he loved behind?
		“Well Simmons, are you alright?” Archibald was worried for a moment, afraid that the tethers of the war would keep this young man from a future many would grab hold of in an instant.
		“I accept Sir. Thank you.” Patrick smiled broadly.
		“I need you to do one more thing for me please. Just one last favor before you leave for South Hampton. I have a visitor coming tomorrow morning; a young lady from London.”
		“A lady Sir?” Patrick was surprised.
		“Yes, I had been corresponding with her and she had agreed to come and stay with me. Keep me company of sorts. It is a far better option than the war ridden city could ever offer. Please collect her at the station, accompany her to the car and see her off before you board your train. I would be forever in your debt.” Archibald smiled and handed him the envelope filled with a year’s wages.
 
	Emily realized that her entire life could actually fit into a single suitcase. She had few belongings and even fewer dresses. She used the last of her money to buy a pretty frock accompanied by a bonnet and satin gloves. She had never felt more beautiful and yet she dreaded the life she was about to step into. A life lived in a colossal estate with only an aged paraplegic to call home.
	The thrill of the latest letter was overshadowed by the reality of her predicament. She would never again have to write a dirty letter, but she feared that her dirty letters were about to become her reality. The thought repulsed her but she had to admit that a privileged life away was worth far more.
 	 The train lulled her to sleep and before she knew it she was dreaming of bombs falling and her life ending in a sudden flash of fire. She jerked awake as the train came to a standstill at Windermere station. The premonition of her death seemed a reality. She wanted to remain seated, take the train farther to Manchester and disappear back into its dingy neighbourhoods, but she knew that it was even worse than London.
  She picked up her suitcase, handed it to the porter and straightened her dress, put on her gloves and settled her bonnet on her head. Her blonde curls threatened to fall from its clips.
 
        Standing in the doorway the young woman tried to rescue her unruly curls when the gust took her bonnet from her head. She grabbed the hem of her dress and held it tight as the wind blew. Patrick observed her as she stepped from the train, placing her small feet on the rungs of the ladder steadying her against the wind. When she looked up and her eyes met his, Patrick’s heart imploded.
		“Good day miss.” Patrick looked into her eyes and she stopped short.
		She was exquisite. Was she really the girl from the letters? Would she even think of asking who he was? Was he going to tell her?
        They stood on the platform un-moving, silent. The wind gave another breath as the train departed leaving them alone on the platform.
        The sun caught a glimmer off the man’s glasses. Emily watched in amazement as he removed them to reveal clear green eyes that conveyed a familiarity that was unnerving. She knew this man. It was the man from the letters, it had to be. But how was it possible? He reached out to her and without hesitation she took his hand and moved closer. 
      Patrick embraced the girl in a tender kiss and knew immediately that he would never be able to live without her. She in turn held onto him as if she was already betrothed to him. The world stood still and nothing was more important than this union, formed in an instant but predicted by fate.
 
      Lord Archibald waited excitedly in the parlor unable to contain his emotions. He heard the car coming down the graveled drive and he found himself pushing for the front door before the new butler could even properly open it.
     The car door opened but only the driver exited. He handed a confused Archibald a note written in Patrick’s hand.
 
  		Dear Lord Archibald.
It is with a sad heart that I have to inform you that the girl had  never arrived. 
I have to thank you again for your kindness and the precious gift that you have given me. 
Kindly yours, Patrick Simmons.
 
   Archibald cursed under his breath and felt the pain of rejection once more. He ordered the butler to bring him a glass of whiskey as he retired to the drawing room, alone.
 
","August 25, 2023 09:07","[[{'Driekie Olwage': ""Beautifully written! I love historical fiction and this one truly got the theatre of the mind going with the different characters and their different worlds... You write in such a way that the reader are able see into each character's soul, drawing me into what they might be feeling. Gripped me till the end... \nHopefully there will be much more coming from your pen in the future, Magdalena..."", 'time': '20:02 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Robert W': 'Hi, Magdalena, as a \'Brit\', I found your dystopian image genuinely disturbing and thought-provoking on a Stephen King level.  What indeed would have happened if D Day had failed, and Britain had ended up being pounded into submission?  Your concept of girls having to write ""dirty letters"" to old men just to live is both wholly unexpected and totally original (not drawn from life, I hope?! LOL).   You just need to clarify  your geography.   I know only too well what an enormous country the USA is - at the end of my holiday in Florida some yea...', 'time': '06:40 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'I am flattered by the comparison with Stephen King. Thank you so much for your great review and the way you corrected me in such a kind manner. I agree that a few tweaks in the geography would clear up a lot. Luckily the kind of letters written are totally fictional. I look forward to reading more of your work as well. Enjoy your writing!', 'time': '14:12 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'I am flattered by the comparison with Stephen King. Thank you so much for your great review and the way you corrected me in such a kind manner. I agree that a few tweaks in the geography would clear up a lot. Luckily the kind of letters written are totally fictional. I look forward to reading more of your work as well. Enjoy your writing!', 'time': '14:12 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Christina Cooper': 'Wow, this was like catfishing in the early stages! I loved this story. Felt bad for Archibald, but liked the ending.', 'time': '03:41 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'Thank you very much Christina. I appreciate the great review.', 'time': '14:13 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'Thank you very much Christina. I appreciate the great review.', 'time': '14:13 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Anne Abraham': 'I enjoyed reading this story very much! The themes were wonderful and I loved how I was able to tell exactly what time period this story was set in from the very first paragraph.', 'time': '18:34 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'Thank you kindly Anne.', 'time': '14:13 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'Thank you kindly Anne.', 'time': '14:13 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Marlow': ""This is the best historical fiction I've read on here in a while. I like how you let tension build between the two would-be lovers, without giving anything away until the very end."", 'time': '21:38 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'Thank you Kevin for your comment. I appreciate it very much.', 'time': '08:29 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'Thank you Kevin for your comment. I appreciate it very much.', 'time': '08:29 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Adele Gray': ""What a lovely, evocative story. Sweetly romantic yet never saccharine. \nCan't wait for more from this talented writer."", 'time': '19:40 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'Thank you so much Adele. I look forward to reading some of your work soon!', 'time': '14:14 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'Thank you so much Adele. I look forward to reading some of your work soon!', 'time': '14:14 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Monja Anderson': 'Really enjoyed reading it and seeing the world through her eyes and words.\nEach person had their own battles and even though I feel for Archibald...the romantic in me loves the end for Patrick and Emily!', 'time': '19:09 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'L Baben': 'Great story!  \nVery well written.\nWell done on developing the characters in such a short space of time.\nHappy ending for Patrick and Emily, but I do feel a little bit sorry for Sir Archibald...\nWell done!', 'time': '17:48 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Carmen Van Der Walt': 'Wow, love this story. Amazingly well written. Took me on a journey and got me thinking about it well after I finished reading it.', 'time': '11:49 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'Thank you. Glad you enjoyed it!', 'time': '14:04 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'Thank you. Glad you enjoyed it!', 'time': '14:04 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",e2ts65,Letters from Malaysian Flight 370,Scott Christenson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/e2ts65/,/short-story/e2ts65/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Thriller']",27 likes,"
[Voice message found in a mobile phone]Life is a mystery, isn’t it? One day we are in control of everything, taking exams, passing tests, choosing which job interview to attend. And then, if we work hard, we move up in our career, step by step.But the whole time, there’s a parallel universe that we don't control that affects us strongly. Our boyfriends get transferred to different cities, our employers go bankrupt, our friends get sick.I’ve made the right choices my entire life. I was polite to others, took care of my parents and grandparents, helped my brother’s studies, went to a good university, said all the right things in job interviews. Now, I’m on a plane that might be crashing, and cancelling out every right choice I've made in my life. Then, there’s probably some classmate of mine back home in Tianjin that made all the wrong choices who is safely behind a cash register at a 7/11, watching funny cat videos and planning what he's going to eat for dinner.Maybe Muslims have the right idea. It’s all in god’s hands. Chinese, we aren’t religious, maybe we're missing something. Who knows? If things in our history took a different turn, our way of thinking might be different today.I've always enjoyed flights. They were a time I could forget my worries. Nothing bad ever happens on a flight. No one ever loses their job or goes to the hospital. It's when I get off, that's when I need to think about things like the results of my next pap smear, whether Jia and I are actually good together or not. I don't know where I'm going with this...Sorry, the pilot is announcing something, I need to listen.[end of message]**Michael felt saddened reading the transcript of the message, knowing its writer was dead. The message was one of many that had been recovered by the FAA. More accurately, by the US Navy who had located the wreckage of MH370 and delivered it to the FAA looking for answers. The case had become political, so they brought him in as an outsider. A Professor of Air Safety at the University of Illinois, he was considered an independent party. But he was sure people on the internet wouldn't believe that. Conspiracy theorists now dominate the discourse.Michael refilled his coffee and got down to reading the other recovered messages. Someone had translated and transcribed them from all the various devices they found within the wreckage of MH370.**[Email draft found on a mobile phone]To: CarlThe pilot came over the intercom and said there was a serious problem with the airplane, and we might want to write a message to our loved ones. I don’t have anything to write on, so I’m typing this into an email. Maybe it will get sent out if I don’t make it out of here somehow. I am an optimist and have never been afraid of airplanes. Statistically, they are far safer than cars. As my older brother, I appreciate all the things you taught me. Especially…trying to think what to say…**[Unsent SMS message found on a mobile phone]To: my husbandIf you are reading this, you must already know my Malaysian flight had something go wrong. Everyone is in a panic, and no one is telling us anything.I wish we could watch the dragonflies at sunset on that hill above the Sungai Besi campus againI don't know if I will ever see you again, but I want you to know that I love you. You have been my rock and my support, and I am grateful for every moment we have spent together.Please take care of yourself and our family. I hope to see you soon.Your wife, Kasih**[Message found in an email on a recovered laptop]To: Freescale SemiconductorFrom: John AndersonThe pilot has announced he’s no longer in control of the airplane. That’s all he’s told us so far. The technology we are carrying has military applications. I am wondering if we are the target. And if they might hijack the plane and take us to a third country, Afghanistan, Iran, or North Korea, if that’s possible.From the pilot's announcement, it’s not clear if the plane has been hijacked, or if somehow the flight control system has been taken over from outside.** [Message found on mobile phone]To: Malaysian Civil Aviation AuthorityFrom: Co-pilot of MH370The man who is supposed to be my teacher has locked me out of the cockpit. It’s likely he will depressurize the cabin. No matter what happens, you must hold Captain Shah responsible.** [Message found in cockpit flight recorder]This is the pilot of Malaysia three seven zero. The cockpit controls have stopped responding to all commands. After banking sharply, we are now at three five thousand feet heading of 343 degrees, flying on autopilot.I don’t know how loss of all controls is possible. We have tried everything in the Boeing 777 operations manual to restart the flight control system. We will continue to attempt to reboot the system.I would like the Malaysian Civil Aviation Authority to know I have done my best for our 239 passengers and cabin crew. **[Message found in a mobile phone]To: The Head of the Iranian National Guard From: A loyal citizenWe sought to avenge the downing of Iranian flight 655.I’m sorry our plan didn’t work. As we had anticipated, the co-pilot did open the door to let a young woman into the cockpit. I followed her as if moving forward to use the toilet. At the moment she entered, I wedged my foot in and pushed my way into the cockpit.With the pilot strapped to his chair, it was easy to incapacitate the co-pilot, and then shove the young woman out of the cockpit, locking myself in with the pilot. Reza made his way to the electronic compartment and deactivated the transponder.Threatening force, I asked the pilot to steer the plane toward Diego Garcia. I told him we would land there and seek international news coverage to make a stand for the freedom of the island from the US military. I told him the names of his family members and that our group was watching them as we speak.Looking back, I suspect the pilot didn’t believe my story.He assured me we were heading toward Diego Garcia, showed me his instruments. Six hours later, the plane alarms began to go off. When I asked him what they meant, he said the airplane was running out of fuel.When I asked if we were close to Diego Garcia, he shook his head no.**[Message found in a notebook]Tanam selasih di tengah padang, Sudah bertangkai diurung semut,Kita kasih orang tak sayang, Halai-balai tempurung hanyut.[English translation]I planted sweet-basil in mid-field Grown, it swarmed with ants,I loved but am not loved, I am all confused and helpless.**[Message written on the inside of an in-flight magazine]Everything I wrote previously was a lie. I wanted to imagine how things could be in a different world.[end of message]
","August 23, 2023 02:30","[[{'Delbert Griffith': ""Dude! This was great! I really feel like you told the story of modern humanity with just a few email messages and such. It's almost meta but it's all fantastic, my friend. The philosophers have nothing on you! LOL\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '09:57 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '5'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'oh thanks! this was a quicky writing idea i had after watching the netflix mh370 documentary.. I got so confused trying to decide the correct conspiracy theory, I decided to go with schrodingers cat that they could all possibly exist at once,...until somebody finds that flight recorder.\nSo often the spur of the moment writing ideas work out, and the long laboriously plotted stories plod along.  Already wrote a long story this week, but then was thinking about the film ""Letters from Iwo Jima"" and how emotional that scenario was, and this idea...', 'time': '10:08 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'oh thanks! this was a quicky writing idea i had after watching the netflix mh370 documentary.. I got so confused trying to decide the correct conspiracy theory, I decided to go with schrodingers cat that they could all possibly exist at once,...until somebody finds that flight recorder.\nSo often the spur of the moment writing ideas work out, and the long laboriously plotted stories plod along.  Already wrote a long story this week, but then was thinking about the film ""Letters from Iwo Jima"" and how emotional that scenario was, and this idea...', 'time': '10:08 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Katy B': 'Really incredible format here, I love it!', 'time': '16:28 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'thanks katy!', 'time': '02:04 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'thanks katy!', 'time': '02:04 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'Final moments as experienced by human beings  in the form of emails in a catastrophic situation. I found it incredibly moving and insightful  the way you depict the lack of control humans actually have. That the idea of control is an illusion. Also, well done for getting two great stories out in one week!', 'time': '10:05 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thanks, I must have been hyper last week. Happy to have gotten two very different stories out. Thx tor reading', 'time': '14:31 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thanks, I must have been hyper last week. Happy to have gotten two very different stories out. Thx tor reading', 'time': '14:31 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Interesting philosophical take of how people react, their perspectives during difficult situations, and done through emails. Nice work, Scott.', 'time': '23:50 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thx for reading and commenting Joe.', 'time': '06:31 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thx for reading and commenting Joe.', 'time': '06:31 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Gary Phipps': 'This was great.  It really paints the picture of humans in their desperate moments and how most of us will come to some sort of peace when things go badly and it might be the end.   Seeing the different perspectives and personalities really made it real to me.', 'time': '18:51 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': ""Thanks for reading. I'm happy to hear the drama of the characters came out more than the airplane conspiracy theories. Everyone is driven by different things, I tried to show that in the different voices of the passengers."", 'time': '06:31 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': ""Thanks for reading. I'm happy to hear the drama of the characters came out more than the airplane conspiracy theories. Everyone is driven by different things, I tried to show that in the different voices of the passengers."", 'time': '06:31 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kimberly Walker': 'Wow!', 'time': '04:24 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'thx!', 'time': '06:29 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'thx!', 'time': '06:29 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'S Fevre': 'A moving and interesting read, these letters to loved ones will stay with me. A unique human take on a tragedy.', 'time': '18:33 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thanks for reading;)', 'time': '06:29 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thanks for reading;)', 'time': '06:29 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Wendy M': ""I found this quite heart-wrenching, a small summary of a lost life;\nI planted sweet-basil in mid-field\n Grown, it swarmed with ants,\nI loved but am not loved,\n I am all confused and helpless.\nI've wondered how I would feel/behave if something like this happened to me, this is a powerful story on more than one level"", 'time': '07:19 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thanks Wendy. Yeah I was thinking that, really hard to know how one would react.', 'time': '06:29 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thanks Wendy. Yeah I was thinking that, really hard to know how one would react.', 'time': '06:29 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty B': ""The multiple solutions to what happened to flight MH370 threw me until the last entry.  The intermixing of letters/messages/ calls to loved ones was heartbreaking.\n\nthis line resonated with me as so true\n 'But the whole time, there’s a parallel universe that we don't control that affects us'\nWe all make plans, assume our efforts make or break us, but it is Luck that is in control, when we get on the wrong plane, step in the right coffee shop, answer this job request vs. that one. We are at that the whim of fate (or god, or destiny), specks o..."", 'time': '01:52 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': ""Thanks marty. I'm pretty convinced the pilot did it, but there are still some problems with that theory, and an aborted hijacking is also a possibility. Anyway hope they find the flight recorder someday !  I started becoming a conspiracy theorist while writing this haha. Its pretty crazy the ideas people come up with that don't really make sense.\nHappy my opening litfic letter resonated. I was thinking of how I know someone who was complaing about how he made all the right decisions but got really unlucky in his career, and it felt so unfair..."", 'time': '02:04 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': ""Thanks marty. I'm pretty convinced the pilot did it, but there are still some problems with that theory, and an aborted hijacking is also a possibility. Anyway hope they find the flight recorder someday !  I started becoming a conspiracy theorist while writing this haha. Its pretty crazy the ideas people come up with that don't really make sense.\nHappy my opening litfic letter resonated. I was thinking of how I know someone who was complaing about how he made all the right decisions but got really unlucky in his career, and it felt so unfair..."", 'time': '02:04 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kristin Johnson': 'I love the concept of including these, like the voice mail messages on United Flight 93. I love the Malaysian language inclusion.\n\nI see you watched MH370 from Netflix!\n\nI wonder if we will ever really know what happened.', 'time': '18:15 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thx Kristin! Yeah, I really wanted to add some Malaysian culture to this, as it can so easily be left out. I did some reading about the country, and find they are a very non-confrontational people, that often soften difficult situations by speaking in little sayings and poetry, and wanted to include that.  The meaning of them are often very subtle metaphors.  Very poetic versions of our rough english sayings like ""shit happens"" or ""there\'s many fish in the sea...""\n\nYes, just watched MH370 on Netflix, so much want them to find the plane to gi...', 'time': '02:08 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kristin Johnson': 'I spent time in Malaysia long before the flight disappeared. Loved the experience. They are the midwesterners of SE Asia.', 'time': '17:53 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thx Kristin! Yeah, I really wanted to add some Malaysian culture to this, as it can so easily be left out. I did some reading about the country, and find they are a very non-confrontational people, that often soften difficult situations by speaking in little sayings and poetry, and wanted to include that.  The meaning of them are often very subtle metaphors.  Very poetic versions of our rough english sayings like ""shit happens"" or ""there\'s many fish in the sea...""\n\nYes, just watched MH370 on Netflix, so much want them to find the plane to gi...', 'time': '02:08 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kristin Johnson': 'I spent time in Malaysia long before the flight disappeared. Loved the experience. They are the midwesterners of SE Asia.', 'time': '17:53 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kristin Johnson': 'I spent time in Malaysia long before the flight disappeared. Loved the experience. They are the midwesterners of SE Asia.', 'time': '17:53 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Myranda Marie': 'Great read.', 'time': '18:16 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'thx!', 'time': '02:08 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'thx!', 'time': '02:08 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Wow!!! Incredible work.', 'time': '23:11 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thanks, really didnt know if this works but wanted to bring up some of the stuff in the new netflix show.', 'time': '01:32 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thanks, really didnt know if this works but wanted to bring up some of the stuff in the new netflix show.', 'time': '01:32 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Scott, interesting idea. Kind of Twilight Zonish. I enjoyed reading the lies. It was fun to be in another world, a different world. LF6', 'time': '14:04 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thx for reading all the lies;)', 'time': '04:36 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thx for reading all the lies;)', 'time': '04:36 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': ""Another story idea I had that I'm still working on. Not sure if this is inappropriate in anyway but feels enough time has passed and there have been many programs on television dramatizing the possible causes of the missing flight."", 'time': '02:31 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ken Cartisano': 'Brilliant concept, excellent execution.', 'time': '01:15 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",psklu3,Despatches From the Home Front,Katy B,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/psklu3/,/short-story/psklu3/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Drama', 'Romance', 'Historical Fiction']",17 likes,"
Post Office Telegraphs. Augustine Madlain to Imogen Eley — (Received 3 August 1914) Believe war entry likely STOP Paris in uproar STOP Holiday enthusiasm STOP All very exciting STOP ᛭ Auggie10 October, 1914Dear Auggie,I was so glad to receive your letter last week. Imagine your marching in shirts and ties through the countryside — suppose a cow, for instance, had seen you? What must the poor creature have thought? And I don’t think it’s fair of you to complain of learning to cook “like women-folk.” You say it’s hard on fellows but I see right through your dignity and know the truth — that for you, it’s all rather fun. It’s lovely how a thing as terrible as war can really be made into a sort of game for “able-bodied young men” (so goes the fashionable epithet): first the privilege of actually being present in Europe when whatever-his-name is killed, then the chance to form great social parties to wait in line at the recruiting office, and now what seems like boxing matches, shooting practice, and mess with chums every day. Whew! Suppose you never want to come home?I myself have been quite well. I take Nelson on long walks each morning (our dog, of course, not the fallen hero) and try to enjoy the out-of-doors, learn from nature, that sort of thing. The afternoons are mainly spent sewing and reading by the little brook in the park. Mostly I enjoy penny dreadfuls but I’ve been trying to better myself and consume one book of real literature for every three novels. I’m reading Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur just now — it’s very slow going. Sundays are for church, where my mother and I pray for you and Keith unceasingly.By the way, I read your letter out loud to Mother (well, most of it, of course) and we agreed it was splendid to hear that you and Keith are in training together. She said it was like losing both her infant sons and then learning they’d been “salvaged from the wreck” and “raised as one in a foreign land” (you know how she is). I had to remind her that you are not her son as, after all, you and I aren’t even engaged. She looked at me so archly (it was really insufferable) and said it was only a matter of time. What cheek! (Although can one’s own mother give one cheek?)Anyway I choose to believe the rumors of a swift, victorious conclusion to this conflict, that you’ll be home by Christmas, and that we’ll have a spring wedding (only teasing of course) thanks to my two brave, glorious, wonderful boys, no matter what that gloomy old Lord Kitchener predicts.God save the King! Love conquers all!Your own and lovingJenny21 September, 1915Dear Auggie,“Deployed” — how strange it is to think you’ve finally left English shores. I am not sure how the autumn goes in France (and you thought you could put me off the scent with your vague “somewhere on the continent” — I’m not all that dull, you know) but in Surrey the days have cooled, the trees have put on their red hats, and boys in rough shirts and neat trousers plough the fields and sow barley. Your descriptions of infantry living conditions are all rather dreadful but I hope you will get to see some real fighting soon to put all these small unpleasantries out of your mind.My taking a position in Sir Philip Woodard’s household has been something unfortunate although necessary. I suppose anyway it’s nice to feel that I’m contributing to the war effort. Since Keith was not home by last Christmas (and, incidentally, neither were you, my love) and cannot of course provide for poor Mother, then isn’t my taking a job in his stead the same as if I were dug into the trenches myself?Sir Woodard is fifty-two years old and so too elderly for military service, but I can’t help disdaining him for all that. He is quite rich and drives (what else?) a German car. He’d bought it before the war of course but I think he should have got rid of it anyway on principle, out of zeal for Merrie Old England and the Empire and our boys overseas and so on. His bonnet ornament too is a very indecent bronze engraving of a mermaid with bare and erect breasts.On about my fourth day as a housemaid he asked if I’d be willing to marry him. I told him my concerns about the car and the mermaid. I was very upfront about it. Then he asked would I marry him without the car. So I tossed my head as scornfully as I could and told him that my fiancé (you won’t mind I’ve begun calling you my fiancé, will you? It sounds so much more romantic than “beau” and I knew he’d take us more seriously this way) was a captain of the 21st Division, thank you very much, and I’d rather have one honorable fiancé in the army than dozens of wealthy old husbands safe from harm in their luxurious beds. I thought he’d be properly shamefaced but I think he was only amused.I promise I’ll read The Song of Roland for your sake, once I finish the latest Sherlock Holmes. I continue to hope in the forecasts of imminent victory.Your own and lovingJennyP.S. Nelson (the dog not the admiral) is not fond of Sir Woodard and I was obliged to leave him with Mother. She’ll spoil him and never take him on walks — I fear he’ll get fat, fat, fat!1 July, 1916Dear “Captain Madlain”,I’m surprised at the tone of your last letter. I’m very sorry about chlorine gas and barbed wire and machine guns and things but I don’t think it excuses your accusations. Firstly, I am still employed by Sir Woodard because of his great generosity, not because I enjoy his company in a capacity greater than that which is demanded by master and servant. I can keep Mother very comfortably and will send her on holiday to Bath for the first time in over thirty years — I believe that is enough said. Anyway he isn’t so very old as you put on, younger than my father would be were he still living.Secondly, I do try to understand and sympathize with your troubles, but since I have never actually experienced bombardments or fields of corpses it is hard for me to feel much else other than desire. Yes, desire! I wish I were a man and could be there rather than here. I think you should feel grateful that you’re not cooped up like poor Keith with the ’flu. (I’m slogging it through Shakespeare at the moment and he seems to believe men have a real physiological need for warfare. Do you expect Othello would have had the time to murder Desdemona if he’d only been off fighting someone else?)Thirdly and lastly, I have never in my life wished you ill. I’ll describe to you however my feelings on a certain afternoon after I accompanied Sir Woodard (no fits, please) to a memorial service in honor of mothers and widows of the dead from our township. The priest and the mayor intoned their names with wonderful gravity and I kept a close eye on the women the whole time. Can you believe it — I was jealous, actually jealous! Their sorrow seemed to touch them with a sacred dignity that sent real chills up my spine. Their sons and husbands were heroes and they themselves partook of that heroism. I was covetous, ravenous for just a crumb of it!On the way home I suppose Sir Woodard noticed I was flushed and unusually silent, as he asked me why I thought these “fools” (most of them were volunteers) had chosen to leave such beautiful women simply in order to march to an unnecessary death. I seemed to hear the brass bands booming behind me, the Union Jack flapping merrily in the breeze as I replied: “For Honor.” He laughed in my face (I suppose I was rather ridiculous — suppose you’d have been there — would you have laughed yourself? oh I hope you wouldn’t have had the heart to laugh at me just then) but the spirits of King Arthur and Saint George and Henry IV on Crispin’s Day were with me.Prayers for a speedy return, though I must say it sounds grim.SincerelyMiss Imogen EleyP.S. Or was it Henry V? You know how I get these sorts of things muddled. Either way, my patriotic sentiments had reached such a pitch I wished I had dozens of “fiancés” to send off to France, never to return. xxxxx J23 July, 1916Dear Auggie, dearest Auggie, loveliest, darling Auggie,It’s been three weeks since I sent my last letter but I haven’t received yours. I pray it was lost or will cross paths with this one over the channel or that you were simply too upset with me to respond. Mother and I have heard dreadful things about the Somme. I need to explain some things to you because I’m really afraid I’ll never get the chance to explain myself to you again.It was wrong of me to speak flippantly of your sufferings, but it was for two reasons: to cheer you up (though I don’t suppose this was successful), and to hide my own misery. I’ve gone to great lengths to keep it a secret from Mother and Keith because I don’t want them to feel badly for sending me to work, and I’ve kept it a secret from you so that you won’t decide you don’t love me anymore (I’ve met other girls in my situation who have suffered such a fate).The truth is, Sir Woodard has taken advantage of me several times. He’s threatened to dismiss me and accuse me of loose conduct to any future employer if I complain. I have tried to convince myself of my civic duty to keep my chin up, take care of Mother, and see the job out to the end of the war, but I often find myself wishing desperately that I were a man and a soldier. I was envious of you, of all people, and was not as sympathetic to your sufferings as I might otherwise have been. Perhaps I should have told you sooner, but I thought I’d rather withstand all such insults in silence than risk dishonoring myself in your eyes. I don’t care anymore! I don’t care about anything as long as you are saved.Oh Auggie, each night I grind my teeth and bite my tongue till it bleeds to keep from crying out. I pray you might turn coward, preserve your life even at the cost of Honor, at the cost of my own life, even if I never set eyes on you again, even if I never know whether you have survived, even if you love another woman and I am forced to watch. I don’t care. I don’t care! I love you Auggie, body and soul. I have always known that man was not made for warfare but for love; Othello was not meant to kill any more than Desdemona was meant to be killed.Your own and loving, eternally and foreverJenny31 July, 1916Auggieplease answer meJennyPost Office Telegraphs. Military Secretary’s Department to Imogen Eley — (Received 3 August 1916)Deeply regret to inform you that Captain Augustine Madlain Infantry is officially reported as killed in action July first STOP dead in the trenches STOP perhaps instantaneous perhaps not STOP pity and pride once stirred by deaths of principle now exposed as twisted hateful false STOP all sorrows the same sorrow all deaths one death since the beginning of death STOP treachery to have forgotten even one instant the crush of suffering immemorial yet who is culpable when ignorance is only defense STOP where is that Honor which sent him to the killing floor STOP sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal STOP the symbol signifying nothing unless grinning mockery is a something STOP and what could you mean by soul without flesh to be ensouled or what by heaven if there never was an earth STOP he is dead and all the world with him STOP the world ceased by a single cessation yes STOP and who is it making that noise like a wounded beast it is you you you you you STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP
","August 25, 2023 15:50","[[{'Scott Christenson': 'Very creative writing. Kudos to researching a WW1 scene. The confusion and pain of separation comes through in the last few exchanges. Also the story highlights the reality that in every war the establishment send all the young people to fight their battles while they profit at home.', 'time': '17:12 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Katy B': ""Thank you so much for reading and commenting, Scott, and I'm glad those themes stood out to you."", 'time': '23:09 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Katy B': ""Thank you so much for reading and commenting, Scott, and I'm glad those themes stood out to you."", 'time': '23:09 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': ""Very interesting, Katy. Making the exchange largely one sided was a good idea. I particularly like the last message and the way it blends the real text with the psychological impact of the receipt. Really nicely written. I didn't go for the epistolary format because I just couldn't think of an interesting way to do it, but this is a very good response to the prompt."", 'time': '17:00 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Katy B': 'Thank you so much for the kind words, Chris!', 'time': '23:08 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Katy B': 'Thank you so much for the kind words, Chris!', 'time': '23:08 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""This is another strong piece Katy. The devolution of the MC's optimism and positivity as realities of harsh life catch up on her is very well done.. and the last paragraph is chilling."", 'time': '06:32 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rebecca Miles': 'This really feels of the age with the naive fiancé, probably one who would hand out the white feathers, looking after mother and trying to pass the time by reading fiction which glorifies self sacrifice and war. I found it fitting that she slogs through tragic works like Othello which of course feature sacrificial love. The volte face was probably true of many women who waved their menfolk off as heroes and then rued the day. The final end telegram is thought provoking. As so many missives were censored it made me wonder if the sender had ha...', 'time': '09:26 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Enjoyable - and a great shift in character. She goes from being the idealist, wholly believing in Honour and other such things, to realizing what's truly important in her life. Too late, alas, but she nevertheless gets there.\n\nI particularly like her feelings of jealousy for Auggie himself. Yes, we learn that partly it's because of her abusive work conditions, but partly, it's also an actual desire to be on the field. She begins to understand that war is not as pretty as the government sold it, but she nevertheless years for it as a kind of ..."", 'time': '01:45 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Aeris Walker': 'The idea of telegraph correspondence has always appealed to me, and I love how you utilized it here to make this work immersive and gripping. Well done. I enjoyed the depth of the main character, how her tone changes as the years go by and she herself begins to feel the effects of a world at war. Great job.', 'time': '00:52 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Katy, you are so gifted. Reveal so much in one-sided correspondence. Captured the history and the humanity.', 'time': '22:02 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Cecilia Englishby': 'This was very gripping. I was able to follow the narrative and feel the character within the story comfortably.\nVery well written. The mechanic you used to draw the story to a close, whilst illustrating the trauma the news wrought was very clever too.', 'time': '15:32 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Katy B': 'For this story I wanted to mirror the cultural shift of WWI in letter form, following the gradual disillusionment about the nature of war and the emergence of artistic/stylistic movements such as modernism. I thought it would also be interesting to see how this shift looked from the perspective of a civilian woman rather than a soldier or academic; she is suffering violence that is doubly painful because she is more likely to be turned against than called a hero. But like Imogen from Shakespeare\'s ""Cymbeline,"" I believe she is more than her ...', 'time': '16:02 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",pihqrf,Let Your Hair Down,Anne Abraham,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/pihqrf/,/short-story/pihqrf/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Coming of Age', 'Drama']",12 likes,"
	Cornelia glanced with increasing annoyance at the date on the unopened envelope. August 1, 1910. Written in a nearly illegible scrawl that she immediately recognized as William’s. The letter had been resting in the top corner of her bureau for the past week. She refused to open it. There were other things to do in her life that were more important than reading that letter. She had written to William in April, and it had taken him five months to reply. Five months! The mail may be a little slow between Boston and Brooklyn, but it certainly wasn’t that slow. 
	Cornelia pulled out her hairbrush from the drawer in her bedroom dresser and sat down, gazing fondly at her reflection in the hand painted gilded mirror she had received for her eighteenth birthday. The mirror in her room provided Cornelia with an inflated sense of vanity that she adored. She set the hairbrush down next to the envelope. The very sight of the letter initiated a resurgence of annoyance. On the day she received the correspondence she was torn between joyously tearing it open or tearing it up and burning it. To throw the letter on top of the evening fire and watch the parchment turn from beige to brown to black, shrinking and shriveling as the flames crackled. William’s words disintegrating, whirling up the chimney and away from Cornelia’s presence. Cornelia decided not opening the letter was a justifiable compromise between those two actions.
	Cornelia started to undo her hairpins. She still always experienced a feeling of delight when she caught a sight of herself with her hair up. For the longest time, she had always dreamed of being able to put her hair up into a bun, envisioning just how much more grown up and stylish she would look. But appropriate protocol wouldn’t allow a young lady to put her hair up until she was eighteen. 
	It was only three weeks before her eighteenth birthday when William left. Saw an ad in the post hiring junior engineers in Brooklyn for a train station being constructed. 
	“This is an opportunity for us,” he informed Cornelia an hour after he saw the ad, “Think of the future.” William was keen on thinking about the future. A quick goodbye, “I’ll write soon” and an hour later he left on the soonest train headed to New York. 
	The first month he was gone, there were enough letters to keep Cornelia satisfied. The second month, there was absolutely nothing. And there was absolutely nothing the third, fourth and fifth month. Cornelia started to fret, a dreaded fear in the back of her mind that something had happened, but a distant mutual friend settled in New York informed her that they had seen William walking on his way to work everyday. He was fine.
	This news immediately turned Cornelia’s bubbling fear into resentment. Surely if William cared enough about her, at the very least he would have found time to write just one letter. Just one measly letter.
	There was always a chance that her last letter got lost in the mail. Or his letter had experienced the same fate. Perhaps if Cornelia resumed the letter writing, rather than wait, communication would return to a steady pace. In her next correspondence, Cornelia provided an invitation to attend the Boston symphony’s annual summertime concert. To be enraptured by the symphony’s signature finesse and gaiety, as they had done when they were children each July. 
	When writing the invitation, Cornelia had a slight aspiration about wondering if William would say anything about her new hairstyle. She was even going to wear it with her best blue cotton dress, the one with the embroidered flowers all down the skirt. Cornelia could picture it all in her head. How the event would play out. She was determined to look as pretty as the symphony would sound that summer afternoon. William would greet her on the porch steps, exclaiming how absolutely sensational she looked. This event would take place shortly after Cornelia opened a letter sent from Brooklyn, its content involving William enthusiastically responding with a confirmation to the invitation. But William had never responded.
	Until now. 
	The hairpins on the right side of Cornelia’s head were now removed, and the side of her hair that was draped over her shoulder looked very childish, she thought. Oh, how she enjoyed the privilege of donning her hair up! To be able to show the world that she was a mature young woman. 
	“Think of the future,” William had said. Cornelia’s future involved the stability of a house in the countryside with a partner who communicated with her every chance he could get.
	She reached for the hairbrush, glancing again at the letter. It probably had some silly excuse in it, like he was very sorry, but he already had plans on the day of the concert, a day off with his friends in Brooklyn. Cornelia wondered what William did on his days off in a big roaring city such as New York. Perhaps, if she opened the letter, she would find out. Nevertheless! Cornelia wasn’t going to open up a letter that had taken five months to write, just to read some pathetic excuse. 
	Cornelia was now onto unpinning the left side of her hair, the process fueled by her frustration. “Oh!” She exclaimed. The cameo pin William had given her as a birthday token had fallen off, and poked her in the thigh. It was a fickle pin, always coming undone. She pinned the cameo back on the collar of her blouse anyway. Her mind went from the pin, to William, to the letter. Maybe there was a reasonable excuse in it, she thought. He had to work through the summer holidays, or was too busy helping a friend in need, to spend time traveling and socializing. Cornelia’s frustration turned to pity. He was always talking about how hard he was working in his previous letters. Cornelia removed the last hairpin, watching the strand of hair fall. She took the hairpin, and used it as a letter opener, breaking the seal, and taking out William’s letter, her posture tense with unknowingness. Her shoulders immediately relaxed as she read the contents:
 My Dearest Cornelia, 
 Wait until you see the end result of what I have been working on. I am sure you have heard by now through the papers about what they’re calling The New York Terminal and Tunnel extension project. On the job, the lads and I have been calling it Penn Station but that is such a short name for something that is now so extravagant. It seemed a fitting name when the areas I was working in were just a pile of rubble and wires. Rubble, wires, and steel are all I have seen for five months straight, fourteen hours a day, six days a week. On a project that when I first started I deemed unfeasible. A tunnel under a river? Oh, but when I tell you my experience from yesterday! When I had finished my last day, and after coming out from the dark tunnel like a mole rat, I found myself in the heart of the station . To see the sight that awaited me! How I wish you could have been standing next to me to share in the absolute splendor that is this magnificent colossal of a building. Why the only way to describe it is, do you know the book we read when we were children with the illustrations of the Roman cathedrals? This is the equivalent, I tell you! The arches, the glorious arches. There I was, standing all alone as the midday sun coming through the domed glass roof was hitting the marble floor in brilliant, blinding criss cross squares of light! I can’t wait until others can see this sight in 29 days from now. For you to see it!
 Do you know what this means? No more waiting for mail to arrive to hear word from you, but in person! Half a day's travel time, and we shall be able to see each other. 
 Splendid news! I’ve been hired for another project here and shall be staying in Brooklyn for the next few months but do try to come soon, and when you do, do it by New York’s Pennsylvania Train Station! 
Cornelia’s shoulders tensed back up as she finished reading the letter. The nerve of that man! Not once had he uttered an apology of any kind within that page of paper. And to declare that she should come visit him when she had time. Not when he had time to spare. And do come by New York’s Pennsylvania Train Station! Why the end of the letter read as the same advertisements she had seen in the press the last few weeks. How dare William try to promote transportation methods to her when he couldn’t even be bothered to write just one letter for weeks on end! Fueled by a passionate rage, Cornelia pushed back her vanity chair, and giving no thought to the fact that her hair was in a wild state, frizzy locks released down to the middle of her back, she marched down the stairs towards the living room currently illuminated by the evening firelight, murmured an “excuse me” to her mother knitting by the fireplace, and threw William’s letter into the flames. The letter turned from beige to brown to black, shrinking and shriveling as the flames crackled.
","August 18, 2023 22:20","[[{'Anne Abraham': 'Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts, it was such a joy to read your comment!', 'time': '18:17 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'I absolutely loved his letter, its just a pity she was far too proud to see its beauty.\nWell done.', 'time': '08:20 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",a6m4hp,HOW WE WHERE MADE,JarJar Giles,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/a6m4hp/,/short-story/a6m4hp/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Adventure', 'Suspense']",11 likes,"
I grew up in a little town in rural south Alamba with my older brother and two sisters. Now when we were young, there was no gentle parenting like there is now-a-days. So our father was big in the community, like a dad to everyone or maybe brother, grandpa. You get my drift, anyway the time we had growing up was just terrible. We were raised a certain way, taught to act a certain way and if you didn't adhere to what ma or pa said you was taught a rathe harsh lesson. Being big in a small town it had its pro's but it also had its con's. So our father worked mainly outta of town alot, so it was just mother and us kids. The other men in this small town were all like uncles to us and so we had a lot of influences. Some good some bad, it all depended on how we took it or where we were in our own little world. And it all started from generations back and how this beautiful country was founded. So many, many, many moons back our great great great grandfather won some land and rights in a poker game. Now these rights wasn't just ,anything they was the start of the way we survived and thrived. So enough about us, this is how we were built. so around the time of George Washinton, there was a movement taking place on who was who and how things went. The tale is told like this! Because of who ole Washington was and what he did during the war, he was known as what we call a people's man. Now he wasn't the first president of the United States but the 7th. now John hanson was the first to stake claim to the presidency around 1790 or so. and each year they would get a new person in the seat. then came the time to put ole Washington. So, Goerge Washington, because of his moonshining skills which he was the best of all time with his apple brandy, and because his title in the war as general, he communicated with everyone equally. He didn't treat one different from another, the said straight across the board with everyone. When this beautiful country was then founded in 1796, the higher up's I call em wanted Ole Washington to be the very first one on paper that is. Then, well history wrote itself, so they say. George was a straight shooter, but also, he belonged to a society of secrets. you guessed it! The Free- Masons. As George gets put in office he decides not to forget where he came from and wanted to have his war buddies and dear friends. Some things got change and before you know it, The Founding Fathers where together like, what we would call today a power-house team. So as Time comes by they start to write we know is called THE DECLERATION OF INDEPENDENCE. Man, to be in that room how to be something I bet? I could hear it all now, one would say we should have the right to speak what we want, and another say, well, if you are gonna speak what you want, I should have the right to bare arms and shoot if at all nessacery. Something like that, maybe who knows? Anyway, so tale is this ole Georgey Boy and his founding fathers were free-masons and exactly after the other put thier John Handcock on that paper they instantly became what we know as Free-Masons. Goerge was up on the stage after they all signed and said this. ""We are a country who was built by immigrants who came together as one Nation under God and have the right to be free. He then states,"" we are to be a country built on moral, respect, and honor. also the is a code we as free americans are to carry .We also need to be E pluribus unim, meaning united together, divided we fall. We are to protect at all times the borders we have set in place to the north and south of us. we will become the biggest strongest nation of all times if we stick together. We must not forget these things men, and we will be a force to be reckoned with. What we have made here today will be the beginning of our beautiful history. "" So they appointed a cabinet of so-called people known in them days as THE INFAMOUS TWELVE.Now the Infamous 12 is where it all started, you see they were all buddies and dear friends of Ole Georgie and he brought these twelve men up on stage and appointed them a section big enough that their friends and their friends, friend could not even tend, Or could they? So as these men were placed in their areas, they had to have them two men, them two, have four, them four, eight and so on and it went down like a pyramid. The Places was set, the guys knew thier boundaries and they knew the 3 laws they were taught. Rule One- always handle business with honor respect for each other and be your brothers-keeper. Two- never go against a handshake. A handshake is just like a signature it goes forever. Three- Respect ALL women, children, and widows, never go against what GOD himself sees fit. As times passes by and THE INFAMOUS TWELVE are doing thier part, the older generations start to die off. If you didn't gamble your land and rights away it was automatically handed down to your kids and their kids and so on. it just so happens that the 12 are separated exactly 5 states apart for the most part. Each of the 12 controls 4 states, boom!! there are your upper 48 states. you get it ! AS time passes by 3 generations back my grandpappy 3 back won our rights and land in a hand of ""hold em"". Charlie, my older brother by 4 years was the first of us kids to get a place on the pyramid, well that's we what we call it, heck, it's on the back of our dollar bill with ole goergie smilin' in the front. So as dad moves up Charlie gets his ole spot, then when charlie moves I'm next. and so forth. So as time flies pass. People pass on as the older hands, we called them pass thier down the line they step up. the younger folks forget what their dad and dads. dads did for this beautiful country. To think you are owed anything it , ridiculous.One of ole Washington quoters were, There is nothing in this world for free if you want it you have to work your butt off for it. The younger generation forgot this and wanted to shoe thier asses after the elder had passed. So let me tell you about ole Charlie Boy.Here is one of ther letters i wrote to my big brother.Charlie,Hi Charlie, it's me again. Didn't you get my last couple of letters. So here is what's happening while and why I am constantly on the move. So, a couple of coyotes brought some aliens across the border and they asked if I could drive them while they work. Now, before you say anything, you know how we was raised and how this all started the pyramid is collapsing Charlie, and I have to keep money flowing somehow. Remember, paper trail paper trail, paper trail! That's what we were taught. Come on C don't get sideways just remember when they found this beautiful country and the paper president, yes ole Washington, he was the 7th Charlie 7th president not the first. But because he was a people person, and he made the best moonshine and was a general in the army people respected him. They're not gonna remember John Hesson/Hanson or whatever his last name was. They don't remember him being the very first on charge of this country. So, Washington built a foundation and because he was a free mason, him and the founding fathers made sure that the other 51 became Mason right after they signed the Declaration of Independence. So, Washington picked 12 men and scattered out through the land and then 12 men got 2 each and then 2 got 4 and so on until they had a pyramid of guys who controlled everything of this beautiful country even the president whoever it maybe and when they won't heal to what The infamous 12 want, well they get rid of them. You of all know that Charlie . Anyway so the pyramid has collapsed because of the morals that this was founded on come on Charlie you know them. One - always protect ourselves from enemy of the North and south both borders. Two- By all means respect all elders and women and kids and a handshake goes like a signature . Three- Take what we are taught as free Americans and teach our children the respect and honor and morals go for miles of handled right . Well Charlie. They forgot number 3 and the younger folks lost respect for the elders here and they all started the own deal and allowed people of the South to come in and offer money and when you lose a teer on a pyramid it gets off set and falls . So the twelve where scatted through the north 48 and each one control 4 states and now there is tension in a could areas . So it has to be handled and I will wright you as soon as I can Charlie but for now be safe and can all the food you can because never know what may happen. So okay remember the brothers from the Ozark Mountains . Yea the two what we would call hillbilly's , so they got where they thought they was owed everything without doing nothing. You know when ole Washington. Started this society back after the others all signed, it was working we actually got along and things was working. The infamous twelve had full control over their areas and everybody respected the ways of the land and a handshake. So great uncle Trevor died this past month and the boys from the hills stated showing out because big brother ray got his spot on the tier. Brother ray started demanding all these changes that shook down the ladder and across other sectors . That caused a big stink and this has been the longest 3 months of my life . So, now they stated building sectors in each area of the 12. Do the math the 12 control 4 states, yup that's it 48 Charlie they are doing what they said 40 yrs ago. It's finally here . Begining of the end and what other way than to divide all what we have built as not just a family but a society all together . So we need to prepare for a change because wether we like it or not the boys for the below south have arrive. The boys from the hills are out to make a point, they started out real ruthless and believe you me , we don't need them on our bad side like they already are . It has been real , too real at times. We have to let everyone know that a change is coming the rise of the new era has started . I sure hope that ma and Pa are doing well I hope they like their new home we put em in off the grid. I can't stress how important it is that we remember what this beautiful country did for us throughout the years down the generations and to make sure that who we are, gets passed down to our little ones . It is not about us and who we are , sure we made a name for ourselves and our family , but it is the legacy we leave behind that is the most important . The great value and morals that we was taught down the road . That is what we leave behind respect, dignity, and proper morals. So, if you get a letter the next few times remember this brother, it may or may not have a name on it that you don't recognize and I will put our family lettering om the back side of the envelope. I believe I may have bit off more than I can chew this time. Only time will tell for me and how I need to do things still with the codes we were taught but times has changed big brother and people has too. But a different name is probably better off anyway and a hair change because I really don't want people to recognize me because of the changes it's not code but like I said before brother, everyone has a price. But that's enough of that talk. Make sure you give little Alicia and Mikey my love. Tell them uncle will see them hopefully sooner than later . Charlie, I truly thank you for being you, the ways you helped me so many years back giving me the chance I needed to show the elders what I was about. We come from good stock and truly blessed for what our dad and his dad and his dad's, dad for our family name and on our name, not our legacy big brother I will represent with the best of my abilities the way it should be. Who knows this may start a revolution off on its own Charlie. Lol. Make sure you give everyone my love and don't forget to (CAN) all you can because it sure is getting hard out here for this older generation. Until next time stay safe, and Godspeed brother.Love alwalys, AdamSo as times go by, we were to climb the so-called tiers of this pyramid. A true pyramid for instance has 22 tiers or so. and the work you put forth for you and your sector gets recognized. My big brother Charlie was doing great things for himself and our legacy. We were always told the even the first man that GOD created had to work by the sweat of his brow and die. If it was good enough for the very first man that God created, it was good enough for us. Charlie was always a family man first no matter what because how my mother raised us. We used to say that Charlie was an ole soul of George Washington because, he, himself was the people's man. Never made an enemy anywhere he went or did. As our family business, Charlie got to step into the farming side of what we produced and supplied for our sector. And since the time our granpappy 3x back won this land, our family only ran six recipes. that's all, six, two for each year and rotated out every 4th year. So big brother decides that for generations he wanted to improve on a certain recipe, because the time had come where, speed and all that other crap was out, and in order to keep up with the ""JONES"" , he needed a hail mary. Well to cut to the chase it freakin worked. he had worked day and night throughout the year inside, outside, and everywhere he could to prefect this certain thing. And just like the big bottle rocket's on the 4th of July, this thing took off like never before. It was deemed, ""speed weed'"" it did everything for you all that other crap on the streets was doing. I even heard of a man cutting his grass outside in his backyard at 2a.m. in the morning with a da-gum headlight on his head. Now that was some killer stuff!As time moves like a locomotive, out of control, 100's mph. As does the beautiful Home of the Free, ands Land of the Brave. The boys from south of the border,was seeing all the chaos the ole hillbillys were leaving in thier paths, they decided to join forces and the morals,code, dignity, all the went out the window in all areas of the 12 sectors except one. Now this time i was goin by alias, because of the simple reason. everyone had a price! and the outsiders became more insiders as the time slipped away and everything our Founding Fathers and good Ole George Washington did, just ripped down the center and fell away.I was in certain situations where i had to change my name like 6 different times because of the simple fact of CHAOS! I couldn't go home if i wanted to i wouldn't. i fell off the radar and played dead to true family and friend's. Like, Ma and Pa always said,"" 'DO NOT SHIT IN YOUR OWN BACKYARD, BECAUSE YOU MAY STEP IN A STEAMY PILE OF YOUR OWN SHIT ONE DAY."" Hell, I can recall lots of big mistakes I made along the way moving from coast to coast, sector to sector. Think about this, the infamous twelve, somewhere down the line went from controlling a 500 million dollar industry a year , mind you of good ole American un taxable money. To just damn near giving their rights away at a low price or being killed for them. Big brother, now he had it all handled in his little corner on the south eastside of the country. He was still carrying on a tradition and little did I know he built his own industry and kept the families thriving in his jurisdiction. He did it, and they tried to calm the problems here and there, but he handled it, and had people around him that truly cared and protected what our Four-Fathers had built centuries ago.I can see the aftermath of what's to come if we don't change our ways of what's going on here in our beautiful free country, it will not be beautiful and free much longer, down the roads we are traveling. It does give me great honor to have a big brother like I have and a family that may not know me much, but will be there at the drop of a hat if I ever was to just fade out of this life-style and fade into one back home, deep in the cut where the dirtroads end and nothing but loving family all around you. That does sound nice, matter of fact! I may raise ole Lazarous from the dead so to speak, you know kinda' like Jesus did there one time in The Book. Yea, ole Charlie!! Sure would be nice to see how the Big Guy in the sky, has blessed what he did by carrying on not just a name but a LEGACY. Like the ole song Pa used to sing us, ""I hear the train a-comin, comin round the bend."" Or something like that ""Folsom Prison"", that's it!Well I do hear my train, and time is sure dragin' on. I do believe it's getting close to raising my Lazarous, yes I do. So, until the next time or who knows, maybe I can sit and write to you all again some sweet day under a good ole Alabama pine, with a big glass of sweet tea and some fried chicken on an ole dirt road surrounded by nobody's to you, BUT somebody's to me.Remember, show people the respect you would want to get, and we can change the world one person at a time if we just cared a little more and smiled.                  until we talk again, with much love, Adam
","August 19, 2023 08:09","[[{'JarJar Giles': 'Yes it is Mary thx for reading it . You have awesome penmanship I must say', 'time': '01:08 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Welcome to Reedsy, JarJar. Lots of good ol' philosophy in this piece. I am assuming the misspellings, grammar goofs, lack of paragraph divisions, etc. are all part of the colloquial flare you have achieved for characterization. \n\nThanks for following my stories. I'll follow you to get to know you ,too."", 'time': '00:02 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",luy9b5,The Christmas Truce: Letters from the Western Front,Jonathan Page,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/luy9b5/,/short-story/luy9b5/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Adventure', 'Drama']",11 likes,"
The Christmas Truce[Christmas Truce of 1914 (World War I)]“The thing started last night – a bitter cold night, with white frost – soon after dusk when the Germans started shouting 'Merry Christmas, Englishmen' to us. Of course our fellows shouted back and presently large numbers of both sides had left their trenches, unarmed, and met in the debatable, shot-riddled, no man's land between the lines. Here the agreement – all on their own – came to be made that we should not fire at each other until after midnight tonight. The men were all fraternizing in the middle and swapped cigarettes and lies in the utmost good fellowship. Not a shot was fired all night.”-- Captain Robert Miles, King's Shropshire Light Infantry, December 26, 1914.“Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,Hirten erst kundgemachtDurch der Engel Halleluja,Tönt es laut von fern und nah:Christ, der Retter ist da!Christ, der Retter ist da!Silent night, holy night,Shepherds quake at the sight.Glories stream from heaven afar,Heav’nly hosts sing Alleluia;Christ the Savior is bornChrist the Savior is born”--Stille Nacht/Silent Night, John Freeman Young, as sung on Christmas Eve, December 24, 1914* * *“Mon amour immortel, Piet van der Hem,Ahh, my love. Would you send me, if possible, again, one of those little photographs of me nude on horseback in the woods? It would please me very much. I miss Paris. I suppose all women that run away from their husbands head to Paris. I am an orchid in a sea of buttercups—as my first lover—the headmaster told me. I weave for men a tale of mystery. Who is this Javanese princess? With the joie de vivre? Breasts framed by a bejeweled breastplate—dans un soutien-gorge. Who bares all? An illusion. A mirage. Une culotte gainante et un collant. To one journalist, I say I was born a princess on the island of Java. That dance? The dance of Chandra. Invocations to the moon. To another journalist, I say I was the illicit daughter of a British Officer who snatched up one of the Indian Maharaja’s royal courtesans, secreting her away from the harem in the Royal Palace on false pretenses, stealing her away to foreign lands, at first, against her will.There is the German Army Captain Alfred Kiepert and the younger Prince Wilhelm, both with ruddy blonde hair and fair skin, tasty as fresh plucked fruits. The French Monk, Father Mortilliac, a happy, portly man with a great beard, who breaks his vows with religious fervor. There is Karl Kroemer, German consul to Amsterdam, who pays me a penance, eyes lowered down, genuflecting, as if I possess the provenance to grant absolution. Ironically, I bid him ‘go in peace.’ There is Capt. Georges Ladoux of the Deuxième Bureau, French military intelligence, who is a nervous and fretful soul with no endurance, who washes his hands earnestly and spits and curses in the bidet before he leaves. He made me promise in the sheets of his room at Hotel Elysée Palace on the Champs Elysées—promise—not to sleep with any other French officers—was it jealousy or distrust that ruled over him? Then there is the Russian Captain, Vadim de Massloff, oh Vadim, mon trésor, just a boy, half my age—but what a lover—and he is thoroughly mine, would die for it—if only the two of us could be married, what ecstasy serait à moi! This war has left all of my lovers in a frenzy, each time we meet we fear it may be the last before we bridge eternity. I have crisscrossed the continent from one warring country to the next, such that the customs agents no doubt fancy me a spy. All these men are not so different after all. Venal. Frantic. Overeager. Disloyal. Unbelieving.   They all want the same, the same as me, to believe for a moment that love and desire can triumph over that evil chord in all of us that rots and devours and dies—to touch or grasp—to die—and wake to—to just breathe one breath in the rays—of the transcendent. To know that the gold dust that slips through your fingers and scatters in the wind is no mirage, but rather, the real blastings of a real quarry on a real Elysisan mountain of endless gold peaks.  Oh Piet, do send me those photographs, I so miss Paris. I fear this war will eat me alive, travelling so, devoured by every side of Europe, and for what? Is this really all about lines on maps and who claims this limb or that limb or that haunch or the left breast or the navel or the right thigh? By the time these wolves pick the carcass of the Old World clean, I will die of exhaustion—ripped asunder by these wolves—or will be taken before the firing squad for some gossip. Oh God, please let this stupid war end before Christmas!--Mata Hari, Enchantress of the Rising Sun (Aug. 20, 1914)”***“Mom:Please send some tamarind (seeds being removed) and good cocoanut oil by parcel post. There is a vegetable shortage. Without help, I cannot keep my diet.War is waged in a country that is as far as Rangoon is away from Madras. It has only been three months since I arrived, and the professors here have lost their interest in mathematics owing to the present war. All argue for and against. Littleton has enlisted. The quad at Trinity has become a war hospital.They fly in aeroplanes at great heights, bomb the cities and ruin them. As soon as enemy planes are sighted in the sky, the planes resting on the ground take off and fly at great speeds and dash against them resulting in destruction and death.I came here under auspicious signs, traveling in taxi-cab number 1729. Can you believe it! It is the smallest number expressible as the sum of two cubes in two different ways! I am quite despondent, even though I stand engrossed in everything I’d ever dreamed of doing.My theorems must be true, because if they are not true, I could never have had the imagination to invent them. But in a world bent on its own destruction, I wonder if there will be any interest in my abstract discoveries. Discoveries of abundance, of infinite abundance.I will try to explain to you my idea of fractals. Imagine you want to measure the coast of Britain. Measure by the rod and you will get one result, but then measure by the ruler, and the coastline has grown. Measure by the inch and then by a pinpoint and then smaller and smaller, and at last with each smaller measure, the coastline grows, and the result approaches infinity. Every coastline, every border, of every land, is infinite when measured closely enough. And yet, we fight to the death and die over a few meters of an infinite bounty. -- Srinivasa Ramanujan (Aug. 26, 1914)”***“Jacksie:So much for this war being sorted by Christmas. It is Christmas Eve. A Christmas Eve like no other. We’ve had a cold North wind that has come through the front. A steady, proper snowfall of big fluffy white flakes began at sundown. At about seven, with the snow accumulating and covering the battlefield, the firing stopped. I came out of the trenches to take a look.I had been reading a paper and the mail was being dished out. When I walked out to see what the silence was all about, the Germans shouted back “no shooting” and more and more men came out and sat on the parapets and the Germans did the same. It was close enough we could carry on and most of them spoke English and broken English. I got on top of the trench and talked German and asked them to sing a German Volkslied, which they did, then our men sang quite well and each side clapped and cheered the other.They brought us Schnapps and we traded beer and cigarettes and cigars. Paul and I crossed over “no man’s land” and spoke to the German officer in command. We agreed to let one another bury our dead and not to have any shooting before Boxing Day. We talked together, 10 or more Germans gathered round. I was almost in their lines within a yard or so. We saluted each other. Then we wished one another goodnight and a good night’s rest, and a happy Xmas and parted with a salute. I got back to the trench. The Germans sang Die Wacht Am Rhein it sounded well. Then our men sang quite well Christians Awake, it sounded so well.Then they began to sing Stille Nacht, Silent Night in German, and we echoed back each verse in English. And the night rang with the sound of angels who had put down their guns. It was a curious scene, a lovely moonlit night, and the battlefield was calm and white. There was such an absolute quite, except for the small voices of those up smoking cigars and drinking and playing cards.The German Officer came over and asked, “We vill do ze same on New Year's, den, shall ve?"" And I said, “Yes, yes,” And he genuflected and said, “God villing, if both vill still be here und alive.""If one gets through this show it will be an Xmas time to live in one’s memory. The German who sang first had a really fine voice.--Warren “Warnie” Lewis (Dec. 24, 1914)”***“Dear Vadim (mon amour),It is Christmas Eve and all I can think of is you and how I long to be back with you again—oh please, find a way to get away to Paris! Can you?I have been tossed around for what seems like forever. Enough for one lifetime. I suppose this is why I live in hotels and strangers’ rooms, and scarcely have ever called anyplace home. Leeuwarden. Good Lord, it even sounds like a prison. I barely remember my childhood home—when have I last seen it? As you know, my father went bankrupt and left us when I was but a girl. My father was a charlatan. He made a fortune on the stock market. Then claimed to be a Baron and swindled his way along until his exaggerations and stories left him desolate—and he fled the law—leaving us without a goodbye. My mother died when I was but 15. Living in the cold clutches of the North Sea at the lid of Europe was an unforgiving place for a young girl, but I soon learned the hard way that men can give life or take it away. John MacLeod, my first husband, rescued me—or rather, I answered his classified advertisement for a wife—he was a real Baron! Although, he was about 35 when I was 18 and though a Dutch Officer, en route to the Dutch East Indies, I learned that he had an appetite for more than me. He was a syphilitic who gave me vd—and my poor boy died from the mercury he took to treat it. And his officers had designs on me as well and waited to find me alone—and in my naughtier times, angry with John, I gave some of them encouragement.One Saturday afternoon he went completely wild with tropical fever and attacked me with a bread knife, and I was only saved by falling over a chair, which gave him a startle and enough time for my escape.Don’t think I am bad at heart, my love. Despite what they say about me, I have never been untrue. I am a dreamer. And I have truly been carried away with dreams that were real to me—like ghostly apparitions that fade as fast as they’ve materialized. But only with you, mon amour, have I finally found true, pure love.I have received a strange post from Sir Basil Thomson, assistant commissioner at New Scotland Yard, suspecting me of espionage! Can you imagine. I fear I am in error with Captain Georges Ladoux. Somehow I am fought over, like the Old World itself, and pulled by all these forces.That is the problem with men in our time. Give them a home, they are after a whole estate. Give them an estate, they set sights on a summer house. Then the governorship of a county, then a country, than a continent, then, if it were possible, the whole world. But you are not one of those are you Vadim?—no, you are a kindred spirit. Don’t get me wrong, my dear, us ma cheries enjoy tasting from different courses. But we long to find all the variety of life and its vicissitudes in one adventurous heart, and to give over all to its exploration--to know all the smallest parts. I suppose if there were women generals, there would be no advancing lines or defended fronts but only gates and walls and an infinity of battlements and parapets. Would if I could wall you off from the whole world, all for myself, in such a pleasure castle.Ton amant toujours,--Mata Hari (Dec 24, 1914)”* * *Jacksie:It is Christmas morning and I am missing you.It had been two months in the trenches, with the hissing, cracking and whining of bullets in flight. I’ve scarcely gone through a single night thinking it would not be my last.In my trenches and in those of the enemy opposite to us were only nice big fires blazing and occasional songs and conversation. This morning at the Reveille (when we awoke) the Germans sent out parties to bury their dead. Our men went out to help, and then we all on both sides met in the middle, and in groups began to talk and exchange gifts of tobacco, etc. All this morning we have been fraternising, singing songs.The whole thing is extraordinary. The men were all so natural and friendly. Several photos were taken, a group of German officers, a German officer and myself, and a group of British and German soldiers. The Germans are Saxons, a good looking lot, only wishing for peace in a manly way, and they seem in no way at their last gasp. I was astonished at the easy way in which our men and theirs got on with each other.As the snow sank, we started a game of football with one another. We made a goal of our dress caps and they did the same. With no referee, we all policed each other, and the match started with a crowd drawn all about. With all the dead cleared out, we played in the middle of the battlefield, between the trenches, in “no man’s land.”The Germans scored the first goal and we cheered with them in great enthusiasm. Then the snow began to fall again and a slushy mud stoppered the play and led to all manner of falls and false kicks. Everyone was in an uproar of laughter all morning. We scored the next two goals, and the Germans finished off the game with the final goal sometime later. While we played the onlookers cheered both sides equally as if no one cared who won—the fact alone we could play together was victory enough for any of us.Well must finish now so as to get this off to-day. Have just finished dinner. Pork chop. Plum pudding. Mince pies. Ginger, and bottle of Wine and a cigar with our enemies (friends), and have drunk to all at home and especially to you my dear little brother. Must go outside now to supervise the meetings of the men and the Germans.Will try and write more in a day or two. Keep this letter carefully and send copies to all.I don’t know how long this war will go on, or if we will ever see another moment of peace, but no doubt about it, there is a ‘no man’s land’ or a ‘great divide’ strung between us in which we all want for nothing but peace, singing the same songs, giving the same tidings, feeling the same fears, and enjoying the same sport. I leave you with good tidings of the night the angels sang and the Christmas morning the enemies played a game of football and laughed together.I pray I find my way back home to you alive and well. Give everyone my love.--Warren “Warnie” Lewis (Dec. 25, 1914)THE END
","August 20, 2023 23:57","[[{'Rebecca Miles': 'What a fascinating polyphonic work. The epistolary format worked really to your advantage; you could tell such a range of personal accounts, revealing how the war was experienced differently by very different people. But the longing for the comforts of what is known shines through them all: the tamarind from home; the unexpected shared experience of singing silent night/ Heilige Nacht ( I live in Germany and love all their carols but the haunting lift of this one is exquisite). All of your letter writers are well nuanced. I particularly enjo...', 'time': '06:41 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thank you, Rebecca!', 'time': '14:47 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thank you, Rebecca!', 'time': '14:47 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jonathan Page': 'https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_truce', 'time': '16:25 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",p5ssq1,In the DLD,Kimberly Walker,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/p5ssq1/,/short-story/p5ssq1/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Black', 'American', 'Creative Nonfiction']",11 likes,"
In the DLD
Nothing vaguely interesting ever happened in the DLD. How could it, with a name like the Dead Letter Department? It is where undeliverable mail goes to die in any city. Usually, it’s only a missed spelled last name or street name. Occasionally, someone may transpose a house number or leave off an alphabet like “54 C Sunset Ct.” at the most. Any permanent carrier knows the residents on their route, so they are used to sorting the mail and correctly delivering all pieces of mail and packages; even when someone has moved. When the zip code is wrong, things will land in the DLD. 
In 1943 the post office assigned large cities postal zones; Zip stands for Zoning Improvement Plan implemented by the United States on July 1, 1963, throughout the states and US territories. 1963 zip codes contained five numbers like mine, 22901. The first number (2) designates the national area, the following two digits (29) determine the sectional area, and the last two numbers (01) depict the associated post office or delivery area. In 1967, with pickup-in-drop shipping, a zip code was required for second and third bulk mail. Because of the population explosion 1983, the zip code went to zip plus four, like 22901-1115, to further segment locations.
Margo Drought headed our DLD. She took pride in that, for twenty years, she had never had a piece of mail remain in the DLD for more than seven days. Until the pandemic. An impressive record…yes! One that she refused to let COVID-19 break. She tried her usual methods first:
1.   Looking up the address as written =------ it was a valid address. 
2. The intended recipient no longer resided ======no forwarding address was filed.
3. Check Obituaries ========================  no obituary found,
4.  Attempts to return to sender ============letter had an address and postmark from before zip +4
5.	 No other choice but to open it…
The page was a handwritten note on a pastel pink postcard, and it read:
----------------------------------------------------------------
(letter 1)
My darling Henry,
It has been three months since your last letter, and I am worried. I understand why, but I hang on to every word you write. I love you, Henry Burris Campbell. Don’t ever forget that. The war has got to end soon; it just has to. Love, Rainey Arrington-Campbell 
----------------------------------------------------------------
Margo’s new lead…
1.  Look up Rainey A. Campbell =============several name changes 
2. Check all listed names================obituary for Rainey Lee Arrington in 2021.
3. Find the next of kin========== letter sent to the Mortuary listed. 
----------------------------------------------------------------
(letter 2)
8/8/22
To whom it May Concern:
I am writing to return property belonging to Rainey Lee Arrington. It can be signed for at the Seminole Trail Main Post Office between 9-5, Monday -Friday. Ask for Ref#: 6688DLD.1
----------------------------------------------------------------
Margo’s record is in jeopardy…
It’s been three days, and the Arrington letter is still unprocessed. Usually, a piece of mail moved through in a few minutes or, most, a few hours.
Second attempt to locate the owner or executor of the estate 
 
 
(letter 3)
8/11/22
Against company policy: 
I’m writing a personal note to anyone who knew Rainey Lee Arrington and Henry Burris Campbell. I’m a supervisor within the Charlottesville main post office and have been trying to return some property. You can call me at 800-DLD-0066, or it can be signed for at the Seminole Trail Main Post Office between 9-5, Monday -Friday. Ask for Ref#: 6688DLD.1. 
----------------------------------------------------------------
8/13/22
Putting it off for over a year, cousin Lisa and I decided to pack up 1640 Riverside Court since the whole family has agreed that it should be sold out of the family. A few wanted to have a bonfire and burn it down; too many memories. Lisa and I have fond memories of sitting with Gram learning to knit and crochet but the aunts and uncles who grew up within the walls of that great three-story remember all of the fights between the husbands and Gram. 
As I pulled up the driveway, the mailman emptied the overflowing box and flagged me down. “You saved me from going to the post office to stop delivery to this address for Rainey Lee Arrington, thanks.
Wait…there’s a certified letter you must pick up, and a signature is required. I had the letter with me for three days and sent it to the front last night. Please go today or tomorrow so it won’t get lost in the dead letter department. You can call this number 800-DLD-0066, or it can be signed for at the Seminole Trail Main Post Office between 9-5, Monday -Friday. Ask for Ref#: 6688DLD.1.
Hmmm….
Poor choice of words, I thought as tears began to flow as if Gram just died yesterday. He was new to this route. The regular carrier Freda was pregnant before Gram passed a year ago and is on maternity leave. She was the last baby prediction Gram did. I didn’t think about it until now. We were in the living room, and Gram’s statement went in one ear and out the other, but now it makes perfect sense. Gram told Freda as she touched her baby bump, “She is destined for greater than I can predict. Move in and inherit much.” 
Freda was the last woman Grams took in, and I know Gram would be happy to see Freda paying it forward. Several women Gram took in over the years have been referred by a mail carrier, and Freda was the link, go-between, or conductor. 
The moment I had that recollection, a weight seemed to be lifted. I also realized that what the family members remember most of all is the steady stream of violence that darkened this doorway over the years. Whether Gram was being arrested for beating the largest shareholder of Commerce Bank for trying to drag his wife home by the hair or if the happy couple got drunk enough to say what they thought of each other. The Grams that Lisa and I loved didn’t emerge until they were grown and gone.
When Lisa pulled up, I told her to jump in….
At the post office, we retrieved the letter.
The letter chilled Gram because she thought Henry had abandoned his new wife and baby. Until she met her husband number four, Henry’s twin brother, who informed her that he had been killed overseas. We are the only people who know he never received her last letter.
 
Fast forward to 8/25/23…...that was a year ago.
The family agreed to sell 1640 Riverside Court to Freda Montgomery for $250, and each of Gram’s grandchildren received a $10 gift card, including Freda’s daughter. 
Didn’t I tell you Freda was the baby Gram was pregnant with when Henry was drafted?
 
","August 23, 2023 11:38","[[{'Gary Phipps': ""Was very interesting to hear the process of how dead letters like that are moved around and how it literally takes the dedication of one or two people to really make a difference in someone's life with something as small as a letter.   Reminds me of the butterfly effect and how small things can have big impacts."", 'time': '19:21 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kimberly Walker': ""Yup, me too. This story is true; I only changed the characters' names to protect the innocent."", 'time': '00:59 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kimberly Walker': ""Yup, me too. This story is true; I only changed the characters' names to protect the innocent."", 'time': '00:59 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': 'The Dead Letter Drop procedural story was fascinating. This was a real cool idea to learn how they locate where lost letters should be sent.  This sounds like its a true story as its marked as creative nonfiction, toward the end of the story its sounds like there was some rough times.  ""Hope the war ends..."" which war was that?', 'time': '05:18 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kimberly Walker': ""I'm not sure which war Gram's referred to in her note. I only mentioned it to lend a place to submit my story, but all of Gram's husbands were in the Army."", 'time': '00:52 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kimberly Walker': ""I'm not sure which war Gram's referred to in her note. I only mentioned it to lend a place to submit my story, but all of Gram's husbands were in the Army."", 'time': '00:52 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Oh, Kimberly. This is such a rich story full of history. It is worthy of a second reading unfortunately I am so far behind I need to put that off til later.\nPs. I won my category at Killer Nashville Awards. My story this week should tell all about it in a thank you letter.☺️', 'time': '17:19 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kimberly Walker': 'Thanks, but what is KNA?', 'time': '03:56 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': ""See my latest entry I posted yesterday or check out their Web site. Big writer's conference."", 'time': '08:58 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kimberly Walker': 'Thanks, but what is KNA?', 'time': '03:56 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""See my latest entry I posted yesterday or check out their Web site. Big writer's conference."", 'time': '08:58 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""See my latest entry I posted yesterday or check out their Web site. Big writer's conference."", 'time': '08:58 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",47d3zr,Letters to a Heartfelt Island,D.J.J. MIZZI,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/47d3zr/,/short-story/47d3zr/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Speculative', 'Friendship']",10 likes,"
Letters to a Heartfelt Island
 
June 2, 1939, London, England.
Dear Mikiel,
It’s extremely difficult to know how to start a letter, especially to someone you’ve never met; in the same way it’s difficult to speak to a stranger. But it becomes easier once you get started, and after that it gets easier still. In the end you’re glad for it because you’ve made a new friend. There we go – I’ve started and it wasn’t so hard at all. 
I’m very glad my uncle put me in touch with you. I’ve been wanting a new pen-friend, and when my uncle told me he’d met a boy during his posting who wanted the exact same thing, my heart leapt with joy. And a boy from Malta of all places. I’ve heard very little about your island, except that it’s a very sunny place and that it’s in the heart of the Mediterranean. Of course my Uncle, being a military man, told me all about its strategic location. And how every empire in history has tried to occupy that island. But I’m not really interested in all that jargon. It really does bore me to death. I want to know what kind of people inhabit such a place. I imagine it would be very similar to Italy in many ways, but of course I’ve never been there. So I have no way of knowing for sure. 
What language do you speak? What kind of food do you eat? And most importantly; tell me a bit about yourself. 
I’ll start – I’m Elizabeth; my mother calls me Eliza, and my friends call me Beth. I’m fifteen, but I’ll be turning sixteen at the end of the month. I love languages, culture and art. I have a private tutor here in London and when I finish my education here in London I’d like to go to Oxford and specialise in linguistics. They really do have some profound figures lecturing over there. One of them recently published a children’s story called The Hobbit (though I don’t really believe it’s a childish text at all). I’d really recommend reading it if you haven’t already. 
I’m eagerly awaiting your reply.
Yours sincerely,
Elizabeth Edwards. 
 
 
 
August 5, 1939, Marsa, Malta.
Dear Elizabeth,
Thank you for writing to me. When your Uncle told me that he had a niece about my age who’d surely like a new pen-friend, well let’s just say that I didn’t really believe him. And I most certainly didn’t expect to receive a letter from you so soon. But here we are, and I couldn’t be more excited. 
Malta is such a beautiful place – we don’t have many beaches. But the water here is as clear as the water in heaven. I’m glad you’re curious about my home. Your Uncle is right in what he says – our island has been occupied by the Greeks, Phoenicians, Romans, and Arabs among many others. Our native language here in Malta is, of course, Maltese. It’s a harsh cousin of the Sicilian dialect that has been heavily influenced by Arabic. It is derived from an older language called Siculo-Arabic; which was once spoken all over Sicily. Of course I speak English as well but that isn’t so common here in Malta. 
I live in a town called Marsa, quite close to the capital city, Valetta. My father moved our family here from Siggiewi when we were quite young, to work down at the docks, loading and unloading cargo. Siggiewi is nice because it is quiet; with fields and paddocks and large cliffs that overlook the sea. When we were children; I remember running along the sunburnt roads and picking fruit from the cacti that grew along the stone walls of the farms with my older brother Luigi. 
But Marsa is nice because it is close to Valetta. I often go to Valetta with my friends to drink and play cards. There’s a street in Valetta known as The Gut. It’s usually quiet during the day; but at night it’s quite loud and rogue. 
I’m not sure what I’d like to do when I finish my education (not that it’s anything fancy, I go to a regular public school), but I had thoughts of joining the British Military. Though my teachers tell me that I’d be more suited to something academic. I’m not quite sure. 
I’ve not read the Hobbit, but I’ll keep an eye out for a copy. 
Looking forward to reading your next letter,
Kind regards,
Mikiel Aquilina. 
 
September 29, 1939, London, England.
Dear Mikiel,
Your island sounds lovely. Oh, I would love to visit someday. And I don’t care too much for beaches anyway. 
Unfortunately that may be much harder now, than it would have been only a few months back. Yes, you’ve probably already heard that England has declared war on Germany after they invaded Poland. France has also pledged to join England in the war – and I’m sure many other countries will too. I’m hoping this whole thing will blow over before too long; and that we can all get on with our lives and go on with business as usual. It’s so bothersome. My father, on the contrary, believes that this war will more than likely go on for longer than we think. He says that Hitler, the leader of the fascists, is psychotic, and that psychotic people don’t see logic or reason. But I disagree. My father is part of a generation that have already once lived through the horrors of war, and so, he is of course predisposed to assume the worst. As power hungry as Hitler may be, you cannot lead a country if you’re an idiot. I’m sure Hitler would prefer to surrender than to see Berlin leveled to the ground. Which is what will happen if he finds himself in a war with the rest of Europe, Australia and America. 
Your hometown sounds absolutely lovely; and it looks as though you’re making the most of being so close to the capital city. But aren’t you too young to be gallivanting around town at night? I certainly enjoy a glass of wine at home, but my father would never let me roam the streets of London on my own. Although I must admit, your lifestyle does excite me a little. I might have to try sneaking out and seeing London at night. My heart is fluttering just thinking about it. 
Please, tell me a little more about how Malta is coping with the news of war. It may soon get harder to write to each other with all that’s happening – but let’s do try to write to each other when we can.
Yours truly,
Elizabeth Edwards.
P.S Call me Beth. 
 
 
July 20, 1940, Marsa, Malta.
Dear Beth,
Sorry it has taken me so long to write back to you. I met a British soldier while I was out in Valetta with my brother Luigi, who was due to return to London within the week. I paid him a pound and fifty pence, and he assured me that he’d see this letter properly delivered to your address. I hope it finds you well. 
It seems this war has drawn out much longer than you had originally thought – your father may have been right. And things may be looking a little more dire now that France has fallen, and both Italy and Japan have formed the Axis Powers. 
The war had only affected us very minimally for a while; that was until Mussolini formally pledged his allegiance to Hitler, and at the same time, declared war on Malta. We didn’t really believe it at first; I remember reading the headlines of the newspaper ‘Mussolini’s Cowardly Act’. The newspapers berated him heavily for joining the war at a moment that seemed opportune to him; it was seen as a traitorous act.
Not long after this declaration, the first Italian aircraft appeared in our skies, dropping bombs over Valetta. There have been a few unfortunate casualties, a school bus was hit with a bomb a few streets down from where I live, and there have been some interesting air skirmishes, but for the most part, the Italians drop their bombs from such a height that I can’t see how they can be accurate and do any significant damage. They don’t worry us too much. Although it is hard for our anti-aircraft guns to shoot any of them down because of how high they fly. 
The British are doing all they can to defend us. Apparently our island is critical to their campaigns in Northern Africa; and crucial to the war efforts. They’re trying their best to keep our spirits high – but they don’t really have to. Well, they don’t have to keep my spirits high, anyway. My spirits were never brought low to begin with. 
My brother got married a few months ago, and went to live with his wife Rita in Siggiewi. I went to visit my brother during the feast of St. Nicholas. Here in Malta each town holds a feast dedicated to their patron saint. There is a lot of celebration during these feasts; a lot of eating, music and singing. Some people wanted to cancel the feasts. But the priests said that we needed to hold tightly onto hope during these hard times, and, well, to be perfectly honest, we hardly see the Italians as a threat anymore – some of us don’t even retreat into our shelters when the alarm rings. During the feast, my brother and his wife took me to a grotto called Ghar Lapsi. I had been there before, but never at night. It was so beautiful. The full moon shone silver light, which reflected onto the rippling water of the sea. 
You asked me in my last letter if my parents have any problems with me going out to Valetta. My father doesn’t mind, and my brother often goes out with me. My mother, however, does get quite worried – but I don’t often tell her when I go. I do apologise if I’ve incited a rebellious attitude in you, though. I’m sure your father has his reasons for keeping you inside at night. The streets of London, from what I’ve heard, are a lot more dangerous than the streets of Valetta. Make sure you take care of yourself. Especially in these times. 
Looking forward to hearing from you soon,
Mikiel Aquilina. 
 
 
May 15, 1941, Amersham, Buckinghamshire, England. 
Dear Mikiel,
I was surprised when your last letter arrived. I really didn’t believe there would be any way for you to get anything over to me until the war was through. My Uncle is being re-deployed back to Malta; and I decided to follow your logic and send this letter over with him (and I didn’t have to pay him any money). I’m sure he will get it to you safely. 
Things over here in England have gotten much worse since I last wrote to you. The Germans have been blitzing our skies and leveling our buildings. My father sent me out to live in the countryside with my cousins. Everything is much quieter, much greener and much safer out here. But we still listen to the radio every day. It attracts us and daunts us at the same time. Churchill continues to give his day-to-day updates, though we most often look forward to Lewis’ broadcast talks on the BBC. He is a professor in medieval literature at Magdalin College in Oxford; though he speaks a lot about the Christian faith, and why we should all trust and believe in God. In times such as these, faith seems to be the only thing we have to hold onto. Because things do really seem dire. But Lewis has a way with words, he has a way of lifting us up, and making us feel united. If we get through this war, he shall get as much credit as Churchill. 
Out in the countryside, there isn’t too much to do apart from listen to the radio. So we try to keep ourselves occupied. I often play cricket outside with my cousins. Once, I smashed a window with the cricket ball. When I went to fetch it, I stumbled upon an old spare room I hadn’t ever come across before (the house really is quite large). I found a large old wardrobe in the spare room, but unfortunately it had nothing interesting inside it except for large fluffy coats. But it’s imagination that really counts. 
I also enjoy taking long walks among the trees and the hills. It’s so different to London, and maybe a little more like your Siggiewi – I am coming to understand more and more of why you like it so much. 
Sneaking out? Oh no, I was never able to work up the courage. Every time I thought about it, I began to imagine the kind of trouble I’d be in if I was found out. Or worse – what may happen if I found myself in the wrong street with the wrong people. No, you’re right in what you say. The streets of Valetta are much safer than the streets of London. 
Be sure to send a reply back with my Uncle, whenever that may be. 
With love,
Beth. 
 
 
April 3, 1941, Marsa, Malta.
Dear Beth,
I cannot begin to describe the horrors that we have seen over here in Malta. It turns out, as we had all suspected, that the Italians were doing very little to advance the forward lines of the Axis Powers. Their air raids were a spectacle more than anything. But the Luftwaffe and the Stuka are different matters entirely. The Italian air raids and the German air raids are as different as night and day.
It happened almost overnight. I saw it with my own eyes. Whilst I was visiting a friend in Senglea, there came into our port the large British naval ship Illustrious. It was half torn apart and the German Stuka were still bombing it. Those planes fly so close to their target that I am surprised they do not get caught in the blast of the bombs they drop. By some miraculous luck, and by no doubt the divine intervention of our father in heaven, the ship survived the German attack. But the German raids continued to come, and they dropped bombs onto our houses, in our streets and along our ports. And they continue yet still. I cannot count how many times I’ve sat inside the shelters, with my hands over my head, feeling the earth shake and watching the dust sprinkle down from the roof – wondering if this might be the end for me. 
As if to continue to stamp out our morale – they bombed our farms and food supplies. Very few of the British re-supply ships were able to make it past the German bombers. Most of our country was on the brink of starvation. Things got so desperate that my mother found herself cooking up a rat that she’d caught in a trap, and dividing it between us for lunch – however disease ridden it may have been. We didn’t care. My father worked at the docks. Each day when they unloaded cargo, he took a pinch of oats and snuck it home to us in the hem of his shirt. A pinch may not sound like much, but when you are as hungry as we were it is indeed a lot. 
When a large shipment of food did finally manage to get past those Stuka, half the country was at the port to welcome the boat with a loud cheer. It was a relief but things still aren’t jolly here over in the Mediterranean. We still have some way to go before this war is over. Sorry my letter has been so downtrodden. I’d like to write of happier things but there is a lot playing on my mind as of late. 
Love,
Mikiel.
 
 
September 20, 1945, London, England.
Dear Mikiel,
It has been some years since I have written to you; I hope you still remember me. You must be so thrilled this war is finally over. I know I am. I have plans to move to Oxford, to study at Exeter College at Oxford University; but before that I would love to pack my bags and journey across Europe. Of course I also have plans to visit Malta. I’ll keep this letter short. There is so much to say, and I have very little words to say it in. But I’m looking forward to meeting you and telling you everything when I see you.
Love,
Beth. 
 
 
January 6, 1946, Marsa, Malta
Dear Ms. Elizabeth Edwards,
It is with much regret that I write to inform you of Mikiel’s death on May 28, 1943. A stray bomb struck a building which collapsed on top of him. I know you had been writing to him for some time, and I thought it best if I write to you to inform you of this unfortunate event. Mikiel, although not with us anymore, held on to hope. And it was hope that helped us see this war through until the end. You may think his hope was in vain, for he did not live to see the end of the war. But I assure you it was not, for my dear son Mikiel held onto himself, onto his morals, and onto who he was, all the way up until the very end of his life. And that is what counts the most. I do wish you all the best Ms. Edwards, and if you ever find yourself visiting our country, you are more than welcome to stay with us. We have a spare bed, plenty of food and a lot of love to give now that we have one less child. 
Yours sincerely,
Mrs. Maria Aquilina. 
 
 
","August 24, 2023 16:40",[]
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",vk8xy4,Pickles,Yvonne Scott,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vk8xy4/,/short-story/vk8xy4/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Inspirational']",10 likes,"
It’s Labor Day afternoon, 2020. I take my seat in the tight semi-circle of my two cousins and their kids outlining the cluttered work area in the middle of my uncle and aunt’s small living room. My uncle fumbles or maybe trembles, I can’t tell, as he searches among his precarious stacks of papers, books, and magazines arrayed on tables behind him. His angular bowed body and sagging skin retain only the faintest whisper of the once vibrant, husky, tall man with a ready wit and scholar’s mind I’ve always admired. He deftly slides a finger into the jumble of items and brings forth a newspaper clipping dated February 1968. It has my name and high school photo filling one column reporting my first-place achievement at a speech contest. The clipping is yellowed but uncreased secured inside a letter that my grandmother wrote to this son 52 years ago.  
Uncle Lou is 80, ten years my senior. The cancer in his jaw and head deny him clear speech or any appetite. Broken vertebrae in his back that will never heal deny his  body the ability to stay upright for long, without excruciating pain. Still, he commands the small work table where he parks his wheelchair in the center of our mask-wearing family. His two sons have dropped by with lunch or groceries and a gaggle of  grandkids who head to the pool. Through the patio door, we can hear their laughter and life-affirming splashes out back. From his tiny platform, my Aunt Marilyn, his wife of 50 years, monitors his work space as she chats with us, searching for any small way to ease a burden that only he can carry. From time to time, he holds or rubs his head. Maybe this relieves the pain or perhaps this helps to keep his thoughts clear, I’m not sure. 
He hands me the clipping and I read an article from our hometown newspaper about a minor acclaim I nearly forgot. I laugh as I recall how I breezed through the first round at the District Speech contest delighted to read my well-prepared interpretations of Emily Dickenson only to be given the abysmal choice of Archibald McLeish to interpret at the State level. I placed third. “That’s great to know,” comes the voice from the head he can’t raise up anymore. “Had no idea when I read that. Now we know the gory details.” 
Then he laughs. Uncle Lou’s distinctive laugh is a more audible and welcome sound in the living room where we are keeping a safe distance from this fragile being.
And on it went for several hours, slowly over the course of one blessedly cooler September day in Chandler, Arizona. Back and forth between these brothers, my two uncles, the remaining pillars of my mother’s immediate family we volleyed bits of this and that:  where we were, who lived down the street, why that wasn’t how it happened, the garden behind their house, foods we made for celebrations. Of course, both uncles denied any memory of how they allowed me to fall out of a not-yet parked car once. While Uncle Lou was very eager to detail that Saturday morning he was roped into babysitting my brother and me when he was 13 and I was about eight, crying and swearing to our mother and his mother how he would never do it again. But of course, he did.
And we laughed. A lot. 
I came here on Labor Day in the midst of a pandemic to spend a few days with my remaining uncles, the progeny of my grandmother’s second husband, another good-looking Italian man like the father of my mother. 
 My mother left us first, much too early in 1974; another uncle and aunt passed on just a few years ago. These three were the children of my grandmother’s first husband who died when they were all very young. These two uncles sitting across from me are the last of five siblings. The lights within my family are growing dim too quickly. I feel the heat rise in my chest as I count the missed visits and opportunities to be with those other kin now gone and take a deep breath behind my mask and remind myself: ‘I’m here now. I’m here now.’
Uncle Lou’s brother, Uncle Jim, younger by two years and the baby of this family, directs me toward a cache of letters in a drawer in the end table next to my seat on the sofa and to several more bankers boxes on the dining room table in the next room. He tells me that he and Uncle Lou have been working on these piles for months. Uncle Lou saved every letter, card, note he received from his mother, my mother and other people in his life, since he left home at 18 in 1958. The brothers have opened each letter and made small notations on the envelopes to indicate something of their contents, simple words like “baby due soon” or “hope the weather is good for Christmas” so all five children and their families would be able to join together at grandmother’s house. 
As I open one and another of my grandmother’s letters, even though it’s not addressed to me, I feel her hands, I see her in her house or apartment putting pen to paper. I smell one of her prize-winning pies cooling on the windowsill, I see her with my mother, needles pushing up and down on opposite sides of a quilting frame glancing up to laugh at Red Skelton on the black and white tv, I hear her voice talking about the prices of food, reciting poetry for me as a child as she does dishes, asking about one or another of my children,  or telling me that a certain cousin’s birthday is next week and she has to buy a card. She never forgot our birthdays. Even with grandchildren numbering over 20. She didn’t need a Google calendar; those dates were written on her heart.
The evening is closing in on us and it’s a 30-minute drive to my Uncle Jim’s house. I will leave early in the morning to fly back to New Mexico and the comfortable home with my daughter where I’ve quarantined since March. When I will return is not certain. As we stand beside the car and pretend hug and wave goodbye from the driveway, Uncle Lou wheels himself through the front door. I hear something but I can’t quite make out his words and my aunt interprets: “He says he loves you.”
I put myself back within the pale porchlight in front of him six feet away and reply, “I love you too” and tap my heart.
I know the next time I’m here there will be only one uncle and a widow at this house. We open may even open the boxes of letters for cousins who have gathered for a farewell remembrance, if COVID will allow. Searching through each shoe box or folder, maybe they will find what I discovered: a slice of their lives to reconnect them with a part they may have forgotten or delight them with something they never knew about themselves or their family. 
I have saved only a few of my grandmother’s letters myself, safely stored inside a trunk that I have moved across the country far too often and rarely had time to open. I swear silently to myself that when I move into my new home next month, that trunk will be the first to discharge its contents so I can search through my boxes of photos and letters just to make sure they are still safe from mice and moths. 
My children will find them one day, all the cards and letters they sent to me over the years before texts and emojis and email took away these slightly yellowed, gently creased and folded tactile connections with one another. I can’t imagine what they’ll do or how they will react. I don’t want to. They are already too swift to toss and declutter Christmas cards and invitations to school functions or birth announcements. I face the truth that they may not understand these are parts of who they are, fragments of their lineage, their history, their roots. Love made visible in the palm of their hand.  
The ride back to my Uncle Jim’s house is more silent than previous nights. We both feel the burden of what is ahead. In one hand is that yellowed newspaper clipping of a high school achievement and in the other is a recipe for a type of sweet pickles in my mother’s beautiful script which she wrote out for Lou’s first wife so I know that must come from a letter in the late 1960’s. Everyone commented on her penmanship. Lou says she was always proud of her handwriting. 
I remember these pickles because they took so long to make, yet I cannot recall how they tasted. Next summer, from the garden I envision growing at my new home on the land in southern Illinois, not so far from where my grandmother was born and grew up, I will gather cucumbers and pull out this piece of notebook paper from its plastic sleeve and make “Sweet Ring Pickles” for the first time in my life. I didn’t know such a recipe existed until now and I bless my uncle over and over in my heart for his instinct to keep what might seem trivial and unimportant to others. My eyes fill up just looking at the handwritten lines  in my hand as I realize just how very few mementos of my mother I possess.
Her instructions are precise, and the task is tedious, 10 days tedious. Thanks to the divine foresight of Uncle Lou, my mother and I will join forces in the kitchen, curing ‘cukes’ as she called them, making brine, pouring off and renewing the syrup on successive days. For this brief time, the decades without her will fade and the distance between us will be as slim as the paper recipe in my hands. 
I text my Uncle Jim when I arrive safely back at my abode the next day. We do this now all of us when we travel. It’s the times we live in to be concerned about a strange virus, air travel, and the crazy way people drive these days. I ask him to give the folks in Chandler a hug from me. Then add “Tell them I’ll send them a letter when I get unpacked.”  In a few days, I can see it take its place, safe among the others in my uncle’s house, waiting for another someday, perhaps for one of my grandchildren, to discover.
The next morning, there is an email from my Uncle Jim addressed to all of us cousins. His brother has signed himself over to hospice. Better meds, less pain, and for that I’m grateful. And for the one laughter-filled, cooler day in Chandler, Arizona when my grandmother’s letters transported us to another time and place, when we were all young and healthy, when this time seemed so far, far away even as I realize that in a few years all that may be left for me are these envelopes and letters in my grandmothers’ familiar scrawl. 
I open up my computer to send a message to a daughter in the Midwest. We haven’t connected in several weeks and I want her to know about Uncle Lou. As I wait for the word document to open, I catch a glimpse of my box of notecards with a pair of dragonflies on the front, hesitate, and reach for a pen. 
 
 
 
 
","August 18, 2023 18:09","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Family memories. Cherish them.', 'time': '04:51 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",n8zq6x,Letters from Borneo,Padmini Sankar,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/n8zq6x/,/short-story/n8zq6x/,Historical Fiction,0,['Historical Fiction'],10 likes,"
Letters from Borneo
 
 
Jesselton
British North Borneo
9th December 1941
 
Dear Appa,
My respects and namaskarams to you and Amma.
You may perhaps be wondering why I am writing to you so soon after my last letter, to which I have not yet received your reply. Appa, a big event occurred recently that I have to tell you about.
Neelakantan came home yesterday morning. I had just put baby to sleep, when he came rushing in. ""The Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor,"" he shouted.
Well, I couldn't really understand what the issue was. ""Where is this Pearl Harbor?"" I asked him. ""And how does it matter to us what the Japanese do?""
Baby started crying and I had to hush him to sleep. But it was hard, with my husband excited and yelling. ""Pearl Harbor. That's in America. That means the Americans will join the war.""
I looked out from our house and saw groups of people talking excitedly. Now that America was in the war, it would be a very bloody and prolonged war. Or maybe not. Some thought the war would end soon.
I asked him if we Indians who were under the British would now get our freedom. That's what Neelakantan always wanted, like all of us. But unlike you, Appa, who believes in Gandhiji's peaceful methods, Neelakantan thinks only violence against the British will get us our freedom. He thinks if we follow Gandhiji, we won't get freedom for another thousand years.
Appa, I am really not sure how this Pearl Harbor attack is going to affect all of us Indians here in British North Borneo. The British officers in Neelakantan's company are secretly getting frightened. They are planning to return to England and leave some Indians in charge of running the company. This is just to be on the safe side, they say. They think the Japanese are no match for them. Neelakantan thinks otherwise.
Well, this is my news and this is a very short letter to you.
Otherwise I am well, and baby is doing well too. He's started crawling and looks at me and smiles. He loves eating mashed rice with milk. He also loves bananas. We are still getting our supplies of food and provisions from the ship from Singapore that docks here every other week. Thank goodness I filled the larder with rice and dals and all the spices. I needn't worry for the next two months in case the ship doesn't come.
I must end, and I hope this letter sees you both in good health and cheer. Please give my love to Elder Brother Krishnamurti and little Kausalya and Subhadra.
Your affectionate daughter,
Lakshmi
 
 
Tenkasi.
Tamilnadu, India
1st February 1942
 
My dear Lakshmi,
Hope you are keeping safe and well. We are very worried about you, your husband Neelakantan, and the baby. You are so far away. Amma constantly reprimands me and says I should never have sent you so far away. She says there were enough grooms in Tenkasi itself and we could have found someone here instead of a foreign groom. But I know we could never have found a better man for you than Neelakantan.
Of course, we heard immediately of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Here too, there is a great uproar as the British have claimed both Britain and India are at war with Germany without taking any of our leaders' permission. But I have full faith in Gandhiji. He and the Congress leaders have agreed to support Britain provided they give us our independence. Let us see if they keep their word.
I am hopeful that, in case the Japanese attack the British in Singapore, Borneo and Malaysia, they will be making the biggest mistake. The British army, I am told, is a formidable force. No one can defeat them. They are invincible.
Prices of essential goods have gone up a lot here. There's a shortage of rice and dals and the shop-keepers are hoarding goods to sell at a higher price. Even the prices of vegetables have gone up. Thankfully, we grow all our vegetables and, apart from potatoes, we get all the fresh produce from our garden.
There is another piece of news for you. Your elder brother Krishnamurti has joined the Royal Indian Air Force as a meteorologist. His pay is very good for a fresh graduate. He will also get extra supplies as he is now in the air force. More butter, more biscuits, as well as extra rations of rice and ghee. That will help us a lot. As you know, my monetary situation has not been very good ever since I retired. The pension of ten rupees I get every month is barely enough to keep our family from starvation. So we were all very happy when Krishnamurti was selected, although he will now no longer be living with us. He is being sent to Poona for training, and after that he may be posted anywhere in India. But he can visit us every few months when he gets leave.
We are happy to know Baby is doing well. We are longing to see him. I don't know when that will be, but now that America has joined in the war, I hope it ends very soon, and we can all get back together again.
Please take care of your health. Our enquiries to Neelakantan and love to Baby.
Yours affly,
Appa
PS: I don't know when this letter will reach you as I hear there's some fierce fighting going on there. Amma is performing prayers every day in the temple for your safety.
 
 
 
Jesselton
British North Borneo
15th June 1942
 
My dear Appa
I received your letter only yesterday! I am happy to know you all are well, and that Elder Brother has joined the RIAF. This is a proud moment for all of us.
So much has happened since I last wrote to you. The British in Singapore, who considered themselves invincible, have been defeated roundly by the Japanese. The Japanese have even come all the way here, to Borneo, and have taken the English as prisoners. They have been moved to some prisoner-of-war camps on the outskirts of Jesselton.
The Japanese have now occupied Malaysia and Borneo and are very good to us Indians. They say they will help us get our independence from the English if we support them.
They are very strict rulers. No one dares disobey them. They have taken away all our money and said they will give us new money minted by their government. One of our neighbors hid some money in a tin, but they found out and beat him badly. They are quite ruthless. They have told all captured Indian soldiers that if they support the Japanese, they will be safe and treated well. Of course, we heard that some of the soldiers refused to cooperate with them and they were brutally killed.
We are facing a big food shortage. There is very little rice left. Many of the Chinese have also left. Neelakantan and I, along with Baby, go around the countryside looking for vegetables at abandoned farms.
Appa, I want to come home. I miss you and Amma. I hope and pray this war finishes quickly.
My love to all at home.
Your loving daughter,
Lakshmi
 
 
Tenkasi,
Tamil Nadu, India
3rd September 1942
 
My dear Lakshmi,
We received your letter of 15th June only yesterday. Many parts of your letter were blacked out. It must be the censors at work. We have heard so much about the war going on in your part of the world. We are all very worried about your safety.
Elder Brother came home last week and brought gifts for all of us. He brought home a big tin of Huntley and Palmers biscuits and a big box of chocolates for your sisters. We had to stop them from eating too many chocolates. Elder Brother was looking ever so smart in his khaki uniform. He has one stripe on his sleeve because he is a pilot officer. Right now, he's staying with the other recruits in some barracks in Poona. He says the accommodation is satisfactory.
Amma and I are very worried that you are not getting rice and vegetables. I think the censor forgot to cross out that part of your letter.
Please be very careful. Do not say or do anything that will bring attention to you. The best thing to do in wartime is to lie low.
Gandhiji and his followers have launched the Quit India movement. It is ridiculous that the British are still sitting on the fence about giving us our freedom. They say until the war is over, no freedom for us. In the meantime, so many of our brave soldiers have lost their lives on foreign soil.
Rice has now become outrageously expensive. It is two rupees a kilo. Amma now ony drinks rice-water. She has become very thin and weak, as all of us have, only that she is now skin and bones. She insists we eat a little rice, but she forgoes her share.
Otherwise, we are as well as we can be in the circumstances.
I hope Neelakantan and Baby are doing well. Baby must be a year old. Is he walking now? Amma continues to fast and pray for your well-being.
Take care.
Love and good wishes,
Appa
 
 
Jesselton,
British North Borneo
30th December 1942
 
My dear Appa
I received your letter of 3rd September only today. This may be the last letter from me for many months. We have been told to evacuate as they are expecting some heavy bombing here. Neelakantan is sending me and Baby to a small village called Papar because he says we will be safe there. He has to go to another town, Beaufort, along with the other Indian men. He says it is not very far from Papar and he can take the jungle train and come to see me every other week. I will not have access to a post office while in the village so you may not hear from me for a while. But don't worry. As soon as this war is over, I will contact you.
Please keep safe.
Your loving daughter,
Lakshmi.
 
 
Tenkasi
Tamilnadu, India
!5th April 1944
 
My dear sister Lakshmi,
I am writing to you with a heavy heart. Yesterday, Appa passed away. I did not tell you as I din't want to unnecessarily worry you, but a year ago, Appa had a massive stroke. He was recovering, so  we never expected him to die so suddenly. Every day, for the last year and a half, he'd sit outside waiting for the postman to come with your letter. He could barely speak, but would keep calling out your name, ""Lakshmi, Lakshmi."" He died with your name on his lips.
We cremated the body today. I had to rush down from Madras, where I'd been posted, as soon as I heard the news. It took me a day to reach Tenkasi.
Amma is speechless with grief. Your sisters have been crying so much that there are black circles under their eyes. I have to be brave for the family. It is good that I earn a handsome salary. It is enough for our family's needs.
Sister, I am sorry to be the messenger of this devastating news. I hope you are safe. I hope this letter reaches you. It seems the war is not going well, and Germany and the Axis powers may win.
I hope we all can meet soon, although our meeting will be bitter-sweet with Appa gone.
Your loving brother
Krishnamurti
 
 
British North Borneo
21st May 1945
 
My dear Appa,
I have not heard from you all for so long, I've lost track of time. I'm not sure if this letter will ever reach you. I am sending it through someone who is going to Jesselton. He has promised to post it. I have to trust in God.
Amma, Appa, I am very very afraid. The American bombers are flying low over the countryside. There are so many planes and they are dropping bombs everywhere, even on empty fields. Thank God Neelakantan is with me. He came crossing the jungle from Beaufort. He told me the Japanese have lost the war and are now running helter-skelter. He begged to be taken on one of their trains but they point-blank refused. So he had to walk through the thick jungle. One of the jungle people he befriended helped him cross safely. He has lost so much weight, Appa! I was shocked to see him. I quickly boiled some rice and fed him as if he were a baby.
Yesterday, an American bomb was dropped in a nearby field. It went off with such a loud noise that our eardrums were almost shattered. Baby, who is now four, screamed and ran about. I was so worried for him. I had stuffed his ears with some old pieces of cloth from a torn saree as I'd anticipated this happening. But nothing prepared us for that loud bang and the destruction we saw later when we ventured out.
Appa, the war is almost over. We will be going to Singapore as soon as we can, and once we get permission from the English authorities, we will sail back to India. I think that will take place only after three or four months.
The only thing that matters is that we are all alive. We have to thank our gods above that we are safe and well. Finally, this war is getting over. The Americans have almost taken over British North Borneo,  so we can return safely.Venkatesh (he objects to being called baby) has heard all about you, his grandparents, as well as his big uncle and his small aunts. We can't wait to see you all in person.
My love and best wishes to all.
Your loving daughter,
Lakshmi.
 
 
 
","August 23, 2023 18:42",[]
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",pcysyx,THE WAR TO END ALL WARS,Charles Corkery,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/pcysyx/,/short-story/pcysyx/,Historical Fiction,0,['Historical Fiction'],9 likes,"
THE WAR TO END ALL WARS
 
August 9th 1914
 
Xxxxxxxxxxx 
Xxxxxxxxxxx 
Xxxxxxxxxxx
 
My darling Gertie
I write this brief letter shortly before we embark. The two horses are stowed safely. Altogether, there are xx cavalry divisions crossing the channel tonight and conditions are chaotic as you can imagine. God alone knows what part horses will play in this enterprise but the xxx Lancers shall do our very best. Look after our dear boys. You may find this letter heavily redacted as we have been advised that all mail is to pass through the censors.
 
My love to you dearest
 
Henry
 
 
August 16th 1914
 
 Hello my darling
 
This is the first opportunity I have had since we bivouacked in Xxxxxx. Tell the boys that Flotsam and Jetsam are doing well though the Channel crossing was rough on both men and beasts. So far, the weather has stayed warm and dry which is as well as we are camped in the open and we have no shelter for our animals. To my chagrin, Xxxxxxxx has appointed me to his staff. I have objected as I came here to fight the Hun, after all, but I must do as I am ordered.
 
Much love Henry
 
 
 
August 23rd 1914
 
Dearest Gertie
 
The first shot was fired last evening and I am pleased to say that it was a fellow cavalryman who fired it, xxxxxxxxx at xxxxxxxx in xxxxxxx. I expect things will really start to kickoff now. Not much else to report, I’m afraid. Yesterday, we had a staff meeting attended by all officers but Xxxxxxxx bored us all to death with his monotonous drone. The man is a blithering idiot and, in my opinion, unfit to lead. I saw another officer looking at him with the same look of contempt as I. I had never seen this officer before but he was a rank above myself. He seemed to be making notes with a fine, gold ballpoint pen. I attempted to have a word with him at the conclusion of our meeting but he had slipped away. Horses are fine although restless and much in need of exercise. Darling, do you think you could kindly send me on my own gold pen; the one my father left me? My love to you and the two boys.
 
Henry
 
 
 
September 5th 1914
 
Dear Gertie
 
I am unsure how quickly news is getting back to Blighty but I thought it best to write immediately in case you were alarmed. Xxxxxxxx organised an unnecessary recce of conditions at the front and ordered a mounted patrol which he, himself, led. I was, at first, dismayed to be excluded but the entire contingent of the Xxx Xxxxxxx were killed in a shell attack by the Germans at Xxxxxx. Xxx good men, needlessly lost. 150 horses, too. Among them were Xxxxxx Xxxxxxx, Xxxx Xxxxxxx and Xxxxxxx Xxxx. All that remain of the Xxx are devastated. I know you will do your best for their poor families. I now find myself in charge of the Xxx and have called a meeting in an effort to restore morale.
 
My love to you all
 
Henry
 
 
 
September 8th 1914
 
Dear Gertie
 
As I am now in charge of the 9th, this letter will come by diplomatic bag and, thus, avoid the censors. Thank you for the pen and the socks, darling. It is a miracle how stuff from Blighty gets through. This missive gives me the opportunity to appraise you of our real situation. The death of our good friends, Albert Jessups, Paul Shelley and Francis Knox was a severe blow and I know that you will have been terribly upset by the news. May God have mercy upon their souls. The rain has started to make our lives miserable as we are surrounded by a sea of mud. Conditions are miserable for the nags, especially. This is no war for horses. Flotsam is ailing and I think he has a cold. A vet has given him a shot. Best not tell the boys. I called a meeting after Phillips disastrous recce in order to boost morale. I think I succeeded, just. Once again, I saw that strange officer I spoke of previously. He was wearing a trench coat and it seemed such a sensible thing. I wonder why I hadn’t thought of it myself. Please, darling, could you go to the Army and Navy in Victoria Street and purchase a trench coat for me? They have all my measurements.
 
Love to you and the boys
 
Henry Ransome Lt. Colonel
9th Lancers
 
 
October 1st 1914
 
Dearest Gertie
 
I am so sorry not to have written sooner but I have been so terribly busy. The 9th were ordered to use our horses to transport ammunition to the front. Then, to transport fresh troops in wagons to the front and bring back the dead and wounded to the rear. These are cavalry horses, not beasts of labour. It is outrageous. Flotsam, alas, died but, at least, was spared this ignominious task. Jetsam is exhausted by the work load, as are all the other horses. Mules have been drafted in to augment our numbers. Mules! I cannot even begin to express how I feel about the situation. The casualties, man and beast, are horrific and the wet conditions are not helping. Thank you, while I remember, for the trench coat and, also, the jam and cake, which I shared with all of the 9th. There is nobody I can even share our situation with; officers are killed and replaced with such rapidity. I really need somebody of a superior rank to press our case. Yesterday, I saw that unknown officer walking through our camp, as I looked out from my tent. He was wearing the same trench coat which was now filthy and splattered with mud and he appeared to be smoking a pipe. I hesitated just to don my own trench coat and set off after him, thinking that he would be an ally in my protestations about our horses being used for manual labour. Unfortunately, I succeeded only in getting drenched and, today, I am wretched with a cold. I must keep my head up though for the sake of morale though I fear my nerves are stretched thin and I have started my old habit of grinding my teeth which does not help me sleep well. We must forebear.
 
My love to you and the boys, dearest
 
Henry Ransome Lt. Colonel
9th Lancers
 
 
October 11th 1914 Dear Gertie
 
The Germans have resorted to using gas. It is appalling. The staff propose to hit back with our own gas attacks. Is this what the art of war has come down to? Jetsam. I am afraid was a victim of one such attack, as were several other horses. Our main corps now consists of mules. They are hardy beasts and have earned my respect for their powers of endurance. My cold refuses to go away and I am now coughing.
I have searched all around for that strange officer. He is a Colonel but nobody seems to know of whom I am talking. I am assuming that he belongs to another unit and must seek him out as I desperately need an ally if I am to make my case before we have no horses left. Fodder is now in short supply. I thank you, darling, for the books and the strange gift of a pipe. I have never been a smoker but I believe you have sent it to me to bite down on to help with the grinding of my teeth? You are a wonder. 
My love to you and our boys
 
Henry Ransome Lt. Colonel
9th Lancers
 
 
November 1st 1914
 
My darling Gertie
 
Horror upon horror! Though I thought to hide this awful truth from you, darling, I want somebody to know what is really going on here. Thousands slaughtered unnecessarily by attacks that gain just a few inches of ground, if that. It is appalling. We are bringing dead and injured back from the front daily but are struggling to cope. The rumour is that French is to be replaced as Commander in Chief but why in God’s name are they taking so long to make that change? The man has no empathy for the men whatsoever. I had an opportunity to speak directly to him about the general chaos and lack of coordination all around and our desperate need of fodder for the horses and mules or they cannot carry on much longer. All French did was listen but offered no suggestion of how we might improve things. Today, to my amazement, I have received word that I have been promoted! For what? I am a cavalry officer reduced to a transporter of corpses. But this is how French operates; he promotes those who complain in order to shut them up. My cough is so much worse and conditions so awful that, for the first time in my life, I do not bother to shave daily. If anything should happen to me, Gertie, let these letters be a record of the truth.
 
I send you my fondest love and long to see you again
 
Henry Ransome Colonel
9th Lancers
 
November 8th 1914
 
Can it truly be only four months since I came across the Channel to fight the Hun? Four months of a hellish nightmare, my darling. We lost five more officers and fifteen men, yesterday, when shells were dropped so far behind the front. These Germans will stop at nothing. I was unharmed but I am dreadfully ill. I cough badly and, as I write this, I lie upon my camp bed shivering. I fear I have pneumonia but how can I complain or insist on medical assistance when so many are dead or dying?  I...
 
 
My apologies, darling. I had to stop writing for a moment, a man looked into my tent, the rain teeming down outside. It was that same officer, the strange one of whom I have spoken so often. He looked soaked through, his trench coat filthy and his face with several day’s growth. It is not right that a Colonel should go about unshaven; bad for morale but I can hardly talk. His face, Gertie, his eyes, they looked so familiar...
 
 
November 14th 1914
 
Xxxxxxxxx 
Xxxxxxxxxx 
Xxxxxx
 
My dear Mrs. Ransome
 
It is with great sadness that I write to inform you of the tragic death of your husband, Colonel Henry Ransome, 9th Lancers, who died in a shell attack by German forces on November 8th of this year.
 
Colonel Ransome was a brave and respected officer and the Commander in Chief has asked me to pass on his personal condolences.
 
Colonel Ransome has been buried with full military honours but we have some personal items that you may wish to be forwarded to you. On the other hand, you may find these to be too distressing and I shall hold onto them until I hear back from yourself. They consist of a trench coat, a pipe and a gold fountain pen.
 
Once again, my sincere commiserations. 
 
Yours respectfully
 
Lt. Colonel Arthur Bridges
Adjutant to Brigadier John French CICGS
British Expeditionary Force
","August 19, 2023 07:37","[[{'David Sweet': ""Excellent! I enjoyed this very much. I don't know if these are based on real, family letters, but I can feel the heartbreak and frustration in them of such a useless war. I recently watched a documentary about the interconnectedness of the European monarchs in this debacle. Here, you have shown the common man's struggle and demise for their arrogance. Thanks for sharing such an excellent narrative."", 'time': '13:30 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Knowing nothing of this war I can only assume it is a well written account of but a piece of the traumatic reality of WW1.', 'time': '18:44 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Knowing nothing of this war I can only assume it is a well written account of but a piece of the traumatic reality of WW1.', 'time': '18:44 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",18fqnd,Monkey Tale,H.e. Ross,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/18fqnd/,/short-story/18fqnd/,Historical Fiction,0,"['African American', 'Fiction']",9 likes,"
Heppy lived in a small apartment right in the centre of the ‘Mo, short of Fillmore District in San Francisco. The neighbourhood used to be rough with fights, very loud music and the occasional shots. I loved it as a kid growing up sort of like in the wild west. When he passed there were a lot of people at the funeral. Heppy was well liked by most of the people acquainted with him in the ‘Mo. I liked him but of course he was my father.
 
Heppy lived for the American Legion. He was a veteran of the First World War and had lied about his age to join the Army. Actually, he didn’t know what his age was because back in those days they didn’t keep accurate records of the births of Black children unless they worked at a White family’s homestead where they usually had to have documentation for tax reasons. His age wasn’t important and up to his death it still wasn’t that important so he settled on a thought up age for enlisting and kept that one as his real one.
 
He was the fastest runner of us kids even though his hair was grey and we all knew he was an adult but he could always beat us on a city block race until he couldn’t. When he couldn’t we always let him win anyway knowing something was wrong with him but that beating us was important to him. There were a few of us who raced him regularly and of those I am the only one not in jail or killed in action. Two of us joined the Marines wanting Heppy to be proud of us. 
 
The late 1960s were tough on Heppy. Women were taking off their bras, kids were rebelling against their parents. The Haight-Ashbury grew a Hippy population. Poets were sprouting up everywhere. There was anti-war demonstrations and he felt communist infiltration all about. We got in an argument about communism with the simple question I put to him: what was communism? Simple, but for a West Virginia, First World War veteran, Republican he thought I was a pinko for even asking the question. It really hurt him to know I got beat for a civil rights protest march. We did not talk to each other for more than two years even after I joined the Crotch.
 
That’s why the letter was so ironic. I found it going through Heppy’s things. I shook my head after reading it and many times whenever I thought about what I didn’t know about him. It always made me love him a little more. I wish we would have gone back in time and raced a couple of times before he died. But we are taught that we have some kind of pride that keeps us from doing that affectionate kind of thing. The letter was in an almost yellow, envelope. The writing on the envelope was very faded but I could make out Hepburn. Inside the two pages were type written and even though the paper was fragile the ink was clear and precise. Some of it was written in that old time phonetic spelling. I remember it from other letters of folk from that time when phonetics was just on the way out. My mother and I had many an argument about modern spelling that ‘just didn’t sound right’.
 
This is the letter:
 
My Friend, Heppy,
It is our wish that this finds you of high spirits and good health. We are prayin more than once a day for your safe delivery back home here to Heburton and by God’s Almighty Will we trust in the Faith of our good son and friend’s safe return. Your Momma is at church every day prayin for your deliverance back to us. Now, I want you to understand that you need to persevere in this mighty endeavor regardless of the White Folks you hear me. We has to be the strongest the bravest the finest in they eyes for then they will see that we are real people with devotion to this country of ours and to God Almighty. That they wont let you carry no weapons is just the way they is. And you did the right thing in pickin up a fallen comrade’s rifle and killin them German White Folks the way you did. The Pastor says you is at war and at war you is defending our people and gainin the pride in us that them White Folks needs to have in our occupation of this land as free men. Now that story you done told me in that last letter brought out three things about you that holds us in faith that you will return. You aint at all in sin by what them White Womans done to you. You a man and a man at war at that. Them White Mens should not have told them womens in Paris that we gots tails. What they expect but the curiosity of God Almighty might indur them to endeavor to pull you into those doorways and investigate and one thing leading to another we all knows you is just a man and all. Now that other thing is that because they done gassed you then that means they is sendin you home soon when they through with you there in Paris France. That means you is comin home, thank the Lord in his Highness, Amen, I say Amen. Now that last thing before I sends this letter and can tell you face to face your gal Cilly done got a outside child by Matt Cousins and I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news. She is just a child, Heppy, and dont know no better than a child does. Cousins has left the county just at harvest too.
 
That is about all I gots to say. Everybody is safe and sound here because of your work over there and we is all proud as a dickens for you. I knows I was your teacher and you probably look at me like a older man but I see you as a man now and I adopts the attitude that you are now my friend. Keep on reading and advancing our people.
 
Sincerely and With God’s Blessing Be
Jedidiah Freeman
Baptist School
Heburton, West Virginia, 
United States of America
It makes me proud to think of you as a friend.
","August 19, 2023 09:09","[[{'Tom Skye': 'Great use of specifics to really capture the time. Felt a bit like Non-fiction. San Francisco stuff is always cool for some reason 😂\n\nCool read. Great job', 'time': '14:28 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",rcbwka,NOTHING IS EVER WASTED IN CHINA,Robert W,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/rcbwka/,/short-story/rcbwka/,Historical Fiction,0,['Creative Nonfiction'],9 likes,"
	15th August 1945
	America
	To: Christopher Cheshire, 
	Oxford, England
	Dear Chris,
	I’m glad you got back from Germany in reasonable shape. It must have been Hell to be a POW. And I know what Hell is like – I’ve seen it. First the war with Germany, then the war with Japan after their attack on Pearl Harbour. Five years of destruction, killing and wasted lives. Finally, last week, Nagasaki. And now it’s all over, at long last. ‘Anti-Hero Hito’ has just announced that Japan has surrendered. 
	It seems the Japanese leaders knew last year that they were losing the war, but decided to fight on. Their final solution – if that is what you can call it – was to let Japan’s one hundred million people sacrifice their lives by charging the enemy. Kamikazes would have attacked the US troop-carriers as they carried out their final invasions.  According to one estimate, the combined casualties of both sides could have been as high as fourteen million. 
	The Americans were looking for a quick end to the war, and they wanted to push the Japs into surrendering. And it seems to have worked. So now, millions of lives have been saved. I know I ought to be thankful, but I’m not. As my brother, you’re the only person I could say this to, and I know you’ll keep it under your hat.  
	Since I’ve been stationed over here, I’ve been involved with a new type of bomb. They are calling it the Atomic Bomb. It has a power that nobody has ever heard of before. First, they dropped one on a city called Hiroshima. Then they decided to drop another. The original target was Kokura, but they changed it to Nagasaki at the last minute. I was one of the aircrew. After what happened at Hiroshima, we thought that the Japanese might surrender, and our mission would be cancelled. Do you know, we were actually terrified at the thought? We had become so inured to war, and all the devastation and slaughter, we were even joking about it. We had agreed that, should this “dire misfortune” of a premature end to hostilities befall us, we would take off without permission and drop the bomb against orders! And I can assure you, we weren’t talking totally in jest. 
	We were young men, excited beyond measure at the power we knew we had to destroy anything in our path. We saw ourselves as having the ability to rid the world of evil, and the Japanese were the last evil now that Adolf Hitler had gone to whatever hellish torment was awaiting him. It was like some drug had taken us over. 
	Well, I can tell you, that excitement lasted only until the moment our bomb exploded. Nothing could ever be the same for any of us after seeing that ball of fire and the vast, luminous cloud, evilly alive, living and feeding on the death that lay below. 
	An area of over three square miles was instantly and completely destroyed. Imagine Central London, flattened to the ground, and all the people living and working in it dead or dying. There were homes, factories, schools and hospitals. Thousands of people died immediately. We will probably never know exactly how many; estimates range from 30,000 up to 60,000, and they are still counting. Together with those who died at Hiroshima, in three days well over 100,000 people had just been obliterated from the face of the Earth in the blink of an eye. They weren’t evil. They weren’t enemies. They were human beings, fathers, mothers, grandparents, children. I will never get that image out of my mind. 
	In that monstrous ten-millionth of a second, my mind revolted against everything that this cloud implied, and I made a vow with myself. Before the war, I was just out to enjoy myself. You know. You were there! All those unsuspecting girls, who probably suspected a great deal, but never let on! All that booze. Everybody was a bit crazy. Then the war came, and it was as if the entire world went mad. For five years, I killed and maimed other people. I destroyed their property. Now, I had seen the nearest thing to Hell that anybody could ever possibly imagine. There had to be better things to do with my life. There had to be some power higher in the universe than that of nuclear physics. There had to be something that I personally could do. If it was possible for any good to come out of this evil thing that Mankind had created, I intended to make it my personal mission to try to bring it about.  
	Could good ever come out of such events? Well, maybe. Do you know, over 50% of British bomber crews in World War II never came back from their missions? 55,000 men.  So many of our friends with their lives just blotted out. You and I were lucky, for which I can only thank God (yes, I have started to believe in Him, even after all I have seen of the horrific behavior of His creation). Despite all the missions I flew, I was spared. I’m sure there must be some purpose behind that. And it’s changed me. 
	Can you remember that talk we had at school about China? It seems like it was eons ago. It was from a former pupil. He had visited China, and was full of admiration for the achievements of that backward society. He was praising the work ethic of the labourers in the fields, and their ability to make use of every possible square inch of soil and every morsel of food. He used one particular phrase time after time. He kept on saying “Nothing is ever wasted in China.” After the first few times, there was some derisive laughter, but that only served to plant the words more firmly in my mind. That phrase became imbued for me with a special meaning. It conveyed the thought that no experience of life is worthless, however appalling it may seem at the time, but is something that can build the future in a life-affirming way. 
	I could never go back to how I was before. I see now that I had to go through all those experiences to become a different person. I hope it has made me wiser, more sympathetic, more determined to help other people, and certainly with a different and more fruitful outlook on my role in life. I don’t know what to do yet, but I know I will find something I can believe in. I also know that I have decided, having witnessed such utter devastation, that it is imperative to do something to see that it should never happen again. 
	Just a word about the A-bomb itself. Given that war itself is evil, did that justify the use of evil means to combat it? I’m sorry, but I can’t decide. Spare a thought for Harry Truman. He will take to his grave the awesome responsibility of trying to bring an end to the war by killing thousands of innocent people at Hiroshima and Nagasaki in this horrific way. God save me from such a responsibility! 
	Did you know that in 1928 the major countries of the world got together and signed the Pact of Paris, which outlawed war altogether? There were 31 signatories, and both Germany and Japan were among them. Unbelievable, I know, after all that has happened since then. Is it ever going to be possible for the peoples of the Earth to live in peace? Well, perhaps I am foolish, but I will never cease seeing good in every man if only it can be brought out, to replace the violence, hate and misery, and I will support any attempt to stop war in its tracks.  But I have to ask: when will the killing ever stop?
	Love to all,
	Leonard
 
 
","August 25, 2023 06:26","[[{'Derrick M Domican': 'Powerful stuff here Robert it really stops the reader in their tracks. Very believable writing in this one, could easily be from that time.\nThanks for sharing.', 'time': '13:34 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Robert W': ""Thanks, Derrick.   Leonard Cheshire VC was a much-decorated British bomber pilot of World War II.   His brother Christopher was also a bomber pilot, although he was shot down and remained a German POW for several years.   I have inserted direct quotes from Leonard's biography concerning his own personal reaction to the dropping of the A-bomb on Nagasaki.  There is no doubting the searing impression it made upon him, nor his reaction to it, which caused him to found the Cheshire Homes for the disabled which remain a powerful, world-wide chari..."", 'time': '06:59 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Robert W': ""Thanks, Derrick.   Leonard Cheshire VC was a much-decorated British bomber pilot of World War II.   His brother Christopher was also a bomber pilot, although he was shot down and remained a German POW for several years.   I have inserted direct quotes from Leonard's biography concerning his own personal reaction to the dropping of the A-bomb on Nagasaki.  There is no doubting the searing impression it made upon him, nor his reaction to it, which caused him to found the Cheshire Homes for the disabled which remain a powerful, world-wide chari..."", 'time': '06:59 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Christina Cooper': ""Wow. This one made me think a bit. War is real and scary. In the moment, it's what you have to do until you stop and see. Good reminder. Thanks."", 'time': '03:27 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Robert W': ""Thanks, Christina.   You are right.  It seems that nobody has ever stopped to think why war is necessary.  Everybody talks of a longing for peace, but is that really what people want?  I wonder.  Leonard Cheshire's story brings out another point.  So long as we can keep other people's feelings at a distance, we will never see the need for change.  We may look briefly, but will then walk away and carry on with our busy, self-absorbed existences.  It is only when we are brought up close to the evil of the world, and are forced to stop and look..."", 'time': '06:46 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Robert W': ""Thanks, Christina.   You are right.  It seems that nobody has ever stopped to think why war is necessary.  Everybody talks of a longing for peace, but is that really what people want?  I wonder.  Leonard Cheshire's story brings out another point.  So long as we can keep other people's feelings at a distance, we will never see the need for change.  We may look briefly, but will then walk away and carry on with our busy, self-absorbed existences.  It is only when we are brought up close to the evil of the world, and are forced to stop and look..."", 'time': '06:46 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'War is dangerous. Your letter is well written and the facts well condensed. Good work,  Robert.', 'time': '06:35 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Robert W': 'Thanks, Magdalena.  Leonard Cheshire VC was a bomber pilot in World War II who was the British observer of the Nagasaki Atom Bomb drop of 1945.  His experience affected him so profoundly that, from having been an atheist, he converted to Catholicism, and went on to found a Charity for the disabled still prominent world-wide 75 years later and thirty years after his death.  Many of the sayings in my letter are direct quotations from his biography.', 'time': '10:22 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Robert W': 'Thanks, Magdalena.  Leonard Cheshire VC was a bomber pilot in World War II who was the British observer of the Nagasaki Atom Bomb drop of 1945.  His experience affected him so profoundly that, from having been an atheist, he converted to Catholicism, and went on to found a Charity for the disabled still prominent world-wide 75 years later and thirty years after his death.  Many of the sayings in my letter are direct quotations from his biography.', 'time': '10:22 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",buh0vp,Hopeless Gimmering,Gary Phipps,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/buh0vp/,/short-story/buh0vp/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Adventure', 'Historical Fiction', 'Sad']",9 likes,"
August 3rd, 1849
 
Reached this lonesome valley today, a real marvel under God's sky. The land stretches endlessly, its only partners being distant mountains and a beckoning stream's song. The journey was a trial, boots laden with mud, spirits weighed by tales of men who came and departed with empty pockets.
 
In my pocket, though, is this curious shiny stone. Not yet gold, but whispering of its presence nearby. Camp's set, the daunting task ahead clear as day. Many a man ventured, few struck gold. Yet, tales of fortunes and the promise of a new dawn keep my spirits aflame.
 
As I sat by the campfire, the flames dancing in rhythm with my thoughts, I pondered upon the stories shared by old miners at the tavern. They spoke of the land's deceptive allure, the many who'd lost their way, consumed by gold fever. Their tales, sometimes cautionary, other times hopeful, echoed in the wind and the rustling leaves. It served as a reminder, grounding me in reality but also igniting a fire of ambition within.
 
As night wraps its blanket, doubts slither in. What if this valley's all but dreams? This here's a gamble, no doubt, but life's always been one. With dawn's first light, I'll be at it, hopeful, diggin' for more than just dreams.
 
Yours with grit, hope, and a pinch of fear,
 
Daniel H.
 
-
 
August 10th, 1849
 
A week has unfurled since my arrival in this wondrous valley, and the solitude of the place has allowed for deep introspection. The camp's seen improvements, resembling more a determined miner's outpost than a mere traveler's rest. I've erected a stronger tent, fortified against the unpredictable weather. The fireplace, now bordered with stones, blazes with a fiercer warmth, casting away the valley's night chill.
 
The stream, with its ever-present murmurs, has been my daily companion. Each morning, I follow its trail, its ripples guiding my path, my tools singing along with the promise of gold. With every sifted pan, I feel a growing intuition, a miner's sixth sense perhaps, that tells me I'm inching closer to a significant find. Some bends in the stream seem particularly promising, with sediment layers that hint at the treasures they might conceal.
 
During one of these explorations, I came across a peculiar rock formation, which old-timers often spoke of as nature's signpost to underground riches. It fuels my optimism, making me believe that I stand on the precipice of discovery.
 
Nightfall brings with it contemplation. There's a balance to strike, between ambition and patience. While the promise of gold lights up my dreams, I remind myself that the journey, with its trials and learnings, is just as valuable.
 
Tomorrow beckons with the allure of hidden treasures. The valley, with its secrets, awaits my endeavor.
 
Yours with renewed determination,
 
Daniel H.
 
-
 
August 17th, 1849
 
Seven sunrises since my last entry, and what a transformative week it has been! The valley, with its quiet whispers and teasing glints, finally unveiled a prize: a gold nugget! As it lay in the palm of my hand, shimmering with the promise of a changed destiny, my heart raced with a mix of disbelief and elation. The weight of it, both literal and symbolic, was the manifestation of dreams and whispered tales.
 
With that nugget as both proof and motivation, a fervor took over. I became a man possessed, digging tirelessly, as if the very soil called out to me. Day blended into night, the sun’s arc barely registered, as my spade and pan worked in a ceaseless rhythm. Each new mound of earth seemed to promise another nugget, another piece of the golden dream.
 
But nature, with its immutable laws, reminded me of my mortal limits. After what felt like a full day's cycle, exhaustion's grip tightened, rendering my limbs heavy and my vision blurry. Frustration mounted with each empty pan, the initial joy replaced with the biting sting of unmet expectations. I found myself sprawled amidst the very dirt I'd been turning, the weight of my zeal pressing down, leaving me gasping and spent.
 
Tonight, the solitary gold nugget lies beside me, a symbol of both triumph and warning. The valley's treasures are elusive, demanding respect and patience. As I drift into a recuperative sleep, I resolve to heed the lessons of this week: the promise of gold is powerful, but I must remember to listen to both the land and my own body's boundaries.
 
Yours, humbled and reinvigorated,
 
Daniel H.
 
-
 
August 31st, 1849
 
Fourteen days since my pen last touched this journal, and the valley's song has grown louder, more insistent, echoing in the deepest chambers of my mind. It feels as if the land itself is alive, whispering secrets only to me. Last night, as moonlight painted the valley in silvery hues, my eyes were drawn to a cliff's face. And there, amidst the jagged rock, I saw it – a glimmer, a promise, a golden lure beckoning me closer.
 
It’s a treacherous climb, that much is clear. But that pocket of gold, even from this distance, looks vast, enough to change any man's destiny a hundredfold. My mind races with visions – grand mansions, respect from peers, luxuries only the rich know of, and most importantly, a legacy for generations to cherish.
 
I've been feverishly preparing. Ropes, spikes, and all the tools I believe I'd need to scale that cliff and extract the gold. Every moment not spent in preparation, my mind wanders into fantasy: lavish feasts, clothes finer than any I've worn, and a life far removed from this rugged wilderness.
 
Yet, there's a nagging whisper, drowned mostly by the allure of the gold, that cautions me. The cliff's dangers are manifold, and the howling winds seem to carry tales of adventurers who met their fate in their quest. But the pull, oh, the pull of that gold is unlike anything I've felt. As I lay down tonight, my thoughts are a swirling tempest of ambition, greed, and anxiety.
 
Tomorrow, I take on the cliff. They say fortune favors the bold. I'm about to find out.
 
Yours, on the precipice of greatness or folly,
 
Daniel H.
 
-
 
September 7th, 1849
 
I chanced upon this journal today, nestled beside what I initially assumed was a slumbering traveler. To my dismay, it was a lifeless prospector, a man named Daniel H. according to his writings. Beside him lay chunks of gleaming gold, scattered like stars against the earth, evidence of a dream both realized and shattered. A closer inspection revealed a more somber tale: his climbing gear, torn and frayed, could not bear the combined weight of the man and his newfound fortune.
 
It's a heart-wrenching scene — the tangible weight of his dreams becoming the literal weight that sealed his fate. Reading through Daniel's entries, I'm struck by his passion, ambition, and the descent into obsession that these mountains can incite. The fervor with which he sought gold was commendable, but his story serves as a grim reminder of the balance between ambition and caution.
 
It may seem opportunistic, but I've gathered the gold. Daniel's arduous journey, his sleepless nights, and his ultimate sacrifice won't go in vain. This treasure will grant me the means to live life to its fullest, to grasp opportunities, and perhaps, to honor this stranger by fulfilling some of the dreams he penned down so eloquently.
 
Perhaps I'll venture east, away from these treacherous terrains, to start anew. Every coin I spend will bear testimony to a man's relentless spirit and the cost of unbridled ambition. As the sun sets, casting a golden hue reminiscent of the metal that changed our fates, I whisper a silent prayer for Daniel H.
 
To a future born out of another man's dream,
 
B. Thomas
 
 
 
","August 23, 2023 14:16","[[{'Scott Christenson': 'Great job capturing the mood of the time period in the writing style of the letters. A lot of great prose in this ""The valley, with its quiet whispers and teasing glints, finally unveiled a prize"". I liked the sad irony in the last letter. I\'m guessing so many who found treasure in the gold rush lost it quickly to injury, theft, or bad choices.  The only ones who made the most money were the ones who sold the shovels. For the critique circle feedback, I wondered what drove him out there. Maybe there could have been some conflict/tension allu...', 'time': '05:33 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Gary Phipps': ""Thank you for that feedback Scott.   I like the idea of give a mention of what drove him out there to give more reasoning behind his motivation and determination.  I'll definitely that a thought on my next go around."", 'time': '15:24 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Gary Phipps': ""Thank you for that feedback Scott.   I like the idea of give a mention of what drove him out there to give more reasoning behind his motivation and determination.  I'll definitely that a thought on my next go around."", 'time': '15:24 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",zo5vje,Letters Across the Atlantic,Keelan LaForge,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zo5vje/,/short-story/zo5vje/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Drama', 'Fiction']",9 likes,"
Sensitive Content - References disease and death.
 
Dear Mummy,
 
I’m writing like I promised I would. God knows how many weeks it’ll take for this letter to reach you. It took two months to get here on the boat. It wasn’t what I’d imagined. Did you know they call them Coffin Boats? A fifth of the passengers on board died of Yellow Fever. I was one of the lucky ones, I think. This land of opportunity isn’t exactly what I thought it would be. We didn’t get a glorious fanfare of a welcome when we stepped off the boat. In fact, I could feel the contempt of those that met us as we first got off the boat. It was a passage of survival. We got to New York after weeks of seasickness and death. I had to sleep in a bunk with several strangers. We tried to comfort each other with anecdotes but hearing them talking about their own experiences just made me homesick. The smell on board was foul, but there was no escaping it. It’s not a journey I’d ever wish to repeat. I doubt I’ll ever get the chance to return home in person. I have to make a life for myself here, but it’s hard to know where to start whenever you have nothing.
I’m sorry for complaining. I know you have it much harder at home. I hope you’re still alive and healthy. How are Lily and Bobby? I hope they’re helping you around the house. I know Aoife’s death shook everybody. I’ve been thinking about you every minute of every day and worrying about your poor empty tummies. I hope the blight ends after this crop. It feels like it’s bound to. Two bad crops is enough for anyone to bear. The food here is bountiful, but everything costs money. I’m working hard for my wages and for the little room I’m renting. The lady I rent from is tough, but she’s kind-hearted. Sometimes she brings me dinner when she has leftovers. It’s hard to get used to the food here. I’ve been living on rice and beans, and I’m grateful for every bite I get. I know how precious it is.
I’ll never forget about you for a minute, no matter how busy I get here. It’s lonely, but I know I’m lucky to be here. Few people got the chance to come to America, or if they did, they didn’t make it off the boat. I’ll be praying for you all, and I hope you can write soon to tell me about what’s happening at home.
Love,
Ellie.
 
Dear Ellie,
Don’t worry about sharing your woes, love. You’ve had a long, tiring journey, and I’m sure it was difficult on your own. I heard the boats are dirty and filled with rats. I know it’s worth it to get you out of here. There’s nothing here for you. You had no opportunities here. Bobby and Lily would probably love to go too, but you know we could only afford the one ticket. I know you’ll make the best of it but it’s not easy leaving your family behind. We might be stuck with this terrible blight, but we have each other. You’re in a country none of us have ever seen and we probably never will, but we can hear all your exciting stories and share your letters together. That will get us through the dark days to come. I’m hoping the worst is over for us now. The stench of the potatoes is still hanging over the house and the fields, but we’ve grown used to it. We’ve planted lots of new crops and England have sent us cornmeal in the meantime. It’s given us upset tummies, but it’s better than the hunger pangs. You know that firsthand. It’s strange with your bedroom emptied of your possessions. I remind myself it’s different than Aoife leaving because I know you’re safe and well. Keep writing to me often to tell me about your new experiences. It heartens all of us to hear that you have a bright future, even if it’s tough at the beginning. Have you made any friends yet? Tell me more about the boat and your journey there. What is New York like? I’m dying to hear. I’ve never seen pictures of it. I don’t know anyone that has travelled so far from home before. Is it very different?
Sending you all our love and missing you every day. Write again soon, love.
 
Mummy
 
 
Dear Mummy,
It must have taken weeks for my letter to arrive. I still can’t fathom the distance between us. I tell myself it’s only one sea, but it still feels so far. I long to hear your voice. It feels like I’m starting to forget it. I’ve got so used to these American accents. My own voice sounds strange whenever I speak out loud. I found a more permanent job. I was doing odds and ends before now – sewing and washing and whatever I could get. Now I’m working as a maid for a family. It’s easier work than what I was doing, and they’ve given me a room to stay in in their big three-storey house. The houses are different here. No stone or red brick; they’re all wooden with painted panels and steps leading up to the porches. People sit on their porches and read or sew or just pass the time talking to their neighbours. It has a friendly feel. The weather is better too. It gets hot in the summer, I’m told, but it’s still Springtime here. I’m missing the rain; isn’t that odd? We always said it never stopped raining at home, like that was a bad thing. The ground looks yellower here; it isn’t as green and the fields are filled with different crops, like sheaves of corn. It’s a place of plenty, but you need money in order to have plenty. It’s hard for lots of people. I’ve heard many of the immigrants haven’t found work, and some haven’t received a welcome. They’d rather keep us off their soil, as far as I can tell. I’ve heard people talking about the Irish and how poor and dirty they look. It’s hard to arrive looking lively after such a gruelling trip. Many had to be put in quarantine whenever they arrived, because of the diseases on board the ships.
Mrs Davis is very kind to me. She got me some new clothes that used to belong to her niece. She said she didn’t need them so I might as well have them. It feels good not to wear rags. I am sending money home with this letter. I know you need it more than I do and I’m happy to send it. It makes me feel like I’m helping out in whatever small way I can. I know we agreed that I would come here, but sometimes it feels unfair that I’m living the life I am while you all suffer at home. Even though the potato blight changed everything, I still feel homesick. People eat spuds here, but they aren’t as much of a staple. Whenever we have them for dinner, it makes me lose my appetite. I don’t tend to talk about home, so no one understands. I can still smell the potato blight even from thousands of miles away. It’s a smell that will never leave me, I think, no matter how long I’m here. It’s the smell of sickness and death and it haunts me.
I’m glad you are all safe and I hope things are getting easier. Use the money to get as much food as you can. I want to know you’re well fed and that you have a better chance to avoid sickness. I wish I’d come here sooner and maybe I could have saved Aoife. If she’d had the food she needed, do you think she still would have died? I wrestle with that thought every day, Mummy. I know it isn’t fair to bring it up to you. I know it’s harder for you than it is for the rest of us. How are you coping now?
Tell Lily and Bobby I miss them too. I miss you most, Mummy. I’d never been away from you for a day in my life, and now it looks like I’ll be separated from you for the rest of mine. Thinking about you all being well keeps me going every day. I still say the same prayers you taught me every night. Whenever I do, it helps to bring back the sound of your voice. God bless,
 
Ellie
 
 
Dear Ellie,
 
It’s Lily. I know you were expecting to hear from Mummy, but she isn’t well enough to write. She’s got fever and she’s tucked up in bed. She’s been there since just after she sent her last letter. She got smallpox. I don’t know how she got it and how we’ve escaped it – so far anyway. They say it’s an airborne illness, but we barely see anyone anymore. So many people have stopped visiting. I think they’re scared of getting sick. There’s so much sickness. I just wish it would end. When the new crops come through, we will be alright, and we won’t rely so heavily on spuds anymore. I just hope our family makes it through. Losing Aoife was hard enough, and I don’t think Mummy could cope with losing another one of us. Since Daddy died when we were little, she’s had so much to contend with. It's too much for one woman, but you know how strong Mummy is.
On a happier note, we have been working hard in the garden. We bought lots of seeds and food with your money. It’ll keep us going for a while now. We were all painfully thin, but I think we are fattening up and starting to get a healthier glow in our cheeks. We shared what we could with the neighbours; you know Mummy, she always wants to share with others, however little she has herself. You’ve given us a project and we have been working on the land while Bobby tries to bring home some money too. He’s just been working as a farmhand on the local farm, even though there’s barely anything left to do there. I don’t know how we’ve made it this far, but somehow, we have. The word of the Lord has helped us all. If we didn’t have that, I don’t know what would keep us going. We know we need to survive the hard times to reach God’s glory.
I have so many questions to ask you about New York. What is it like? Is it as wonderful as everyone says it is? Are the people different than at home? What does it look like there? Do the people talk differently? I’ve never met an American, but I’ve heard they have a drawl. Have you been going to church? Mummy hasn’t been able to go the last few weeks and it has caused her a lot of upset. You know how much of a devout Christian she is. I don’t think she ever missed a service before this. I just wish our prayers were answered a little faster. I’m praying constantly for Mummy. We hope she’ll recover after some bedrest and that she’ll get outside again. The lack of fresh air can’t be good for her. She’s too weak to do any household tasks, and you know she likes to be busy. I wish I could cure her, but the doctor can’t do anything about it either. He just told us to pray hard. That’s all any of us can do for her.
After all this is over, I hope that I can join you in the city one day. I know we don’t have the funds for it now, but maybe one day we will. Times of trouble are always followed by times of prosperity.
Wishing you all the best and missing you every day. Please write again soon.
Your sister,
Lily
 
 
Dear Lily,
 
How is Mummy now? I’ve been desperately awaiting your response. I wish we could make the post travel faster. I just want to hear her voice and to hear that she’s feeling well again. What way is she? Has she still been confined to her bed? Is she able to do anything yet? I know it’s an awful illness and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. It’s terrible to hear that she’s caught it. I know she’ll be ok though. She’s so strong. She’s always ok. If she isn’t ok, how can any of the rest of us manage?
I’m slowly getting used to New York. It feels like such a long time since I’ve seen any of you. I miss you every day too. Tell me what you and Bobby have been doing? Is he enjoying working on the farm? Do you have to do all the chores alone now? I’m sure you’re taking great care of Mummy. Did the doctor visit again? Sorry you’re getting a barrage of questions, but I have so many to ask you too.
It is very different here. The weather is warmer, and the architecture is funny. Everything is much fancier than the farmhouses and cottages back home. The houses are so big, they could hold twenty people, but there are normal sized families living in them - in the neighbourhood I’m working in, at least. I’m getting a glimpse of what it’s like to be rich. Even working as a maid feels self-indulgent. I think about you all back home and I feel guilty that I’ve got the chance to start over. I feel guilty that I’m not more grateful for it sometimes too. I get homesick, and I cry myself to sleep most nights, just thinking of home and all the silly things I miss. I miss the familiar trees in the garden, the cosy rooms of the cottage and hearing the laughter of those I love. It’s silent at night whenever I got to sleep. I miss lying awake, chatting to you about everything we thought our lives would become.
What do you miss from before the famine? I can hardly remember those days now. Do you allow yourself to think about them? We were all so carefree then. Sometimes I wish I could go back there and appreciate everything we had so much more.
Please write to me soon to tell me how Mummy is. I’m enclosing some of this week’s earnings to help you get more seeds. I’m glad that’s keeping you busy.
Love,
Ellie
 
 
Dear Ellie,
 
I hate to have to write this letter to you. We are still struggling to process it. Mummy passed away a few weeks ago. She looked like she was getting better, but then she took a turn for the worse. I wish she could have got to hug you one last time. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such sad news and by letter, no less.
They took the body away. It’s in the local burial ground with so many others. She doesn’t even have her own plot. She wouldn’t have expected that in the midst of everything that’s happening, but I wish she had got the send-off she deserved. She was still so young and full of life. That illness robbed us of so much.
Bobby and I have been getting on with the work that needs to be done. We are just going through the motions, keeping each other alive. I wish we could see you and that you could have had a last conversation with Mummy. I’m sure this news with overshadow anything else I could think to write about, so I’ll keep it short.
Keep in touch with us and let us know how you’re coping. Bobby is still working hard at the farm, and I have a million things to do at home. Our work seems like it will never be done, but it keeps us going too. We are trying to think positively about the future, but with our recent news, it’s tough to do that. Please keep praying for us as we will for you.
All my love,
Lily
","August 23, 2023 20:24","[[{'Delbert Griffith': 'Whoa. Dark, but accurate. The potato famine was one of the worst tragedies to befall Ireland, and I think its effects were more far-reaching than most people know. You did a fantastic job in recreating the despair and also the strength of the people affected. I could smell the rotting potatoes! \n\nNicely done, Keelan. This one really hit hard, my friend.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '09:25 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Keelan LaForge': 'Thanks Delbert. I’m glad you thought it was realistic. Yeah it was interesting to research 🧐 Thanks for taking the time to comment and let me know what you think 😊', 'time': '10:25 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Keelan LaForge': 'Thanks Delbert. I’m glad you thought it was realistic. Yeah it was interesting to research 🧐 Thanks for taking the time to comment and let me know what you think 😊', 'time': '10:25 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",ra5phm,The Persistence of Memory,Clara Dodge,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ra5phm/,/short-story/ra5phm/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Drama', 'Fiction']",8 likes,"
Oh mourning dove of my heart,you inconsolable cooing thing,each beat riddled with grief. You alone know my beloved ashes, cloudy feathers sarcophagusing my blood and veins. You run away with every sunrise yet you find yourself unchanged. You lacerate my words and turn every saturated childhood memory pale. You know mourning in the morning before stale dawn, the ache when there is no face to place your love. By night you are silenced by the heat of theMoon.Souris-A mourning dove cooed outside my window this morning, haunting wavering notes. I thought of you, how you would know what the particular call meant, or inform me that they mate for life. Do they? Their calls are so lonely.How many different ways must I write for you to recall we’re sisters, whatever prefix or fraction may precede the title? I'd sever myself in half to feel as you do, a pill cut down the middle, so that we could each taste the same acridity, if it would convince you to un-run away, re-run away. Which is the right prefix? The point is, the crumbs of words don’t matter to me, they’re only the leftovers after all. Come back. Run away, again, to what you left behind. Whichever makes you happiest.Memories are fickle, flooding my mind, waterfalling from my ears. They tickle my shoulders and trickle onto the ground, ribbons and spatters of my life muddled under my feet. Usually, when I catch a glimpse of your face reflected on the floor, the memory is gone before my pen licks paper. But there’s clarity, now. The evening after Whittier’s funeral, Lily mentioned something that I thought you should know. Our conversation started mild, the early spring light we coaxed to fall across our faces on the deck. You know how it is in Chicago, the wavering light and the biting air, but if you sit in just the right spot, the warmth spreads across your skin, glowing buds sprouting on the sun. Sunflowers. That’s what I was painting, strokes caressing the woven canvas, a mother’s hand on her daughter’s cheek. We were clad in black, darkness thirsting for the sunlight.I concocted a joke about her dilapidated Fleetwood Mac album, her laughter bright and rich vanilla when her voice faltered and she gazed off as if trying to conjure a misplaced dream. “I haven’t played a record since he left.” A mundane discovery whose dull blade severed my brain from my body. My paintbrush clattered from my hand. I didn’t bother retrieving it.I immediately understood who she spoke of. It’s stupid not to use his name, to treat it like a mine that chasms the earth, a shattered mug that doesn’t understand how to heal.Whittier, I exhaled. Only I could hear the aromatic breath, a spiral-cut lemon peel, bright and bitter. For that moment, he was mine alone, a reflection through a car window, his visage superimposed over my own until the mirage disappeared as his name blurred from my tongue.Lily stared out over the deck, eyes still glazed over, sight stolen by the setting sun. “Tell me about the day he left.” My voice was soft yet bold. I demanded, not suggested. “Tell me.” Selfish. She is his wife– was– and the imposition was impulsive, jolting me like caffeine. I shouldn’t have imposed, shouldn’t have implored her to surrender what few seconds were theirs alone. But maybe, as his twin, I’m entitled to some things. We are, as his sisters, entitled to doze in the glow of his moon, soaking in every enchantment of his brief existence as though we’re herbs.She remained quiet for a while, perhaps entertaining guarding the memory, but she didn’t refuse, just gave me a curt nod.November 4, 1968. Lily’s eyes opened before the sun’s, alone. You were asleep across the hall, tangled in a world where the night froze into brittle icicles, preserving Whittier with frost. She searched for Whittier, discovering him at the radiator next to his armchair in the living room. His image held her captive in the doorway, her eyes carving his figure deliberately into the stony morning. I envisioned her painting the inside of her eyelids with his silhouette the way the sun’s luster wafts like soap bubbles across your eyes once you come into shadow. The soft crescent of his long lashes. The curve of his neck, tendons bulging. His new buzz cut, the ghost of his auburn mane. Do you remember how his earthy eyes bled muddy tears when he brought me the shears and a razor and asked me to cut? Most of all I remember how he avoided the mirror. He leaned into the radiator, wedging his nose into a valley of that iron mountain range, eyes closed as if he cackled, head thrown back to the sky. It’s strange, him smelling the radiator— I couldn’t fathom an explanation. Lily suggested it was the warmth. That it was comforting.She thought of inquiring after what he was doing, but couldn’t think of how to respond to any explanation. Instead, she cooed, “Good morning,” melting into the light and leaning against the doorway, eyes swollen with fatigue, a shiver jolting through her and her thin robe. He frantically searched the dawn for the noise’s source. “Sorry, it’s just me.” She, like you, creeps with accidental stealth. “Why are you up so early?”His muscles relaxed at her identification, and he answered simply, “I don’t know.” Lily didn’t need an answer. She knew he hadn’t slept all night. His eyes were drawn to the rough plaster of their bedroom ceiling, preoccupied with discerning shapes like clouds, so focused he didn’t notice her following his gaze, tracing the figures with him. There was a cicada, she thought, delicate wings spun into the cracks, and it reminded her of those childhood stories he told her about you and me. How he would drive us around all night, the air warm and crackling through the cracked window, alive like Zotz fizzing on my tongue. How he watched us in his peripheral, you heavy humidity asleep across my lap. He turned to the window, fidgeting, watching the dark sky wake, and repeated, “I don’t know.”She didn’t respond. The radiator hummed in place of her voice as she stared at Whittier, who ran his nail along the lifeline on his palm, sowing seeds to sprout. He waited for her to speak, the silence stretching, gooey taffy. Finally, Lily entreated tenderly, “Are you okay?” a valley crevicing itself between her thick eyebrows.He didn’t answer. How could he? The discussion of anything real was an unbearable torment. She heard enough in his pensive silence. “I-” she started, attempting to put words to what lingered in the air, but he interrupted.“Dance with me,” he proposed, voice raw, the wind whistling against their brick apartment. Standing from his armchair, he took her hand, tucked flyaway strands of hair behind her ear. As he met her eyes, she looked for tears, a hint of wetness in the corner of his earthen eyes. There was nothing but betrayal. Your emotions won’t suit you in the real world, Alice, he insisted. Did he cry once he left, later in Vietnam, shadowed by death? I imagined his torment at his bleached understanding, paled by years in the sun, faded by the jungle. Justifications for the world’s order revealed themselves to be fatuous, rules conceded that they were arbitrary. Wars lacked valor. I brought my hand to my face and wiped imagined tears away as he may have, imagining him contemplating his reflection in the metal of his tarnished gun. When did I stop being a child? perhaps he wondered. When did I learn to cry like one? Lily’s voice broke through my imaginings at that point. She was now recounting how Whittier asked for a second time to dance, faking a smile. “So”–his voice cracked– “will you dance with me?” He extended a hand to her. “Please?” Serious eyes, longing fingers grasping for any tangible reminder that their hearts pulsed.He watched her, waiting for a response. “I- “ her voice caught and her head fell, a severed marionette. There were no words for goodbye, every possibility rejected before greeting her lips, sallow and sickly. She wept in his arms, indignant and something she didn’t recognize. She described it as a hollow weight, floating and sinking with the waves, drifting solitarily in the sea. I think she must have meant grief. He comforted her, caressed her chin upwards, and clung to her face, a precious relic. “You’re okay,” he reassured, staring into her eyes. She let him wipe away her tears, but more came stronger than before, fueled by fury. He could maintain an illusion of placidness but she wouldn’t be complicit. “Okay?” she echoed incredulously. “No.” She shook her head, swatting his hands away. “No. You can’t make me pretend.” She began to leave the room. “I won’t pretend that-” she stopped as he caught her hand and squeezed it.“Lily,” he said, quietly. And then, again, so she would look at him, “Lily,” as if it was an explanation, the sacred word in their secret language. The two syllables lilted on his tongue the way music notes whisper secrets to the musician, the way clays smooths and folds into love letters to the sculptor, the way the sun sings to the summer. He spoke it as if it meant I love you and, to him, it did.There was just silence. Held breaths. “Fine.” She traipsed over to the record player, wiping her face as she put the needle on the record already in place. The music fizzled to life, Ella Fitzgerald’s “All Through the Night.” So they danced. She forgot her sorrow and giggled as they staggered back into the bookshelf and into each other, an animated daydream. He was a vacant stare. She saw the conclusion spelled out in the corner of his stern mouth, saw a stop sign hiding in his throat behind smiling teeth. They were drowning but it didn’t matter so long as it felt like a dance. As dawn broke they forgot the lines that made them lonely, forgot that stars who appear close are lifetimes apart. They burned in solitude, separate yet maintaining the illusion that their fingers would touch if they stretched themselves far enough. They found joy in the movement.Then Lily stopped telling me about that morning and went quiet for a long while because that’s the part when he left. “We were never meant to remain stationary, were we?” Lily eventually remarked as we shifted our chairs to where the beams of sun had veered. You and I already knew that. We feel the rhythm and abandon the rules, inhaling purpose, exhaling exaltation. “Sometimes, if I close my eyes and spin with the world beneath me, I can almost convince myself that I am dancing with Whittier,” she confessed. “Like it was the end of the world.”It was the end of the world.I didn’t know what to say after that. I should have thought of something comforting, something hopeful. Instead, I made a noise in agreement and excused myself, abandoning my art, hurrying off to the bathroom, and bolting the door. I sat on the tub’s edge for an hour, ebbing with the ceiling light’s reflection in the subway tile walls and playing with my plastic yellow toothbrush, sweeping the bristles under my finger, a broom across a dusty floor. There was something familiar about the toothbrush. I couldn’t place it, not until I allowed myself to be swallowed by time, digested and disoriented. For a moment, I wasn’t twenty-five and Whittier hadn’t died and I was in our kitchen in our trailer in Chelsea, watching you brush your teeth while I waited my turn.I see us now. Whittier and I are seventeen and you’re nine, your bony frame overcast by cloudy hair and stormy eyes. It's the last time we’re all together before I amplify the static of farmland into bustling city streets, foraging for sound. Before Whittier is hand-fed bullets and poured goblets of Agent Orange. Before you run away because when he pens his apologies and sprints into that minefield, chanting to the earth to take him back, swearing the final corpse hand he'll hold as Death will be his own, he forgets your fingers are entwined with his. He smothers you with the aftershock and implores you to remain; to stay would be to fuse into fleshy nothing.I see us now. The damp morning air wafts from the window, greying the pinstriped wallpaper that ripples around your gyrating elbow, mouth foaming with mint, closed around a toothbrush identical to one I'll have in eight years. Mouth full of birds, garbled details about a mourning dove. They do mate for life. “Keep brushing,” Whittier reminds you, buttering a piece of toast, one side infested with char. You groan, despising the way the bristles explore the gaps and your gums, stiff and desiccated, sipping a glass of sand. It doesn’t help that your toothbrush is two years old, disintegrating, the loose nylon poking your tongue, lost eyelashes. We can’t afford a new one.You're cuts short when the bristles come loose in clumps. You scrape them off with your nails, coating your fingertips with fluorescence, minty wishes clinging to the whorls in your skin, refusing to be blown away by pursed lips. They worm on your wet skin, patterns eaten into wood until the oak is digested from the inside. I see us now. There’s something morose about the bristles. Synthetic, directionless dreams, nowhere to travel, pulling away like endless weeds uprooted from the ground. Grasping for family. Trapping each other in tangled roots, mapless dimensions. I open my mouth to tell you to stop now, but Whittier doesn’t notice the state of your toothbrush. “Susan Marie,” he warns sternly. You flick the neon into the sink and go on brushing with just the plastic, silent aside from the bare handle’s plinks, playing your teeth like a xylophone. I should tell him it's falling apart but I don’t. I can’t recall why. It's all pointless. From the start, the toothbrush is fated to erode, soft stone. From the start, it will be left bare. Start again. I see us now. I replay it in my mind. The bristles will find their way this time. They won’t sound the same, hairs ripped from follicles, like Whittier’s scalp left bare when war warmed his doorstep and set him ablaze, a wound winding into baldness. I see us now. Blinded by youthful arrogance, we would have never known that was a novelty, all of us together. The toothbrush is falling apart and soon, the gravity keeping us in orbit of each other will, too.I see us now. You, the sister who lives in fractals of sunlight and shadow caught by mosaic tile. Whittier, the brother who mends everything until he has no thread to stitch himself. Me, who doesn’t know how to convince you that the fragments of a person don’t flee each other, water and oil. I saw us while I sat in the bathroom until I was done looking. We'd become my own reflection, and I was bored of the familiar face. I tossed my toothbrush haphazardly onto the pedestal sink and left to prepare dinner. All I could think of was Whittier hiding his nose in the radiator. I mulled over his reasons as I shredded lettuce for a salad and I thought of it while eating, and then, as I ran warm water for the dishes, steam wafting off the lapping cascade from the faucet, I finally understood it. I think it must have been the scent. Their apartment, that’s exactly what it always smells of. Steamed bathrooms, boiled water before the tea bag bleeds herbal blood, a sink full of water before the pile of dirty dishes. The scent of warmth, and underneath it all, pulsing notes of vanilla, Lily’s perfume.Once I was done washing up and Lily took her leave to tidy up, I went over to Whittier’s armchair, faded emerald framed with fraying golden threads, and I did just as he must have. I sank my nose into the blistering metal, hot like the sun with my eyes closed, milky like the moon when I opened them, pretending I was Whittier. I imagined I was collecting the scent for when my memory decayed with distance, scattered letters on a damp forest floor feasted on by mushroom growth. It was like swallowing every brick and window pane that constructs their tiny apartment and tasting it through the lacerating scent. Afterward, I sat on the armrest, tracing every minute detail in the ornamental metalwork, my fingertips numbing, astronaut footprints winding into florets. I don’t know how long I sat there. At some point, Lily appeared from the kitchen and asked to take me for a drive, and I agreed so that was the end of it. What I have to share with you is nothing. Inessential, not so interesting at all. But I thought I should share because I’m no longer seventeen and know how to use my words. And so, before I surrender to your silence, I'll try to force comprehension.Being is severed into fractions. The vinculum isn’t blood, a scar lit scarlet jagged on the sky. I know you feel the shreds and believe it's because you’re not whole, but that is a vicious lie you feed yourself. We never needed to share a surname, Whittier, you, and I. We’re the weeds that hold each other’s bodies, tearing themselves apart for the other, uprooted again and again and again. We’ll always embrace the displacement for each other. We’ll always abandon the nutrients, the soil and water. We’ll always face the pure and undiluted sunlight together, raisined and shriveling.One day, you'll understand.—Alice
","August 21, 2023 05:14",[]
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",pb9aoa,Longing for Home,Megan Pollander,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/pb9aoa/,/short-story/pb9aoa/,Historical Fiction,0,['Historical Fiction'],8 likes,"
Dearest Mother,
 
My heart yearns to be in your presence, to feel the warmth of your embrace and to hear the solace of your kind words. The time I have spent in this medical encampment has been far too brief, and yet it seems as though I have witnessed and lived through more trials than any soul should endure in a single lifetime.
 
The battle that rages here surpasses any I have ever witnessed. Its relentless fury knows no bounds, and the anguished cries of the fallen permeate the very air we breathe. Our valiant and youthful soldiers, unwavering in their courage and strength, face the enemy with a fortitude that knows no bounds. They are driven by the understanding that the fate of our freedom and the destiny of our nation rest upon their shoulders.
 
Though the outcome of this battle remains uncertain, I must confess that I have been deeply moved by what I have witnessed. General Benedict Arnold, a man of exceptional bravery and skill, leads our troops with unwavering determination. Despite his own minor wounds, he personally tends to the gravely injured, offering solace to their afflictions and praying alongside them. In doing so, he bestows upon them renewed hope and resilience.
 
The battlefield, forever etched in my memory, presents a scene of unimaginable horror. Wherever my gaze falls, I behold men writhing in agony, some bearing grievous wounds and others half-buried in the earth, all clinging desperately to life. We strive to alleviate their suffering, yet the pain and sorrow permeate our encampment, leaving me with an ache that mirrors their own.
 
The presence of the women who have journeyed from New York to care for the sick and wounded has had a profound impact on our men. These angels of mercy, now known as our nurses, selflessly give of themselves, offering prayers and tears as balm for the soldiers' wounds when their physical aid is exhausted.
 
I have been informed of one nurse who possesses extraordinary courage and compassion. Her name is Lucy Flucker Knox, and I believe she is the sister of my dear friend William. I beseech you to write to William and confirm this, for I have been consumed by worry for his family. I am ignorant of his mother's well-being and whether my letters have reached their intended destination.
 
I implore you, write to me without delay and inform me of the safety of our friends and neighbors. Convey my affection to the boys, and embrace and kiss each one on my behalf. I can only imagine the toll this separation has taken on our entire family. If fate allows, I shall endeavor to reunite with you soon. Until then, know that I am forever present in your thoughts and prayers.
 
With unending love,
 
Elizabeth
 
*
 
My dearest Elizabeth,
 
With a heart burdened by sorrow, I received your missive, wherein you recount tales of anguish and despair from the battlefield. My dear child, I am unable to fathom the depths of the horrors that you and our valiant soldiers have confronted. In every prayer, my thoughts are consumed by your well-being and safety.
 
William has confirmed the kinship he shares with Lucy Flucker Knox, and he speaks of her with such adoration that it warms the cockles of my heart to know that angels like her attend to the sick and wounded in these tumultuous times. Her bravery and compassion are truly awe-inspiring.
 
Regarding our own family's welfare, I am pleased to convey that we are all unharmed and intact, for which I offer my profound gratitude to the heavens above. Your father, toiling tirelessly in your absence, provides for us, but I must confess that his strength is not what it once was. The weight of this war bears heavily upon him, and I fear for his health.
 
Your brothers yearn for your presence with an intensity that is difficult to assuage. The youngest, John, finds no solace since your departure. Through the halls of our home, he wanders, calling your name, clinging to the hope that you shall return to us ere long.
 
My heart aches at the contemplation of the suffering and anguish that surrounds you. The least we can do is offer our prayers and unwavering support in any manner possible. We shall convey your love to the boys, showering them with kisses and embraces, for they long for your affection.
 
My dear Elizabeth, I beseech you to safeguard your well-being, as my every waking moment is consumed by prayers for your safety. Return to us swiftly, my beloved child.
 
With all the love in my heart,
 
Mother
 
*
 
Dearest Mother,
 
With a heavy heart, I take up my pen to bring forth tidings that weigh upon my soul. Alas, the tide of battle has not been kind to us, and our valiant soldiers have suffered grievous losses. Even General Arnold himself, that esteemed leader, now lies in a state of grave injury, casting our encampment into disarray.
 
Yet amidst this tumultuous turmoil, a shining light emerges in the form of Lucy Flucker Knox. Tirelessly, she tends to the wounded and the dying, her unwavering strength a beacon of hope. Even as the enemy draws near, she remains steadfast in her courage and compassion, touching the hearts of all who bear witness, including my own.
 
Alas, it seems that my time in this place may be drawing to a close. Though I have been spared from physical harm, a fever has seized hold of my frail form, raging through my body with relentless fervor. The nurses, with their care and diligence, strive to alleviate my suffering, but their efforts seem futile in the face of this unyielding affliction.
 
My thoughts, dear Mother, are consumed by the safety and well-being of our beloved family. I beseech you, convey to Father my profound gratitude for his unwavering support, for it is his strength that sustains me through these trials. And to John, my dear brother, please assure him of my longing for his warm embrace and his vibrant spirit.
 
Above all, let it be known that the flames of love burn brightly within me for each and every one of you. Your kindness and guidance have left an indelible mark upon my heart, one that shall never be forgotten.
 
With the deepest affection,
 
Elizabeth
 
*
 
My Dearest Elizabeth,
 
My heart is heavy with sorrow upon the arrival of your latest epistle. The tidings of General Arnold's injury and the grievous losses you have endured weigh heavily upon my soul. And now, to learn that you too have succumbed to illness, creates a level of heartache that surpasses all that has come before.
 
Know that our family has been greatly shaken by the thought of your suffering. We beseech the heavens, my dear child, imploring the Almighty to alleviate your affliction and deliver you unharmed from harm's perilous path.
 
Lucy Flucker Knox, a woman of exceptional character and fortitude, possesses qualities that are evidently shared by you. May her presence and tender touch provide solace amidst this trying hour.
 
I shall convey your gratitude to your father and assure John of your ardent yearning for his presence. He pines for you dreadfully, as do we all. Your return, hale and hearty, is the fervent prayer upon the lips of each and every one of us.
 
Pray, Elizabeth, take utmost care of yourself. Know that we love you beyond the confines of mere words and shall continue to lend you unwavering support through prayer and steadfast faith.
 
With the entirety of my affection,
 
Mother
 
*
 
My dearest Elizabeth,
 
It has been an eternity since the melody of your voice has graced my ears. The slow passage of time, devoid of any tidings of your well-being and current circumstances, has left me in a state of incessant distress. Each day that slips by without news of your welfare only serves to heighten my anxiety. In the depths of the night, I find solace in vivid dreams that transport me to a realm where you are safe and secure by my side. Alas, upon awakening, reality mercilessly shatters those fragile illusions, replacing them with a mounting concern that grows more palpable with each passing moment.
 
Yet, even amidst this sea of despair, I take solace in the knowledge that there are individuals such as Lucy Flucker Knox, whose noble calling it is to tend to the wounded during these tempestuous times. They possess the remarkable ability to uplift the spirits of those beleaguered souls, while providing the much-needed care that will enable them to return to the battlefield, whole and hearty once more. Similarly, it brings me hope to know that our beloved daughter is not without the comforting presence of someone like Lucy, even though she finds herself worlds away from the warmth of our hearth. Still, these thoughts do little to assuage the fears that grip my heart or alleviate the sorrow that permeates my very being, as I contemplate the trials and tribulations you must endure on a daily basis in the face of these tumultuous times that our country finds itself in.
 
To compound my anguish, I have learned that illness now stands as an insurmountable obstacle, preventing our long-awaited reunion. Oh, how we both yearn for the embrace that we have been denied for far too long. It is a cruel twist of fate that we must endure this separation, just as we did countless years ago, when our initial meeting was preceded by a multitude of letters exchanged between us. The weight of this unbearable pain threatens to consume me entirely, unless it is directly addressed. The completion of this letter becomes an arduous task, for the prospect of hearing updates from you swiftly would be a balm to my wounded soul. Words fail to convey the depth of my longing for such tidings, especially when they originate from your very own hand.
 
Yours, forever and always
 
Mother
 
*
 
My lovely daughter,
 
Your cherished soul has been snatched away from this woeful world by the relentless grip of smallpox, leaving us bereft and desolate. The mere thought of such a tragedy sends shivers down my spine, unleashing a torrent of inconsolable sorrow at the loss of my dearest daughter, for whom I traversed vast oceans in search of her embrace once more!
 
No matter the time elapsed or the vast expanse that separated us, after our reunion following years of relentless pursuit, my heart swelled with an immeasurable pride as I beheld your exquisite countenance, if only for fleeting moments, before all was abruptly and mercilessly seized by circumstances beyond our control. Now, my fervent wish is to find solace in the knowledge that God, in His infinite benevolence, has taken into His tender care one who dared to live unabashedly, defying all conventions and societal norms. Your indomitable spirit and resolute nature touched countless souls, illuminating every room you graced with an ethereal radiance that defied explanation.
 
May your spirit soar among the heavens, my beloved child, forever a beacon of light in a world darkened by sorrow and loss.
 
Until we meet again,
 
Mother
","August 22, 2023 18:57",[]
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",qfyuh5,"Love, War, and Carrots",Anna W,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qfyuh5/,/short-story/qfyuh5/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Romance', 'Drama']",7 likes,"
***Based on true events***  WESTERN UNIONNOVEMBER 1940SECWAR BY WAY OF ADMIN LT/C JD WALKERWASHINGTON, D.C.OUR NEW IN AIR RADAR TECHNOLOGY WILL ALLOW US TO FIGHT THE GERMANS IN THE DARK PERIOD  GERMANS ARE DESPERATE FOR THIS INFORMATION SO WE MUST DEFLECT THEIR ATTENTION  PERIOD WE HAVE COME UP WITH TWO EXPLANATIONS FOR THE SUCCESSFUL RETALIATION AGAINST GERMAN NIGHT STRIKES   PERIOD  ONE POTENTIAL IDEA IS THAT AN INCREASED CONSUMPTION OF CARROTS HAS IMPROVED THE NIGHT EYESIGHT OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN PILOTS PERIOD THE SECOND IDEA IS THAT A SPECIAL RIVER RUNS THROUGH ENGLANDS NORTHERN ISLES AND HAS IMPROVED THE VITALITY OF BRITISH AND US PILOTS  PERIOD  PLEASE RESPOND WITH WHICH EXPLANATION YOU WISH THE PROPAGANDA OFFICES TO RUN WITH  PERIOD POSTERS ARE BEING PRINTED AS WE SPEAK AND WILL BE SHIPPED OUT WHEN YOU REPLY  PERIOD LT/C JC CHRISTIANSEN ADMINISTRATION MINISTRY OF INFORMATION———————————————WESTERN UNIONDECEMBER 1940 RAF SQUAD LEADER JOHN CUNNINGHAMSTATION: EUROPE/UNDISCLOSEDTHANK YOU FOR YOUR CAT EYES IN THE NIGHT SKY PERIOD SECRETARY OF WAR LOOKING FORWARD TO YOUR REPORT ON HOW THE CARROT REGIMEN ARE PERFORMING AGAINST GERMAN AIR ASSAULTS  PERIODLT/C JD WALKERSECWAR ADMIN____________________Dear Roy, Who are you fighting? Germans? Japanese? Mother won’t tell us much, but the radio says we’re taking on both of ‘em. I can’t believe we have been in school together all this time, but never spoke much before you enlisted. I know we were just getting to know each other, but I am glad we’ve decided to write while you’re gone. I will miss the twinkle of mischief in your eyes, though Mother insists that twinkle can only mean trouble. Guess I like trouble. I just started taking piano lessons from Charlotte Smith. Do you remember her from secondary school? She’s very loud. Father bought me a beautiful spinet, but says I must pay for it myself. (What a weird thought!) I do hope you are safe. Mother says we’re going to plant another row in the victory garden. Carrots, this time. PLEASE send me a picture of yourself, right now. Sincerely,Nancy PS- Do they have any jewelry over there? Send some. Thanks. My dearest Nancy,To your 1st question, can’t say, but the radio should say soon. I hope this war gets over with. The boys and I would have it nipped in six months, if it weren’t for the Big Money man. Hope to see some action before it’s over. Missing you. I am glad we’re writing too. Just our few times together have been some of my happiest. Haven’t seen one of those fancy photographers in a month, but I will try and get a picture when I can. Play some beautiful music for me, Nance. No jewelry stores open now, but if there were, I’d buy you the biggest diamonds a gunner could get. Heard carrots help the eyes and, boy, do these eyes sure miss seeing your lovely face. All my affection,Roy Dearest Roy,  Carrot souffle. Carrot cake. Carrot pudding. I’m getting really tired of carrots around here. Mother insists we must grow them. Carrot cake is actually good, though. I saw a poster in town that said carrots would help us see in the blackouts. I hope so.They say our pilots are still bringing them down. Must be some divine favor from the Lord, ‘cause how else you gonna shoot down Nazis in the dark? Last week, the Germans bombed at night, and we lost sweet Georgie, from down the street. His mama still can’t get out of bed. Give ‘em heck, Roy. For Georgie. All my affection,NancyPS- I’d say the other word, but mother will read this before it posts.Hello, mother. Hope you’re well. My sweet Nancy,Poor Georgie. He was a sweet boy. We lost a few of our men this past week. One of them was also named George. He was from one town over, don’t know if you know the Mason family? It’s getting rough around here, Nance. I live for your letters. Tell me more of what’s going on back home. The boys are losing hope, and maybe I am too. We managed to take the next mile, but what a terrible price to pay for a patch of dirt. I don’t know if hell is something you can give, but it sure is something we’re living in now. Humanity was so impatient for eternity, we just went ahead and created hell on earth. I find hope in remembering your sweet smile and your beautiful curls. Your heart shines true, above it all. Dreaming of home, Nance. Dreaming of you.All my love,RoyDearest Roy,Mother says I should stop writing letters, but I won’t. She says it will only break my heart, but my heart was already broken when I watched that train take you away. I’ll write to you every week, til you come home. She says that any letter, or even a diary, could end up in the hands of the enemy. The posters in town say it, so I guess it’s gotta be true. Well, I say that the Germans can kill us, but the written word will go on. Ideas will go on, whether we die from a Blitzkrieg or whether we’re blessed enough, by the good Lord above, to live until old age takes us. I hope we can grow old together, Roy, jewelry or no. (I prefer jewelry, if I must say so.)I’m keeping up with my piano lessons, and I’m learning all the classics. My teacher is loud, it’s true, but the lessons are a nice distraction from the bleakness of the radio programs at night. No matter what the radio says, I know you’re coming home. ALL my LOVE,Nance Nancy, my sweet angel,Please never stop writing. I swear I’ll eat a million carrots, ‘til I can see clear across the miles between us, just to get to look at your beautiful face again. You haven’t gone and married some conchie on the sly, have ya? I’d be surely annoyed if you did that and didn’t tell me. I want to write you romantic letters like they do in the books, but I don’t know if I’m as slick as some of Jane Austen’s men. The news I can give you is limited, as usual, but I can say yes, we’re knocking them out of the sky. Even at night. I load them boys’ planes up with everything they need, and they fly through the air like the Lord’s messengers, bringing His righteous judgment right to their front windshield. It still feels like hell, though, can’t lie. I look forward to trying your carrot souffle when I get home, Nan. I’m determined to come home. Telling the boys stories, just to keep their minds busy while we wait. If you got any good stories let me know. I love you. That’s all I can give you for now, but it’s all I have and it’s all yours. All my love,Roy PS – I found this parachute and have included it, with this letter. I don’t know that it’s the brightest white you’ve ever seen, but this silk can be made into a dress. Dearest Roy,Your last letter and the silk parachute were a better gift than any gift I’d ever received. I pray for you night and day. Pray that this war will end. Pray that you’ll come home. Pray that I’ll see you getting off that train. So handsome and striking in your uniform. Better than any of Austen’s men, because you’re real. Because you’re mine.I would never marry a conchie. They’ve all the right in the world, I suppose, to object to the war. But I suppose I also have the right to object to marrying any of them. Not that anyone has asked.And I certainly would never do anything on the sly. Momma says whatever you put in the dark, the Lord brings out into the light, whether you want Him to or not. I’m glad He’s bringing some light in the darkness where you are, even if it’s just the bright eyes of the pilots in the sky. You tell those boys the greatest love story there’s ever been. Roy and Nancy. Star crossed lovers from a rural town, who were just starting to notice each other when a war ripped them apart. Tell them about their bravery, both on the warfront and at home. Tell them about how Roy pined for Nancy while he was listening to bombs in a foxhole. Tell them about how Nancy listened to songs on the radio that reminded her of Roy and how one of them will be their first dance at their wedding. Tell them the women aren’t wearing stockings anymore, I bet they’ll get a real kick outta that. All my love, forever, Nancy My dearest Roy,I haven’t heard from you in a couple of weeks. Feels like months to me. What’s a girl to do when she’s waiting on a letter from the love of her life. There. I said it. This war don’t leave time for anybody to mince words. You’re the love of my life, Roy, and I don’t care if my mother reads it before putting it in the post. The postman was delayed last week, and I nearly throttled him. He got a few choice words from me, that’s for sure. Mother says it’s not lady-like, but who’s got time for conventions when love is on the line. Please write soon. I don’t have much news here at home. Tending the garden. Added another row of carrots, since they’re so popular right now. I have included some new books and some dried jerky the neighbor brought over, it’ll keep no matter the weather, he says. I have also included a new picture of me. You’ll notice I’m wearing a silk dress. That parachute was a God send. And so are you, my darling. Cheer up and don’t worry about me! Please write soon. All my love,Nancy Roy,It’s been months now, with no word from you. I sometimes stand in the train station, watching for the uniforms to come through with bad news, worried they’ll go to your mother’s house. None have come, thankfully. If we are to part from here, I pray it is only because you’ve taken up with some other lover, and not that you have abandoned me to this earth alone, my darling. I’m not sure which would devastate me more, but I know I wouldn’t choose either if it were up to me. I would choose for us to be wed under the light of the sun, and to be out of this intrepid, eternal night that is war. Hell on earth, indeed. Please write soon. All my love, even now,NancyRoy,Where have you gone, my dearest? I fear the worst. I went to your house and spoke to your mother and father. I saw your sweet grandmother, and visited with your precious younger siblings. What a precious family you have. I pray we'll all be together soon, but I hope to be wearing white, not black.I'll wait for you,NancyNancy, my greatest love,Please forgive me. I was unable to write for a few months while we were on the move. The postman here was also delayed and the boys and I had a good talk with him. He’ll be hasty with footsteps from now on. The enemy has surrendered and we’re being processed to go home! I told you we’d win this war, Nance! Never doubted it for a second. I’ll send word as soon as I know more details. It seems so weird to say that we are coming home, but WE ARE COMING HOME. These past few months have been excruciating pits of torment without new letters from you. Only your picture, all your past letters, and the grace of the great Lord above have seen me through. When I get home, Nance, will you wear that beautiful silk dress and marry me in the chapel in town? I know we’ve only been writing for a year, but I feel like our souls are meant to be together.Awaiting your reply, with all my love, and my hopes laid bare,RoyDearest Roy,I will. See you at the train station. Your future wife,Nancy _________WESTERN UNIONMARCH 1944SECWAR BY WAY OF LT/C JD WALKERWASHINGTON, D.C.IT IS MY HIGHEST HONOR TO REPORT THE CARROT REGIMEN EFFECTIVE AGAINST ENEMY ASSAULTS PERIOD  NINETEEN GERMAN AIRCRAFTS TAKEN DOWN AT NIGHT PERIODRAF SQ/L J CAT EYES CUNNINGHAM 
","August 26, 2023 03:13","[[{'Wendy M': 'Great story, I never knew about the carrots!. I love using real historical research in stories, too. Well done.', 'time': '20:01 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anna W': 'Thank you Wendy! I appreciate you reading my story! Totally agree about history. It’s full of so much interesting truth!', 'time': '03:24 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anna W': 'Thank you Wendy! I appreciate you reading my story! Totally agree about history. It’s full of so much interesting truth!', 'time': '03:24 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Good war story if such a thing. Glad neither of the lovers got taken out.\n Worried there a little. Clever with the carrots.', 'time': '16:23 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anna W': 'Thank you Mary!', 'time': '17:19 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anna W': 'Thank you Mary!', 'time': '17:19 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Ohhhh so nice!!! I needed this.\nBrilliantly done and written, perfectly captured the period in the language used. Conchie. Never heard that before.\nWas the carrots story a real thing????\nGreat stuff!', 'time': '17:46 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anna W': 'Thanks Derrick! I did a lot of research for this one, though I intentionally blended some details for the sake of the story. \n\n""Conchie"" was a real slang term for those who ""conscientiously objected"" to the war, usually for religious reasons, and therefore didn\'t serve. \n\nYes, the carrots were a real piece of propaganda put out, in order to misdirect the Nazi\'s, who were also trying to create their own in-air radar detection systems. It\'s a fascinating piece of history. The Germans did a lot of night raids by air, and British pilots were sud...', 'time': '18:35 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anna W': 'Thanks Derrick! I did a lot of research for this one, though I intentionally blended some details for the sake of the story. \n\n""Conchie"" was a real slang term for those who ""conscientiously objected"" to the war, usually for religious reasons, and therefore didn\'t serve. \n\nYes, the carrots were a real piece of propaganda put out, in order to misdirect the Nazi\'s, who were also trying to create their own in-air radar detection systems. It\'s a fascinating piece of history. The Germans did a lot of night raids by air, and British pilots were sud...', 'time': '18:35 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Eddie Hobbs': 'Anna, I’m sure many let’s we’re very much like this. I read about the 🥕 and the Govt gave credence to beliefs that the pilots had better night vision by a heavy diet of carrots.  Good story.', 'time': '23:22 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Anna W': 'Thank you!', 'time': '23:58 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anna W': 'Thank you!', 'time': '23:58 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",gozoxh,DREAMING OF YOU: LETTERS TO MY SOLDIER,Melinda Madrigal,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gozoxh/,/short-story/gozoxh/,Historical Fiction,0,['Historical Fiction'],7 likes,"
58 years ago, on the 19th of August was the worst day of my life. My best friend, my soulmate went missing in the jungles of Vietnam. In the years that followed, the war continued. Many more soldiers went missing. Many more families were destroyed like mine. I never gave up hope.
 
Eight years it took for my love to be found and to come home. During those eight years, I written a series of letters to Brian that I want to share with you. Bear with me because these letters will bring back so many memories for me and the tears.
 
The first letter I wrote to Brian was two weeks before he went missing.
 
Dear Brian
Hello my love. How are you doing today? I hope you are not getting bit by any bugs. I'm doing fine. I'm just missing you like crazy. I think about you all the time. I think about what you are doing right now. I think about if you are eating properly. I think about if you are drinking enough water. I think about if you are sleeping okay. I think about so many things when it comes to you Brian. Be safe in the jungle. Fight to come home to me.                          All my love
                                                                                                      Julia
This was the first time me and Brian were separated. From the time me and Brian were little we were inseparable. Never would I have imagined a war would be the thing that separates us.
 
Since the start of the Vietnam War, I knew deep in my soul when Brian turned eighteen, he would enlist in the military. Both me and Brian were young when the war started but Brian always had that patriotic spirit. My father and Brian's father are World War 2 veterans. They met during the Battle of the Bulge. They became life-long friends.
 
I'm proud of Brian for serving his country. I'm proud that he's brave and strong but what came next shattered me. The next letter I wrote to Brian took place the day after I found out Brian went missing.
 
Dear Brian
Tears are falling down my face. I can't make them stop Brian. Why did this have to happen? I can't take the pain of not seeing you again. I need to see you. I need you to come home. I need you to make me smile, to make me laugh. I can't shake the thought of never seeing you again. If you are alive come home. Fight for me. If you are not alive Rest In Peace my love. We will meet again.
                                                                                                All my love
                                                                                                       Julia
This letter hurt the most. One day after Brian went missing, I wrote this letter to comfort me. But nothing ever comforted me. I hoped and prayed every day, every night for Brian to come home. The next  series of letters takes place in the eight years between 1965 and 1973.
 
Dear Brian
It's Christmas 1965. My first Christmas without you. Our families are together. My father and your father are talking about their glory days. It's funny to hear them arguing about who killed the most Nazis. Our mothers are in the kitchen cooking the best Christmas meal. Laura and Cindy are having the world's greatest tea party. Their smiles lift me out of the darkness I'm in. I can't go on with my life knowing you are suffering. My parents and your parents want me to live again but I can't. Your mother pretends to be happy. I know she's not. Her smile is as fake as the chocolate cake Mrs. B pretends to bake but we all know she buys. Your father is worse than your mother. He pretends to be the strong like the soldier he is, from time to time I see him crying. He barely talks to anyone expect my father. My parents are just like your parents. I can't talk to them. Writing to you gives me comfort and purpose. Where ever you are keep fighting.                                                            All my love
                                                                                                            Julia
Dear Brian
It's 1966. The New Year was uneventful. Me, my parents and Laura spent the New Year at your parent's house. Laura and Cindy were excited to bring in the New Year. They wore pretty dresses. Laura and Cindy looked so beautiful. They do miss you but their kids. They love to play and hang out with their friends. War doesn't interest them. Laura and Cindy don't know what war is. That's the way our parents like it. The ball drop in Time Square was beautiful. I smiled for the first time in a long time. It wasn't the same without you. Nothing is anymore. Fight to come home.                   All my love
                                                                                                              Julia
Dear Brian
Hello my love. Guess what today is? It's your birthday May 21st. You are one year older. I wish you were here to celebrate with me. I bought your favorite cake, chocolate. I wish I could have baked this cake but my mother tells me one too many times Julia your baking skills are terrible. You would laugh at me for attempting to bake. I would laugh at myself. I bought you gifts. Yes, I know I can't give them to you because you are not here. But I want you to be able to open the gifts I got you when you come home. Fight to come home Brian.                                                                                All my love
                                                                                                  Julia
Dear Brian
It's July 1966, time for our annual summer vacation to the lake. I'm excited to go. It won't be the same without you. We had great times at the lake. So many beautiful memories. My best memory is when we would go swimming at the lake and we would race. I know you always let me win. Catching fireflies, eating s'mores were the best because we were together. I miss you Brian. I miss the great times we had together. Fight to come home to me.                  All my love
                                                                                                        Julia
Those memories bring tears to my eyes. Thinking and reading about the times me and Brian were apart hurts. Summer 1966 was the last letter I wrote to Brian. I went to college and focused on my studies. 1968 is a year I won't ever forget and the year I resumed writing my letters to Brian.
 
Dear Brian
Hello again my love. It's 1968 my first letter to you in almost two years. 1967 was a good year for me. I went to college met some new friends. I haven't forgot about you nor will I ever. I needed to focus on me and get my life together. Now I want to write to you to tell you all the things I've been doing. I'm studying to be a teacher. I'm excited. I can't wait to start teaching the kids. I learned to cook and bake. When you come home, I can cook and bake for you. My mom taught me. We had fun together. Your parents are still a welcome sight. The pain is still there for all of us. You not being here hurts us all. Fight to come home.                                                         All my love
                                                                                                          Julia
Dear Brian
Hello my love. College life is crazy. So much homework, so much studying, it will be worth it when I get my degree. Everyday I watch the news and see protest about the war. Veterans coming home throwing away their medals. It scares me. What scars me the most is the protect are being held by college kids. They are talking bad about the military  and those serving. I went to one of the protest with my friends Caroline and Dean. Caroline and Dean oppose the war. They hate the military. They make it known to everybody. They  tell me stories about how they damage recruitment centers and even helped some draft dodgers escape to Canada. I didn't know how to read to this. There were so many people yelling and screaming, ranting and raving. Caroline and Dean jumped right into it. I didn't. I left. I couldn't take hearing all the insults. When I got home, I began to cry for you and both our fathers. I'm proud to come from a military family. I stopped hanging out with Caroline and Dean. I didn't agree with their views. I focused on my studies. Fight to come home.                                                         All my love
                                                                                                       Julia
Fight to come is the last line I always write to Brian. I know he couldn't read the letters but those words gave me comfort. These letters gave me comfort and hope. Hope not just for me or my family or Brian's family but for Brian himself. Knowing I didn't forget about him and our families didn't forget about him.
 
I still continued to write letters to Brian throughout the last remaining two years of the 1960's and into the 70's. I told Brian everything. Laura and Cindy are blossoming into beautiful teenagers. Our fathers continued to talk about their glory days and our mothers continued to cook up a storm. As for me I got my teaching degree. I got a job teaching at the local school where I have worked for 30 years. Teaching the kids gave purpose and made me feel alive. The best news I received came in 1973.
 
The Vietnam War was reaching its end and news was going around that POWS were coming home. I prayed the news was correct. One evening I was watching the news, the reporter was talking about Vietnam POWs coming home. The next day I got my wish. Since Brian has been a POW for eight years, he was one of the first to come home. Deep in my heart I always knew Brian was alive. I never gave up hope.
 
I remember like it was yesterday the day Brian came home. The best day of my life. The moment I saw Brian I ran to him and gave him the world's greatest hug. I began to cry. Brian began to cry. I waited for this moment for eight years. I dreamed of this moment. I wasn't going to waste a single moment without Brian. Every special moment was going to count.
 
Every special moment did count. Me and Brian have been married almost forty years. We have three amazing kids and two grandchildren. Our life is full and happy. Vietnam still lingers in the back of our minds.
 
The letters I wrote to Brian, I kept with me so I can give them to Brian myself. I gave letters to Brian and told him ""I wrote these letters to you so you can know I didn't forget about you. No one forgot about you."" Every night since 1973, I see Brian reading them.
 
It makes me happy that my letters give Brian comfort and peace. That was my intention when I first began writing the letters all those years ago.
 
 
 
","August 24, 2023 21:24","[[{'Syed Mohammad Zahid': 'All that ends well.... \n\nExcellent love story.', 'time': '04:24 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Wow!!  That was well done.  Heart wrenching and suspenseful—totally encapsulated the emotions.  I thought Brian died for a while there.  Great story!', 'time': '23:03 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",i4j536,Operation: Jager Hunt,Rudy Senecal,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/i4j536/,/short-story/i4j536/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Thriller', 'Fiction']",7 likes,"
 The air parade that seems to happen every night at this point continues until it drowns out all other sounds. The letter is on the table next to her. For a moment, Eve wonders if she should read it. She sips the tea clasped in her hands and looks at the flag outside her window. Its black, red, and white colors flutter in the soft winter breeze. She looks to the bedroom door across the hall, her husband is most likely sound asleep by now.  January 3rd, 1941 To, Ms. Eve Claude In German-Occupied Paris	Let me first start by writing that OSS is putting a number of its assets at considerable risk to get you this letter. It is very rare for a matter to be given such priority and encryption methods such as this, and my superiors would like you to know that if the information you have is not deemed worthy of this much effort, this line of communication will be terminated. We are, however, willing to give complete protection to the mentioned members of your family if what you know is as vital as you say and it is within our power to do so.	So firstly, how is it that you know about Operation Jager’s Shroud? We are aware of the phrase and have been trying to learn more about it for the last year. Whatever information you have is necessary for us to continue this line communication.January 10th, 1941To, Corporal Rebecca Allensworth at the Office of British Intelligence in London. 	Let me start by saying if you Brits don’t listen, THE BLOOD OF THOUSANDS WILL BE ON YOUR HANDS. But with that said, I understand your concerns and I am aware that this line of communication is unusual.So, to be direct and honest, my name is Eve Claude Borgia. I work at the German SS headquarters here in Paris as a secretary for Gordon Strumberg. I do not doubt that you haven’t heard much about Jager’s Shroud as there are only ten people in all of the Third Reich that do, including myself.	But the Operation should be taken seriously I assure you. Jager’s Shroud serves as Gordon Strumberg’s crowning achievement. It entails smuggling hand-picked members of the German SS, Wehrmacht, and even incarcerated individuals into allied countries. Their mission objectives range widely depending on the region in which they are being smuggled. Political and military assassinations, shipyard destruction, and factory sabotage are all among them. But the real objective is quite simple, destabilization. Strumberg believes that an attempted invasion of Europe is inevitable. He seeks to weaken that invasion as much as he can. He has already smuggled a number of these teams across the channel and has plans to send more. Even as far as New York City. He plans to equip them with military hardware and explosives. All of this I can prove, but as you know from my initial communication not without assurances for my family’s safety.April 5th, 1941To, Eve Claude,	We apologize for the amount of time that has passed since our last correspondence. Our initial assumption, while we stand corrected, was that you were lying. It was previously believed that Gordon Strumberg was killed in Ethiopia two years ago. But after confirming his appearance with other sources now we believe that to be incorrect. We are aware of Strumberg’s prior relations with Henrich Himmler and Otto Skorzeny. He is certainly the kind of man to attempt such a feat as Operations Jager’s Shroud.	However, my superiors disagree with the severity of this threat given the blockades that are currently in place all around Europe. As well as your claim that there are already German assets on British soil. In short, we will need more proof. What you’ve requested in exchange is no small feat and recovering two of your family members from Europe will take some doing. If there is any way you can prove to us that Strumberg’s plan has already begun, we may be able to come up with a deal. But until then, I’m sorry we cannot offer help at this time.April 10th, 1941To, Rebecca Allensworth  No message is entailed in Eve’s letter, but inside is a scrap of paper reading, 448 Water Well Lane, Apartment 22, London. Along with a short warning. 	Bring. Guns.April 18th, 1941To, Eve Claude	Ms. Claude, we have received your letter entailing the apartment on Water Well Lane and discovered what I imagine you expected us to. Several German Saboteurs along with a shocking number of armaments and explosives were confirmed to have been inside the building for the last several months right under our noses. As you’d stated before Operation Jager’s Shroud is farther along and has significantly more backing than we previously were aware. In other words, you can count on our cooperation. You’ve requested the recovery of your family members indicated below.Sofia Claude BorgiaEmilo Ernesto Borgia	We are aware of your sister’s location in Berlin as you informed us earlier. But we are having some trouble tracking down your father. Rest assured we will find him, but it is going to take time. Time, we believe, Strumberg could use to smuggle more men and more weapons into our borders and other allied nations. Unfortunately, the raid on Water Well Lane yielded no prisoners. The building was brought to the ground during the assault. Anything you can tell us that would help us prevent the smuggling, and arming of members of Operation Jager’s Shroud would be appreciated.September 24th, 1941To, Rebecca Allensworth	I am sorry to hear that the raid on the apartment yielded no prisoners. Frankly, it doesn’t surprise me. Strumberg’s orders to the teams regarding possible capture were quite simple, it was not to happen.	But regarding the information you’ve requested, I’m sorry, I cannot reveal the locations and methods of forces involved in the operation until I know my family is safe. I do not take this stance out of stubbornness mind you. But a necessity to ensure my survival and that I can relay the information at all. I have already taken a great risk to warn you of what you’d find in London. I have felt the tremors of that explosion here in Paris as it’s been chalked up to the luck of chance now. If more teams are to be discovered or shipments of weapons seized then suspicion will grow. Strumberg’s men are loyal and devoted. He trusts all of them without question and the finger will turn to me in seconds.	I am still willing to reveal every man, shipment, and location to the letter. But I need to know my family is safe before I do that. I will not make it out of Paris once I do. But what I can tell you is that you still have time. Operation Jager’s Shroud has been given an activation date, and all of their teams know it by heart and mind. That date is January 12th, 1942. If anything changes of a drastic nature, I will inform you. But I cannot give you more information until I know they are safe.October 28th, 1941To, Eve Claude	We apologize for the sudden drop in communication. We were aware of your attempts to contact us and we tried to get a message to you but the methods of getting these letters to you change almost with the tides. But we write bearing both good and complicated news I’m afraid.	It has taken copious amounts of planning, and a few daring young men willing to risk their lives. But an operation is currently underway to retrieve your sister from Berlin. We should know by the time you receive this message if they were successful.But on the matter of your father, we have some unfortunate news. We have double, and now triple-checked the information provided with our connections in Europe. And we do not believe your father is in France. We believe he was at one time. But that is not the case now. We do however have records of him entering Poland as of last month. Which undoubtedly as you know complicates matters. We have reason to suspect he may have been taken into the southern area of the country. Past that, we don’t have any information and what we can speculate isn’t good. We will keep you informed.November 1st, 1941 To, Rebecca Allensworth	It was my understanding that he was STILL in France. Perhaps your sources may be wrong. I will look into the matter here myself but I believe it to be true, my father is still in France at a vineyard somewhere in the south. Perhaps he is living under a different name? But I know for certain he is in France.November 5th, 1941To, Eve Claude	As of October 30th, your sister has arrived on British soil. The operation was carried out successfully and we have arranged a place for her to stay and an in-house nurse with expertise in her affliction. We hope this news will come as a great relief. We are also working with our channels to get you a letter from her by the end of this month.	However, now that your sister has been recovered, we again request the information you promised in exchange for this. Our sources have warned us of a possible change to Operation Jager’s Shroud, it’s suspected at this time that Strumberg is considering changing the activation date to a closer one than previously indicated.November 10th, 1941To, Rebecca Allensworth	I am grateful for your efforts, truly I am. But I can promise you that the previously given activation date has not changed. Strumberg is maintaining a strict hold on it as it will take this long before all the teams are adequately supplied. Whoever you are receiving this information from is mistaken, Strumberg will stay on the January 10th deadline.	Now I suspect that you left the matter of my father’s situation intentionally out of your last correspondence to me. He is in France. I know now for certain of this as I’ve been told by Strumberg himself only two days ago. I will give you all the information I have on completion of our original agreement.November 15th, 1941To, Eve Claude	Your father is not in France. We know this because our channels and resources are the strongest in that region. We know he entered Polland months ago because we now have confirmation from both German and French officials, as well as confirmed where in Poland he is. I’m sorry to inform you that an attempt to rescue ANY individual from that facility is in the simplest of terms, impossible.	To attempt such a rescue operation would take not only the combined strength of all Allied Naval support but our Air Force as well. I’m sorry Ms. Claude, but it is not possible. And my superiors asked that I remind you of another matter.While your sister is in our hands she is not as of this time, a British citizen. And while no harm will befall her while she is in our care, she is still subject to possible deportation back to France. Please send whatever information you have, while we try to make a deal with British immigration.November 18th, 1941To, Rebecca Allensworth	Do you think I’m stupid? You and I both know, Mrs. Allensworth that you and your superiors have it well within your powers to halt any deportation of my sister back to France. Which I believe you and they are also aware, would mean her death. As she is mentally ill, and the invaders of my homeland have opinions on such things. In short, you’re giving me an ultimatum and I find this unreasonable. Have you even looked for my father? Is Sofia even there as well? Or have you Brits just been lying to me this entire time?	If that’s the case, I am more than willing to let Strumberg carry out Operation Jager’s Shroud without any attempt to stop it. I will not be lied to, I will not be controlled, and I will not be forced into sacrificing my family's lives.November 26th, 1941To, Eve ClaudeTwo letters are received on this date, one with the normal standard typewriter look to the letters. However, the other is shorter, on different colored paper, and handwritten.To Evie,	Hi Evie! Guess who’s in London!? I finally got to go after some men came to the house and told me they were going to take me to you. I was pretty sad when I got here and found out you weren’t here yet and was wondering when you’re coming. It’s nice here, We get bombed sometimes and the house shakes but there’s this room we run to when that happens, it’s like when we used to play hide and seek. I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone, there are a bunch of other kids here and they’re all nice and fun to play with.	Mrs. Allensworth is the one watching all of us, she’s helping me write this letter to you cause my hand shakes too much. When you come can bring my donkey? It’s in my chest at the flat and I forgot it when I left for Germany. I hated Germany, to be honest, why didn’t you come visit me or write? Gordon’s brothers said it’s because you didn’t love me. It made me sad for a long time. But I still love you and I hope to see you soon, I miss you!Love Sofia,The second letter follows this one.	As you can see from the previous letter, we are not lying. Sofia is quite well looked after. But I remind you that this situation can be permanent, or it can be temporary. We do not want to send your sister back to France, but in all honesty Ms. Claude you are the one being unreasonable.	We have invested more effort into your situation alone than we have in support of the French resistance itself. We have been looking for your father and we are deeply sorry to inform you of his whereabouts. Furthermore, we have also not questioned you on the information you provided us. Nor have we questioned why through all of our correspondence you failed to mention you are not Gordon Strumberg’s secretary, but his wife. We learned this through our sources.	Now we could seek other methods of uncovering Operation Jager’s Shroud, but we have chosen not to out of the reliability you have shown. And there are others at risk besides your sister and father. Think of the thousands of girls and boys like Sofia who would be at risk if the Nazis were to win this war. How many more fathers would vanish? How many more families would be separated like your own? We are still sympathetic, despite your stubbornness to withhold this information. As we are to all affected by The Third Reich's aggression.	But time has run out, Ms. Claude. Our sources say that Strumberg has advanced the timetable to as soon as Christmas. He may not have told you himself, but if we do not receive this information soon, we will be forced to take other actions to prevent their operation from going through.December 5th, 1941To, Rebecca AllensworthInside the package along with Eve’s Letter is a second letter, and a small black notebook.Mrs. Allensworth,	As this will be our last correspondence, I would like to again thank you, the OSS, and all who were involved in my sister's rescue for their efforts. Attached to this parcel, you will find my notes and records of everything I have seen, read, and heard about Operation Jager’s Shroud. It will detail all the shipments, team locations, and targets, and even the date Gordon Strumberg planned to travel to Berlin to inform Adolf Hitler and Henrich Himmler of his plan that he has kept hidden these last two years. But this date will be meaningless after tonight.      And yes, I did lie to you initially about my involvement with Strumberg. I thought it was necessary given the nature and severity of what I was informing you of that you trusted the information rather than the person giving it as fast as possible. While I don’t consider myself Gordon’s wife, he does consider me his, and on paper we are.But yes, we are married and have been since I was 14. And while I don’t want to believe it, I think you are right about my father. Gordon had led me to believe he was still in France and only working at a vineyard somewhere for a German Officer. But I have done my digging, and found that Officer never in fact existed, I’ve learned that many things he’d told me were never true. I wish there was something you could do, but you’ve rescued my sister from Gordon’s family, and I am forever grateful for that. This information will allow you to cut Gordon’s dreams short, and erase his achievements before they’ve even been written.	I’ve also attached a letter to Sofia, if you will please give it to her I’d be most grateful. And if by chance, my father is still alive when this war ends, please do what you can to reunite them together.With respect and gratitude for you all,Eve Claude Borgia. On December 18th, 1941, British intelligence was informed of an explosion in Paris on the 6th an apartment building only a short distance away from where the letters had been sent to Eve had suffered a gas leak and exploded collapsing it to the ground. Gordon Strumberg and several German officials were among the casualties. Eve was never seen again. 
","August 24, 2023 22:52",[]
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",1ttui4,The Poplar Tree ,Christina Cooper,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1ttui4/,/short-story/1ttui4/,Historical Fiction,0,"['African American', 'Historical Fiction', 'Sad']",7 likes,"
The Poplar Tree
Christina Cooper
 
January 16th, 1952
 
Dear Jane,
I have got to tell you something huge, but you can’t tell anybody. Remember when we were talking at Christmas and you told me that this was my year, that I would fall in love?
Well, I think you may be right. I’ve always known him a little bit, or knew of him, he works for my Pa. His Pa works for my Pa too! He’s a bit older than me, he’s probably 21 or 22, but it’s not that much difference. I’ll be 17 in just over a month anyway.
It’s not like we really talk that much, but I did notice him the other day looking at me. He nodded at me and I nodded at him, but I just couldn’t stop thinking about it the whole day! I had the feeling in my stomach, you know?
I want to say something to him, but Pa keeps them all so busy tending the fields. Besides, I don’t know what I would really say. I’m kind of nervous, but if I had something smart to say, I could probably find the courage to do it.
Do you think you can help your ol’ cousin out? You’re always so good at that sort of thing. The boys all love you. I’ll be waiting anxiously for your letter.
 
Signed,
Rose
 
 
February 21, 1952
 
Dearest Rose,
I told you! I could tell it was going to happen quite soon. The moment we start looking like women, the next thing, we fall in love! You changed in looks from the last time I saw you. No guy would be able to resist, it’s in our blood. 
Of course, I can help you! But honestly, by the time you get this letter, I hope that the ice has already been broken. The way that always works for me is very forward, so don’t let your parents see you do it. But all I do to catch a man’s attention is smile, say hello, and then wink. That’s all. You know, men can be a bit daft. They need some encouragement from time to time. If they don’t, they’re arrogant and you don’t want that anyway.
So, tell me about him. If he works the fields, he’s obviously a farmer. But I am a bit surprised because I thought your dad only had the negroes working for him? Is that not so?
Anyway, I wanted to tell you, that I’m getting married this summer. Do you think you will be able to make the trip to be a bridesmaid? I think you’d love Detroit. It’s been so long since you’ve seen it, it has changed so much.
I look forward to getting your letter,
 
-Jane
 
 
March 29, 1952
 
Dear Jane,
You were right, by the time I got your letter I had already spoken to him. His name is David. Oh, Jane! He’s such a smart man. He reads literature for fun, he writes poetry, and he even knows how to play the fiddle!
Every time I can get past Ma and Pa in the evening, I meet David at the old poplar tree. Sometimes he plays music and sings to me, or he reads me poems that he’s written, and sometimes we just talk about life. Jane, I’m smitten. I truly believe we are meant to be.
There is one problem though, he is a negro. I don’t mind it, but Ma and Pa will never understand and it would be illegal for us to get married. David and I talk about that a lot. You know what’s weird though, the Bible says it is okay for us to marry as long as we believe the same things. Even Moses did! Did you know that? I never heard that scripture being taught in church before, but David showed it to me. I couldn’t believe it. All these years and to think, it is actually okay and not a sin for a colored (David prefers that term) and a white to get married!
Anyway, I will say (don’t tell ANYONE) that his lips are much softer than Paul’s! Paul had those thin, scratchy lips. David’s are very full and soft. Oh, Jane, I could kiss David forever.
Oh, I almost forgot. I would love to be in your wedding, of course!
 
Yours,
Rose
 
 
May 1, 1952
 
Dear Rose,
I am so glad you are willing to be in my wedding. I can’t wait to get married! Ma’s making my dress. She got all kinds of fancy fabric from downtown. It’s going to be so nifty!
Rose, I’m a bit worried about you though. I can’t believe you’ve set your heart on a negro! I mean, all the stuff going on with the Klan, aren’t you scared? I would be scared to death. You may have to come stay with us, your ma and pa definitely won’t let you be with him.
Honestly, people here wouldn’t think too great of it either. I mean, what if you all did get married, what would the kids look like? Can you imagine rearing up colored babies? They’d be spat on, and called names, it’s just no good. You need to think more about that one. I’m scared you’re just cruisin' for a bruisin' if anyone finds out. And you know what they call white women who look to colored men? That’s public humiliation! Oh, Rose, you always were your own person, but you need to really think about this. An Irishman or Italian would be more ideal than a negro!
Anyway, your secret is safe with me. I would hate to see how everyone reacts anyway. Just please, for both of your sakes, let him go. Doesn’t matter what the Bible says, there’s no place for a colored man and a white woman.
 
-Jane
 
 
June 7th, 1952
 
Dear Jane,
I’m so glad to hear from you. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Me and David have been spending a lot of time together at our tree. We are truly in love. But I am going to have to find a bigger dress, because I’m with child. Nobody knows yet, but I am going to start gaining soon.
We try so hard to hide our love, but sometimes I think people see us sitting next to each other, or talking, and they begin to wonder about us. Jane, I’m scared. Ma’s going to kill me. Pa’s going to kill him. I love him so much and I know he loves me.
I’m not sure if I should tell them or not. What do you think? We’ve been talking about running away together. Honestly, I think that is probably what will have to happen. I’m just so scared!
Please, Jane, write me soon so I know I’m not alone.
 
-Rose
 
 
June 30, 1952
 
Dear Rose,
I told you. I don’t know what you’re going to do. I told you to end it! If you love him, you will find a way to get rid of it and end it! You will never be a proper woman if anyone found out you’ve got a bun in the oven, especially by a negro!
Look, I know you mean well and you’re my favorite cousin. If you end up leaving, I will talk to some friends and see if I can find you a place to go. You could even bring David if necessary, but Rose, it’s not smart at all. Here isn’t much better than Alabama. Just a little less extreme. People just don’t like to see two kinds of people together, that’s all.
As far as my wedding, don’t worry about being in it. It’s too late to find a bigger dress. Besides, I have a hunch you won’t be attending. I doubt your ma will let you.
Just let me know what’s going on, so I know if I need to put you up somewhere. Be safe.
 
-Jane
 
 
November 12, 1952
 
Dear Jane,
Sorry, it has taken so long to write. Ma followed me to the poplar tree and saw me talking with David. Oh, Jane, you won’t believe what happened. She told Pa. They never said much about it. But a couple nights later, Ma called me in from doing the wash and told me to go with her. We ended up at the poplar tree. David was there. Pa was screaming at him.
Pa had a bunch of his friends with him. David was crying, telling Pa how much he loved me and what the Bible says, but Pa wasn’t having it. Pa saw our initials in the tree, pushed David’s face into it, took a brick, and hit him in the back of his head. People were cheering him on!
Pa had a whip. I started to scream and ran to David. Told Pa that he was making a big mistake, that me and David were going to get married. I told both, Ma and Pa that we were having a baby. That was when Uncle Paul took a rope and tied David to our tree!
Ma was screaming and grabbed ahold of me. I ran to get David, but Pa was already hitting him with the whip. David told me over and over that he loved me. Every time Pa hit him, David would say it again. I ran after Pa and he struck me with a whip too! He didn’t hit me on purpose, but Ma started to scream. David’s Pa was there and he was crying too, pleading with David to stop telling me he loved me.
David said he would never stop saying it. Pa lost his mind when he saw the blood coming from my shoulder. He took the rope and wrapped a noose around David. David, with tears coming down his face, started to sing to me. He was singing the song he wrote for me for our wedding if we were ever to be allowed to marry.
Uncle Paul took the whip and chased David’s Pa with it, telling him to leave. His Pa collapsed to the ground, begging them to kill him instead. Uncle Paul spat on him and hit him for ‘future reference.’
Oh, Jane, Pa hung David from the tree and then they lit him on fire. David died singing to me. I hate them so much. I hate them. All of them. Ma contacted one of her friends and they forced me on a train to go to New York to have the baby. They didn’t even let me hold my son but for a second.
My baby looked just like his daddy, just like David. I love him so much. I don’t know if he’ll ever know how much me and his pa loved him. I wrote him a letter trying to tell him and tucked it in his basket, but I doubt he’ll ever get it. 
 So, Jane, I wrote this letter to you after they took my baby away. I don’t know if you will ever see me again. I can’t reconcile living a life where people are so horrible to each other. They took my love. Then they took our child. They can have my soul, I no longer need it.
 
-Rose
 
","August 25, 2023 05:16","[[{'Иляя Илчка': 'https://exampledomain.com/?u=XXXXX&o=YYYYY', 'time': '21:06 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. S. Bailey': ""Great premise and use of the prompt, however, it felt a bit short. There was certainly more depth to this story, especially with its theme and the message you're dealing with.\nI really liked the voice of Rose and the difference in mindset between the two cousins. I've not read a lot of letters from that era but the language felt too modern to be from the 50's. Although, you did have some great phrases and diction from that era which brought something lovely to the piece. The climax of David's death, I feel, did not have enough page time. And..."", 'time': '17:35 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Christina Cooper': ""I agree there was more to be said. That was the struggle due to it being in letters.  I kept asking, 'What would a 17-year-old girl actually write in a letter?' \n\nThanks for the feedback. :)"", 'time': '03:08 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Christina Cooper': ""I agree there was more to be said. That was the struggle due to it being in letters.  I kept asking, 'What would a 17-year-old girl actually write in a letter?' \n\nThanks for the feedback. :)"", 'time': '03:08 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Robert W': ""Hi, Christina, It would have helped me to know from the start the location of the Poplar Tree. I sort of gathered, reading on, that it must have been in the south of the USA, and, although I am a 'Brit', I am a student of history, and I know that attitudes towards black people differed in different areas of the USA, so that would have placed your tragic story in context.  As to the events you describe, I can only imagine that they are drawn from the lives of people you have known or read about.  It was genuinely disturbing to me that you dat..."", 'time': '07:02 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Christina Cooper': ""Thanks for the suggestion. Its been noted. I was born in the 80s, it's disturbing to me that it's happened in my lifetime too."", 'time': '14:50 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Christina Cooper': ""Thanks for the suggestion. Its been noted. I was born in the 80s, it's disturbing to me that it's happened in my lifetime too."", 'time': '14:50 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'This was an incredible story. The tension build up through the letters was wonderfully done. Good work Christina.', 'time': '06:26 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Christina Cooper': 'Thank you so much! :)', 'time': '03:28 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Christina Cooper': 'Thank you so much! :)', 'time': '03:28 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amy Alexander': 'This is a heartbreaking and poignant historical story as written in letters.  I had tears streaming down my face as I was transported back in time. I cried for those in that era and for those still facing fear like that today.', 'time': '02:14 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Christina Cooper': ""Thanks! People think that was years ago and it was, but you're right- it's today too. :("", 'time': '03:28 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Christina Cooper': ""Thanks! People think that was years ago and it was, but you're right- it's today too. :("", 'time': '03:28 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",nxy3gt,The Never-Ending Battle,Doreen M Atkinson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/nxy3gt/,/short-story/nxy3gt/,Historical Fiction,0,['Coming of Age'],7 likes,"
Battle of the Somme, 1916
 
Dear Mary,
It’s cold and damp here today. I’m chilled and shivering. I’m dreaming of my favorite chair and a steaming, hot cup of coffee. The comforts of home are foremost in my mind. How I long to hold you and the children in my arms. Thinking and dreaming about all of you keeps me sane. I don’t know how I could survive without these special times. I can close my eyes and see the children playing in the garden or playing in the snow, and our precious little dog, Snappy, chasing around with a favorite toy. How the children love him. How much I miss all of you. It’s so lonely here even though I have brave and gallant comrades with me to share the challenging times, the horrors of war and the noise of the artillery and bursting shells. It is still so lonely. What joy it will be to finally finish this awful war and come home. 
The mortar shells have stopped falling and the terrible noise has abated giving us respite. My ears are at rest momentarily, but it will not last.
I’m sorry to burden you. I should be brave and lead you to believe all’s well here, but I find that I must share my pain with someone who truly cares. I need you near me if only on the printed page and in my imagination. Your letters are the nourishment I need to comfort my soul. Your happy news and funny stories do so much for me. I love sharing them with my buddies. We all smile and laugh while I read to them. It is so uplifting--much more than I can tell you. You should see the joy we experience when you talk of how the dog walks around on his hind feet and yaps at you. And, when the children star in a school concert. It was hilarious hearing about the mouse running around the house and you chasing after it. How can I possibly repay you for giving us these wonderful moments of joy. These things are etched on my memory. Thank you, thank you, thank you for being the great person that you are.
I must go now. I must leave you. The advance has been sounded. I am bound to join my platoon and ready myself for battle. The rifles are loaded. The bayonets are in place. Helmets are on our heads to protect us. We are about to confront the enemy once again. We are about to enter no-man’s-land and try to gain ground. We will struggle through the muck that attempts to bog us down. Many of us will die. Many will be maimed. But. our determination and courage will ensure that we do reach our target. We must try to push the enemy further back. It is imperative to win this encounter and we will. And we will win the next one and the next one so we can finally come home victorious. And we will.
I love you so much. I will write again soon.
Bert
Battle of Ypres, 1917
 
Dear Mary,
The nights are long and dark. The flashes from the never-ending barrage light up the sky. The smell of death surrounds us. The fighting is fierce. Many have died. Many are wounded. Everyone is suffering.  The moaning and the screams fill our ears. If there is a hell, it is here and now.
How long will we be allowed to rest, if rest is possible in this hell hole. Food is in short supply and what there is defies description. How wonderful it would be to lay in a clean bed. How wonderful to take your boots off, to sit at a table, to hear music, to hear you laugh. How I long for the simple things in life—not a grand automobile, not a Rolex watch, not a banquet but simple, ordinary delights. The smell of beef stew cooking on the stove while the snow beats against the windowpane. Oh, how I long for home.
Yesterday was another nightmare. We went over the top into a torrential rain of bullets—guns firing from both sides, bayonets flashing through the fog, men rushing to the kill, the enemy mortar shells blowing great holes in both the earth and the fighters. We dodged and crawled forward with guns held high, aimed towards the target. The muddy ground grabbed us and pulled us down. Our suits were clogged with it. The struggle to stay alive was foremost in every man’s mind. Comrades dropped down in death all around. “Medic, Medic,” we cried. To often the word filled the air. I prayed for help to get me through to the next ditch. We all moved forward, pushing, pushing, pushing with all of our might and strength. We had to gain ground. We had to make it to the next point of advance. When I reached the point-of-no-return my anxiety lessened somewhat, my heavy breathing calmed down. Confidence returned and with a mighty effort I fought on through to the target area. The goal was achieved. There would be rest and food if the enemy allowed it. We prayed for time to heal before the next assault.
Again, I burden you with the horrors of this war. But I do not apologize. I want you and everyone to hear about and know about how much suffering and waste of life is caused by the ruthless, power-seeking monsters in this world. I want our children to learn about it as they grow and mature. There must be a great, global understanding of the useless pursuit of ruling the world. There will always be resistance. Righteous nations will never lay down.
Dear, dear Mary. Dear, dear wife and mother of my children, I love you. I love my children. I fight for the right to live in peace. I carry you all in my heart and long for the day I’m with you again. So long for now. Please keep your letters coming. They are a great comfort to all of us over here.
Bert
 
Battle of Cambrai, 1918
 
Dear Mary,
The day drags into night. Sleep is shortened by the alert signifying a gas attack. Masks are quickly put in place. We peer over the trenches and the landscape has an eerie green mist covering everything. We are afraid. Afraid of the pain suffered by contact with the threatening substance. The choking as the lungs fill. The blisters on the burning skin. The blindness. We crouch down in the trench staying as far away as possible, wondering who will be next to writhe in agony.
In battle we dodge bullets and flee from bursting shells filled with mustard gas. The enemy is equipped with terrifying flame throwers that burn men to death. We have no defence. We wait for the necessary protective suits to arrive. God willing, they will be here soon. Meanwhile we continue fighting, and we are maimed, and we die.
These are terrible times.
As I write to you on my scrap of paper I am lightened. I hear the distant roar of the tanks approaching. For the first time we will be supported by an advanced attack. The tanks will clear a path for us. I’m so grateful. The odds are turning in our direction. The tide is turning. Tomorrow the platoon will not lead. Tomorrow we will follow the tanks. A great sigh of relief is spreading down the line. We cheer them on. We are almost happy. This is a rare moment. Hope has returned. We will endure. We will win. We will come home.
The German defence is weakening. Their supplies are becoming less and less. We know this because the guns do not roar as often. The shells do not explode as often. The bullets do not fly as often. We do not see the glowing red sky as often. The gas attacks are fewer. There is some respite. There are moments of, almost, peace.
The Canadian Corps followed the tanks into the battle. They took the advance and overwhelmed the enemy. Tanks, infantry, and air support won the day. We will follow with a renewed confidence.
I write this with hope in my heart. I love you.
Bert
 
 
 
 
Battle of Amiens. Aug. 11th, 1918
 
Dear Mary,
We came to the town of Amiens today. There was an eerie quietness. The streets were empty. Where are the people? Where have they gone? Will they ever return to their homes? Will this war-torn place recover and become the warm, welcoming town it once was? I wonder.
I am standing in the street with old friends, new friends and we are comrades. Together we are victorious. British, Canadian, Australian, and French stand shoulder to shoulder and celebrate the victory. We laugh, we cry, we sing, and we cheer. We are delirious. We are mad with joy.
My dearest, it is over. It is , at last, over .
We celebrate and we mourn.
 We celebrate the victory. We celebrate freedom. We celebrate success and we are happy.
We mourn for the dead. We mourn for the maimed. We mourn the destruction, and we are sad.
And we will never forget. Nor will we allow others to forget.
The War Is Over.
Bert
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
London, September 1918
 
Dear Mary,
How I love you, How I love my children. I can’t wait to be with you once more. It has been a long separation. We have all changed and grown. I suspect we are quite different people now. The reunion may be strange at first, but it will be joyful. You told me about a lot in your letters, but I think actually being home will be exciting and new. How strange it will be to take off my uniform for the last time. How strange to sit in the garden without fear or caution. How wonderful to eat fresh food.
There will be a short stay in London, and then I’ll be on my way. Nothing to be concerned about. Just a little medical problem to overcome. See you in a few days. 
Bert
 
Dover, October 1918
 
Dear Bert,
I’m so glad you’re home safe. I want to come to London to see you and talk to you, but the children need me. I’ve no one to look after them. They are excited to meet you once again. They were so young when you left, and they really don’t remember you very  well. They only know you from your letters. You didn’t write much I could read to them, so I made up a lot of stuff and they thought it was in the letters.
I know I shouldn’t be telling you this in a letter, but you must be told. I am going to divorce you as soon as I can. While you’ve been away I met another person that has become my whole life. The children love him, and he is so good to us. I also love him dearly. I know this is a shock, but these things happen. I hope you understand. We plan to marry before Christmas and the children and I will be living in his lovely home in Nottingham. I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m sorry this happened, but it did. Please come back to your house in Dover. We will not be there, but, If you want, I’ll bring the children to visit when it’s convenient for you.
Once again, I’m glad you made it. 
 Mary  
","August 22, 2023 21:08",[]
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",nkl0gn,Lost in Transmission ,Alasdair Perry,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/nkl0gn/,/short-story/nkl0gn/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Mystery', 'Suspense']",5 likes,"
England, 1791IDear Patriot, I am writing to you because I understand we share certain sympathies. I have important news concerning our cause. You must know that for our own safety, I cannot know who you are, nor can you know who I am. This letter has found its way to you thanks to a mutual friend who is keen that our ideas disseminate. After you have read this letter and considered its portents you are to do the following, as I have done: You are to write a similar letter for another Patriot, conveying to them the aforementioned news and its implications for our cause.You are to enclose that letter in a blank envelope, and leave it where our friend has told you. You will not know the name or address of the recipient; all of this will be taken care of by a runner who may be trusted.In this way, our ideas are conveyed from one Patriot to another in an invisible chain; should one link be ‘compromised’, our enemies will not be able to find the others. Pay careful heed to the following information, for you must convey it to the next link. We have had word from our revolutionary fellows in France - some much-needed ideological fuel for our own movement which I fear is losing its spark. I am afraid I cannot furnish you with the full extent of the information we have been sent. Some of it has been confiscated elsewhere in our network (you now understand our need for discretion), and the rest I cannot yet divulge; suffice to say it is an assortment of supportive wisdom - historical literature, biblical apocrypha, philosophical fragments, and so forth. Given that I do not know you, I’m afraid I cannot be sure that you would interpret it correctly. I have therefore taken the liberty of omitting certain excerpts, save for a piece of advice from the Marquis de Condorcet himself, who tells us this: “Any sort of monarchy is a threat to freedom. Leave not to providence that which you have the power to change yourself; go forth and pursue freedom from domination, become guardians of the Enlightenment and let progress resume her rights.”M. Condorcet’s meaning is clear. Our movement is on the right course, and a revolution is not only possible but the only way of re-ordering society. Monsieur’s reference to ‘progress’ is particularly tantalising. Let me, then, propose how society should be ordered to maximise progress:The problem with our current government is that it doesn’t think. After the revolution, then, our new society should be modelled on intellectualism. The ‘guardians of the Enlightenment’ which M. Condorcet mentions should be academics such as myself, and we should treat those low men in our order (there are many of them) with suspicion. I assure you that this is not out of thirst for power; rather it is the natural order for the most efficient organisation of society. To think merely about the day-to-day aspects of government, about survival, about putting one foot in front of the other - such is the preserve of livestock. It leads to dronish, sleepy and stupid indifference, that lazy negligence which enchains men in the exact paths of their forefathers, without enquiry, without ambition. Thus, our revolutionary government should focus only on academic study and experimentation until perfect conditions are reached.It is this which I would like you to pass on to the next link. And remember: for now, your task is to convey what I have said, and nothing more. The time for further action will come later, but for now we must gather our strength and await the sign from our friend; if we are going to stab Caesar, we need to be holding a knife and not a wooden spoon. Please destroy this letter once you have fully understood its contents. Regards, Patriot ~IIDear Patriot, You must forgive the curtness and unfamiliarity of my introduction, but I have been instructed by another member of our movement to convey important news to you (veritably exciting news, may I add!). I assure you that although this letter has found its way from my hand to yours, your identity remains entirely unknown to me, although doubtless you share the same enlightened sympathies as my good self. Dear fellow, although we are sworn to secrecy, I cannot help but resent total anonymity. I will therefore divulge a little of myself; I am a poet, a member of that class which you might call gentry, and I live in the countryside. If only I could send you some of my verse! Or perhaps you have heard of me already… I am very well known in Dimchurch. Oh, dear friend, how I struggle against our current conditions! Our government has lost sight of itself! Like a great, ambling oaf, it is running down a hill and thinks only about its next step. It cannot stop and consider whether this is the correct path, nor can it remember how and when it began to spiral out of control, when it became corrupted by greed.But alas, I digress. Please forgive me. Foolish poet! To the news which I have been instructed to share with you: recently I was furnished with certain information by an awfully stern gentleman in a letter similar to the one I now convey to you. Although I do not know who he is, I was pleased to see that he was of sound mind. Indeed, it is testament to the strength and spirit of our revolutionary hearts that our ideas elicit so little disagreement amongst ourselves.I was told that we have received word from our noble brothers and sisters in France! Not least from that great and wise eminence M. Condorcet himself, who seeks to give us inspiration. He says: “Any kind of monarchy is a threat to freedom. Do not leave to providence that which you have the power to change yourself; you should go and pursue freedom from domination, become guardians of the Enlightenment and let progress resume her natural rights.”My precursor wanted me to point out that not only do we seem to be on the right track, but also that our revolutionary government should be an intellectual one, as Condorcet seems to imply. I agree to a large extent.If our new government fails to consider the higher planes of existence such as philosophy, history and so forth, our new society will become as greedy and corrupt as our current rulership. Indeed, thinking about the earthly stink of work, money and infrastructure is quite alien to my mind, given that it is so frequently pondering much higher matters.I only disagree on one small point: we should not lose sight of our passions and foibles. Humans are passionate individuals, and our government should not focus purely on academic matters, in a relentless pursuit of maximum efficiency and progress. Is there not room for literature, for reverence of noble deeds, tales and myths in our new government? Perhaps then, our new government should not be so detached and aloof from fellow humans as my precursor has suggested. Perhaps even, given that we are human and that the lower aspects of existence are as necessary as they are boring, we should not entirely neglect them. Maybe some lower members of our order could be granted minor positions in the new government to deal with that kind of thing. I trust you will agree with all I have said, Patriot. I came up with these conclusions whilst contemplating alone, surrounded by nature, away from all human contact and experience. This seems to me the best method of devising how to rule over people. You should now write up your own letter, passing on what I have said to the next link. You will not know who the recipient is - a bothersome precaution, to be sure, but one which nonetheless ensures our safety. How I wish I could get to know you more! I trust the time will come in due course. Leave your letter in a blank envelope and in a location which I believe our mutual friend has told you about, and fortitude will take care of the rest. Vive la révolution! My warmest and best wishesPatriotP.S. Lamentably, you must destroy this letter and the noble words within - for our own safety!~IIIDear PatriotOur revolutionary fire continues to burn. I have received a letter from another Patriot, who has asked me to convey some news to you concerning our cause. You cannot see that letter (as I have burned it), nor can you know who sent it (I myself do not know). Still, I will pass on the information to the best of my ability. My only wish is that the time for us to move out of this shadowy communication will come soon. Allow me to first reassure you of my convictions: I am the daughter of a naval captain. My father is a talented man, who has been denied promotion more times than I care to count by those preening aristocrats. I, too, am denied the kind of ascension and society due to a lady of my position, simply because my family’s wealth is earned rather than inherited. Not that I care, mind you. I don’t suppose I would enjoy the company of those born-to-rule, pink-cheeked sticks of celery prancing around in their gilt panelled halls. If brains were gunpowder, they wouldn’t have enough to blow their powdered wigs off. As for the important information: our comrades in France have sent us some wisdom, to keep the revolutionary fire burning within our movement. I do wish we received more tangible assistance from across the channel, but alas we must take what we get. It was gratifying, at least, to hear from the Marquis de Condorcet, whose support for female suffrage and abolition I find most compelling. M. Condorcet says: “Any kind of tyranny is a threat to freedom. As humans, you have the power to change things for yourself; you should go and pursue freedom from domination, become guardians of the Enlightenment and let nature resume her rights.”(Please allow for a few minor inaccuracies; I mistakenly burned the letter I received before I had copied the quote in full. Still, I believe I have represented the general sentiment adequately.)The gentleman who sent me the letter containing this information seemed to share our general belief in change, although I have to say he struck me as the sort of man who does little else with his time besides frolicking about with a butterfly net, writing verse. Still, I agreed for the most part with his ideas, and it is reassuring for our movement that clearly we share much common ground. As M. Condorcet suggests, we should pay great attention to ‘grand ideas’ of the Enlightenment, and those wise philosophers of the revolution in France. We should similarly not lose sight of history or literature - from all of these things, we gain perspective, wisdom, and above all, ideological fervour, all of which will be crucial in informing our next steps once we overthrow this aimless government. However, this should also be tempered by the practical aspects of government (economics, agriculture, militarism). My predecessor did reluctantly suggest that such things deserve a small place in our new leadership. I would go further and argue that these people should have a more active role in our new government. Like the National Assembly across the channel, we should be informed equally by intellectuals and persons of practice. A government which separates its thinkers from its workers will have its thinking done by the idle and its functions performed by ignorants. Experience will be as necessary as ideology in our new government, and we should plan accordingly. My revolutionary friend, your next task is to digest the contents of this letter, destroy it, and then pass on the information to the next link. I believe we have a mutual friend who has already told you what to do. Sincerely,Patriot~IVDear PatriotThis wasn’t my idea. If you ask me, this revolution of ours needs a cup of buttered toddy and a swift boot up the backside, but perhaps that’s why I never managed to negotiate the upper echelons. You’re probably wondering who I am. Well, God gave you a pair of eyes and you can see for yourself that I’m using our codename, so it shouldn’t be past your wits to comprehend the situation. I have been asked to send you some news, although I wouldn’t get your hopes up. As I said to Gerald my husband, I’m as revolutionary as the next man - give me a flag and a blunderbuss and I’ll be at the barricades before the drop of a copper - but I can’t see much point in all these whispered words and secret letters. The news is that our friends across the channel have sent us some words to consider. Gerald My husband is one for words; I always tell him ‘words are all very good, but what about the unrestricted export of cotton?’ (To my mind a far bigger boon than Enlightenment philosophy). He’s a man of business, my husband, you see. (Very high up in the harpsichord society, too.) But he lacks the guts to commit to open revolution. If he ran at a pigeon, it wouldn’t fly away. I always say to him, if those cooing protectionist windbags in the government were out of the way, we’d be flogging our wares across the world like nobody’s business. He usually comes around. But I digress, you must forgive me. As a lady of high economic standing, you understand talking is my forte. Only yersterday, I was chinwagging over a cup of chocolate with the inventor of the ball bearing. Anyhow, one Monsieur de Condorcet (he’s yet to click here in Newton Pickett) has told us: “Tyranny is a threat to freedom. As humans, you have the power to change things for yourself; you should go and pursue freedom from domination, become guardians of the Enlightenment and let nature resume her rights.”From what I gather, our order has been discussing the meaning of this statement, although what they’ve been saying I don’t know. Reassuringly, the lady who sent me my own letter seems to be of sound mind and morals. She recognises the need for practical government. It’s no use sitting around thinking all day; our new society needs to be full of men of business like Gerald my husband, who can generate money and make sure our new government survives. Action is far more important than intellectualism. Some of those academics spend so much time in their own heads, they couldn’t find their backside with both hands. I do agree with my precursor in that having a quick look at history and so forth is useful. But it shouldn’t have as prominent a role as she suggests. There should be a little organisation - an academy, perhaps - to discuss it. But most of the government should be done by men of action. They can listen to the scholars from time to time. Anyway, I best be off. I suspect our mutual friend has told you what to do next, so I suggest you go and busy yourself with that. Regards, Patriot~VDear PatriotI have been asked to convey some news to you in that insufferable cloak and dagger style of which our mutual friend seems so keen. Let’s just get this over with, shall we? Although our friends in France have yet to send anything in the way of arms, powder, money or soldiers, they are very eager to send words, words which I am now meant to convey to you. One Monsieur de Marie Jean Antoine Nicolas de CaritatCondorcet has sent us some ‘wisdom’. He says: “Any kind of tyranny is a threat to freedom. You have the power to change things now; go and pursue freedom from domination, become agents of the Enlightenment and let nature resume her rights.”Frankly, I do not see the point in these vacuous platitudes. The time for action is now. The ‘tyranny’ which our ponderous French friend speaks of must refer not to the tyranny of any monarchy; rather, it must be the tyranny of ideas, how our cause can barely take a step forward without first pondering “But what does it mean to step?” “Is stepping a construct of the ancien régime?” It reassures me at least that my predecessor - the ‘link’ before me who sent me this information - seems to see sense. This person - as much as they were a prattling nuisance - is correct in suggesting that men of practice and experience belong in government, far more so than these fairies who have yet to do a day’s work besides thinking through their pointless thought experiments. Our French friends cannot agree amongst themselves who is the most rational - Rousseau, Diderot, they are all the same to me. Descartes lounges around and wonders “Am I dreaming? Am I asleep?” Well, he may as well be, because he’s doing nothing else. I started out as a firebrand philosopher - my conclusion after a while was that it was all quite pointless. It won’t decapitate the government, it won’t manage our economy, it won’t keep our men supplied, it won’t put food on our tables. Do as you will with this information. I make no apologies for speaking my mind about the problems we face. However difficult our master makes it for us, we are nonetheless conversing with one another. If we cannot express our opinion freely amongst ourselves, our cause is in an even worse position than I imagined. Our English revolution must begin soon. I will go if nobody else will.Regards,John Cooper 
","August 24, 2023 18:34",[]
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",b7f26r,A series of letters in the time of the illness,Michele Duess,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/b7f26r/,/short-story/b7f26r/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Creative Nonfiction']",3 likes,"
Warning: Anti-Asian racism. Some strong language.Diary entry: December 23, 2019: At Kirk’s cabin in North Carolina. I think Alex takes after my brother. They’re both wiry but my mother disagrees. She thinks he looks like my grandmother. Anyway, Alex made me coffee. It’s bitter but I drink it anyway. Kirk’s in-laws are here with their grandkids and everyone’s talking. Outside the trees are bare, branches like veins against a gray sky. I’m just thinking of a poem when Carol says something about a new virus in China. I was about to say hopefully it doesn’t come here but Maddie jumped into my lap. Her long hair brushes against my face.“Watch my coffee!” I say.Maddie ignores me. “Aunt Michele, there are deer outside! Come look.”………..February 20, 2020. Diary entry: Some scout moms aren't going to the St. Lucie County Fair. They're worried about the Covid. We went, and Alex bought a weird anime mask. It's made of cloth and plastic. The bottom part looks like a skull's jaw and it lights up when he speaks. Well, it's his money. We went on the Ferris wheel and ate arepas. Nice night............March 1, 2020 News report: Florida becomes the tenth state to confirm its first COVID-19 cases: one in Manatee County, and one in Hillsborough County with a woman who had recently returned from Italy. ……Text to Andrew, March 9, 2020: Grandma is crazy. Everyone's freaking out and she says buy my couch now. Says there'll be good sales! I hope college is going well for you. Love Mom……….Email: March 13, 2020Hi Mom the kids seem to be handling everything well, thanks for asking. Yes, they’ve canceled all the scout activities. They extended Alex's spring break and Drew’s college went online. People still need prosthetics and braces, so we're essential. Beaches are closed but we've been able to rent kayaks. We went to one of the spoil islands in the inlet. Saw a manatee and a stingray. Are the city docks open in Palatka?Funny that you mention the shortages. You know what I can't find at Publix? Garlic! I mentioned this to my boss. He reached into a pocket and handed me a clove. He said. “I’ll get you more.” You might ask why he's carrying it. Apparently, it wards off the evil eye. I’ll admit I have some in my pocket now.We need all the help we can get.I bought a light-up mask like Alex's and I wear it to work. The children like it. Anything to make them more comfortable. I put a coffee filter into it for more protection.Alex said people at his high school were scared. ""Even if they have junior prom,"" he said, ""a lot of people aren't going.""“I don’t see panicking,” I answered. “This isn’t polio. We’re not going to be paralyzed and end up in an iron lung.”""An iron lung?"" he answered. ""I don't think one can put that in a person, Mom.""I hope you got a laugh out of this. Love Michele……….Email March 25, 2020: Dear Mom. I’m sorry we weren't able to see you but we had to get Drew out of the dorms. He asked his roommate for a ride at least to Melbourne, but Todd didn't have room in his car. Plus his mom didn't want him driving with another kid. Like they haven't been sharing a room the size of my big toenail but whatever. Yes I know Dad could've gone but the last thing he needs is to get sick. I do appreciate you offering a room but I don't know how long the dorms will be closed. Tell you what the place was a tomb. Our voices echoed like it was an old cathedral, not a modern building. All that remained was the undead guardian at the front desk. Okay, it was a bored student in a cloth mask but he didn't look too lively to tell the truth.I'm tired too.Anyway, We loaded up Drew’s stuff in the car. He left the refrigerator and hopefully, no one steals it. On the way out we stopped at a Taco Hell. Of course, only the drive-through was open. As I pulled in, a homeless guy walked up and asked for money. He was pale and smelled like stale beer. His eyes were red and he had tangled black dreads. I told him if he was hungry I’d buy him a taco. He cursed at me and stomped off.Some things never change in good old Jacksonville.I watched him cross the parking lot to Freddie's Diner. He began searching the trash bin for cans I assume. I didn't think he'd bother us so we sat in the car and ate our food. At least the kids did. I decided to sit in the grass.Bad idea. I stepped right into a fire ant hill. And of course, they swarmed me. I danced around cursing. Someone laughed from the empty lot next door. I ripped my shoes off, flung them at the car, then poured my soda on my feet. I wanted to cry-well never mind, we won’t go there. Anyway, I grabbed the wrappers, threw them into a garbage can, and stomped back to the car. Alex saw me and got out, glaring at the homeless guy. The man continued laughing.""Deserved,"" he called to me.""Hey, you-"" Alex began but I pulled him away.""Forget it,"" I said. ""It's not worth it. Let's go. I’ll get something to drink from the gas station down the street.”“Let me drive home, Mom,” Drew said, taking the keys from me.Anyway, we made it home alive and tomorrow is a new day. Love Michele……..Email to Dad: April 2, 2020:Hi Dad, See what you think of this poem. If I win I’ll get 100 dollars, although I’ll just be happy to see it printed. How are your students doing? Zoom sucks I'm sure. Love Michele.I should have known, I should havewhen I had to take that thyroidmedicine. Get it fixed.It will be all right nothing to itor was there?I should have known,the day my children’sfather died (Not evenfifty yet!)It was just an inklingNothing I couldn’t handleSee a doctor, change my diet(take these stupid pills) fix myblood pressure.We’re fine, we’re fine.Even as another uncle died young.(It only happens to other people.)Climate change, the Amazon isBurning. I donate every month.A light at the end of the tunnelI see it bright and glowing.I should have known what that was.Someone ate a bat in China or maybethey just sold it andNow I sit at home and playMonopoly withMy sons.My oldest is home from college.And my hands itch.The alcohol on them, I guess.I drink it, I wash in it.(Liquor stores are consideredessential, are they not?)We can’t stay away from alcohol.Three million unemployed.One of our workers laid offI may be next ifWe have to shelter.I'm carrying garlic.It wards off the evil eye.Superstition fighting an illusion.My youngest sneezes and sneezes.“It must be the cat, she’s shedding.”But I know now the lightin that tunnel mightbe an oncoming train.On social media (it’s all I have left.)I do not know what is true or not.But I can’t stand to look.I should have known, I should haveKnown my securityMy sons' very health andMine might be illusions.Or they’re real.And illusions shatter.Then there's another.I no longer know reality.I no longer can tellwhat is illusion anymore.Yeah it’s sad, what else is new? Love Michele…….Email April 7, 2020: Dear Mom and Dad: It’s all the Democrats' fault. They’re inflating the number of Covid cases because they don’t want to see Trump re-elected.At least that’s what my patient says.I asked her if she really thinks anyone wants to shut the economy down and go broke just because they think our president is a tad useless.“They'll do anything,” she said.One thing that's useless is arguing with people. I shrugged and got on with measuring her for her back brace.At least she wasn’t as bad as the man who came in. He was a Korean War vet with a fractured wrist and a bone to pick. Many of the veterans do and who can blame them? They're dealing with a society that just doesn't understand. Anyway, I asked him how he was managing in these trying times. He said something about his wife having Covid but was doing better now. To be honest, I was distracted. I wanted to make certain my measurements were correct, so I was only half listening to him. His next words changed all that.“It’s the Chinese,” he said. “They caused this virus. They wanted to hurt us.”I stopped charting and stared at this man sitting in my chair. He was as thin as Alex, with gray thinning shoulder-length hair, worn jeans, and black sneakers. He could be anyone’s grandfather, except for what he just said. I asked him to repeat himself.“You heard me,” he said, leaning back. “And it’s true.”I’ve said it’s useless arguing but sometimes one has to try. Especially these days. There’s a plague out that's many times worse than Covid; something that no PPE can protect against. I call it Stupifear. It's fear mixed with fake news. This disorder makes people stupid and nothing can stop it. But I was going to try. I put down my measuring tape, rubbed my eyes, and sighed.“Think about this,” I said. “Why would they hurt their own people? Their own economy? In fact,” I shook my head. “If I was going to release a virus I’d drop it anywhere else than my own country.”I’ve learned you can’t use logic with people.The man leaned forward as if I had to understand. “I’ve seen things in that war.”“What things?”“They used their own people,” he said in his raspy voice. ""As targets. In order to trap us."" The man shook his head as if to dislodge a long-ago memory. His breath was heavy with tobacco. ""They didn't care who died. And they don't care now.”“That sounds horrible,” I said, because what the hell else could I do? I’d like to say I told him to get out, that I was angry and outraged. But I didn’t and I wasn’t. I just felt very sad. Sad that a war from sixty-plus years ago had stuck its claws into a man’s heart and had scarred it so very deeply that he saw evil from simple natural causes. And such a wound would never heal. Or worse, he couldn’t let that hatred go. None of this was an excuse. I knew that. But I felt helpless to change his mind. I didn't even know how.I’m stopping at the bar next to my office tonight for happy hour. I need a drink.Love Michele………Email: June 10, 2020: Hi Mom, well you said we all have a straw that will break us. Apparently, mine are goddamned summer activities. Or lack thereof. Yep, the BSA council canceled Alex's scout camp. Because there’s an outbreak in Miami Dade County. They couldn’t take the risk. He was upset of course, but in the end, shrugged it off.I didn't take it well.My boss told me that there were worse things. And he's right. Take Sara’s mother who died from Covid. I think I mentioned it, didn’t I? And what did our meetup group do, you ask? I’ll tell you. We drove past her house in our stupid cars and waved at her. Watch her cry as fifteen of us went by on a day that had no business being this sunny. It should have rained. Hell, the heavens should’ve opened with tears.It didn’t. If any angels wept I know nothing about it.End of April my friend David’s wife broke her hip. I told you about that also. I just didn’t mention that he cried because he couldn’t see her in the hospital. The kayaking group comforted him via Zoom and hoped it would be enough. Because he’s got cancer and quarantined himself. And I held up. I took the boys to Walmart along with half of the city just to do something. We hiked in the woods until we knew them by heart; until the beaches reopened.Who the hell closes the beaches and leaves Walmart open anyway? We're packed in there like sardines because there's no place else to go. How much worse can it be?Sometimes I wonder if DeSantis knows his ass from his-well never mind.When I heard about the camp, I started crying. Drew saw me and ran into his bedroom. I shouted coward at his closed door.He didn't respond. Honestly, I can't blame him.Alex said it wasn't a big deal, but I couldn't stop crying. I locked my bedroom door and texted my friend Sharon. I told her all I had wanted was something normal for Alex. Then apologized. I wrote I’m such an idiot. People are crippled by this. Crippled. We haven't gotten sick at all. I should be counting my lucky stars, not whining.It’s okay to cry, Sharon wrote back. We’re all under a lot of stress. That’s definitely the word for this.Well, no need to worry. We’re all fine, really. I’m working. Drew is doing well in his classes and teaching on Zoom. Alex passed his junior year at least. We might even get another stimulus soon. And I have tequila at home.We’ll all be okay.Love Michele.…….Email to Mom September 9, 2020:Hi Mom and Dad: Which odds would you gamble? Long Covid or Long mental illness?Which one if both can cripple you?Alex has to go back to school. Virtual isn't cutting it. I'll take my chances. He isn't showering. He wears the same clothes for days on end. He sleeps half the day and is up all night.Brain fog via Covid? Try brain fog via depression.Well, Alex agreed to go back so hopefully it will help. And he has scouts again. He's got an extension for his Eagle rank. He's working on it.Drew settled fine in the dorms. But funny you say he doesn't email you; he texts me almost every day. Mostly it's to ask silly questions. ""What's my social security number?"" Like I didn't give him his card before he left. Drew also said the dorms had special rooms if he got sick.""Isolation rooms,"" I answered. ""That's good.""""Yeah,"" he replied. ""Except they probably drag you off and you're never seen again.""Use humor when all else fails, I suppose.Anyway, I'm glad you're getting to see your friends again. Maybe we’ll get to see you for Thanksgiving this year. Love Michele.……Diary entry, November 30, 2020Funny how seeing family for Thanksgiving feels reckless. Fauci wouldn't approve.What does he know? Anyway, we all took Covid tests so it's all right.We stayed at a resort in Orlando. Even more reckless but in for a penny and all that. Kirk came with Carol and Maddie. They were kind enough to pick up Drew on their way from North Carolina. We took Maddie to Disney Springs. It’s all outdoors so we figured it would be all right. There were lines to get into many of the stores; Disney was limiting the number of people inside. Of course, we had to wear masks and get our temperatures taken. But at least we were together.…….Email to Mom, December 20, 2020: We’re looking forward to seeing you for Christmas. We’re going to pick up Drew and then stop in St Augustine to see the lights before we come into Palatka. See you soon. By the way, wanted to let you know Alex is planning his Eagle project. He's going to do a couple of new signs for the county parks. So he's doing better. Love Michele.……Diary entry: December 26, 2020St. Augustine was crowded like everyone was sick of quarantine. Like if hell came for them so be it. But the lights on the trees were beautiful. Like strings of tiny stars stretched across the park. The bridges are bright pathways across the bay to the ocean. It was cold for Florida. I hoped it would be like the book The Plague by Camus where the cold signals the end to their disease. Unfortunately, Fauci says winter is the worse for Covid because everyone’s inside. Not tonight though.Tonight we’re all tired of four walls.….Diary entry: January 5th, 2021: One of the women from our meetup group died today. She'd been in the hospital and they think she caught Covid from there. They had just gotten her off the ventilator. I didn't know her well, but she'll be missed. Her husband held a memorial service for her and I went.Where are the vaccines, Dr Fauci?........Email to Mom: February 20, 2021:Hi Mom I’m writing this while I wait in line at the fairgrounds. Today they’re vaccinating the health care workers, so here I am waiting in my car at 7:00 am. I wanted to get here early and I’m not the only one. There must be sixty cars here at least if not more. After this, I'll take Alex to his friend's house. They haven't seen each other in a while.I wonder if I'll be getting the Covid vaccine every year now like we do with the flu. We'll see I guess.Love Michele
","August 26, 2023 03:15","[[{'Joe Smallwood': 'What a brave and true story! Most people wouldn\'t dream of writing a story about Covid. We aren\'t there yet. So you are ahead of everyone, while we wait for our society to process what happened. I\'m still waiting for the big budget Hollywood movie on this. The longer we wait, the more we will be certain of one thing: how traumatic the pandemic was.\nThanks for reading ""Natal Day.""', 'time': '15:13 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michele Duess': ""Thanks for reading this. I don't think it's too soon to write about Covid but I appreciate your words. I'm glad you liked the story."", 'time': '20:32 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michele Duess': ""Thanks for reading this. I don't think it's too soon to write about Covid but I appreciate your words. I'm glad you liked the story."", 'time': '20:32 Sep 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",ale062,Letters from Kitty Hawk,Hana Lang,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ale062/,/short-story/ale062/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Friendship', 'Historical Fiction', 'Romance']",3 likes,"
August 21, 1900Dear Miss Lancaster,My name is Nathan Perry, and I am writing to you from the town of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina to tell you that your brother, Adam Lancaster, was found by myself and a few others of the U.S. Life-Saving Service Stations at Kitty Hawk. He is alive, but I must warn you that he is badly injured. From what I can tell, he was aboard a fishing boat that capsized in a storm.I would normally advise against journeying to Kitty Hawk, as there is no bridge from the mainland and the surrounding waters are treacherous. But Adam has told me that you are his only surviving family and with this in mind, I believe it would be best if you come quickly – just in case.With Kitty Hawk rather lacking in medical facilities, your brother is presently boarding at my house. It is just myself and my sisters, and if you decide to come, you are welcome to share the room we have cleared for him. In fact, my sisters lobbied me strongly to issue this invitation.Sincerely,Nathan PerryP.S. I have attached a note which Adam dictated. I imagine you are more than familiar with your brother’s optimism, but I have to caution you that he far overstates his well-being. Dear Hattie,If you’ve read Nathan Perry’s letter, you know that I am, somewhat miraculously, alive and on the mend. I’ll keep this short since Nathan has done more than enough for me already. Between saving my life, keeping me company, and writing my post, I may never dig myself out from this mountain of debt. He protests as he writes, but it is the truth.I am deeply sorry for the scare I must’ve given you. Already it has been weeks since I last wrote; I’m sure you’ll be quite worried by the time this reaches you. Correspondence is slow to come and go from Kitty Hawk, at a frequency of only three times a week or so according to Nathan.I plan to stay here until I’ve recovered my strength. Adding to my list of debts, Nathan has kindly offered to let me board in his home while I rest. I hope to return home soon, but I have discovered the hard way that it is a fairly dangerous thing to travel the waters about Kitty Hawk.With love and apologies,AdamSeptember 3, 1900Dear Mr. Perry,Thank you for your letter, and most especially for your honesty. Thank your sisters for me as well. I will leave for Kitty Hawk tomorrow.Best,Henrietta LancasterSeptember 3, 1900Dear Clara,No doubt as you unfold this letter you are already puzzled by the short reply. I swear, I had pages composed in my head responding to your news of Ruth’s engagement (please tell her I said congratulations!), but I received word today that Adam was in an accident. From what I know, the fishing boat he was working on capsized in a storm about two weeks ago and he was badly hurt. I’m leaving for Kitty Hawk, North Carolina early tomorrow morning to help nurse him back to health. I beg your forgiveness for the favor, but the school year is already underway. Would you possibly be able to take over my classes until I return? I know you had planned to put teaching Latin far behind you, but if it’s any reassurance, I can vouch that there is no one as troublesome as that Willie Martin in my (your?) class this year. Please keep me updated.All my love,HattieP.S. I will be staying with the lifesaver – a title I mean both literally and figuratively, as it happens that he is employed by the government for coastal rescue services, which is how he came to Adam’s assistance – Mr. Nathan Perry. Write to me there.September 4, 1900Dear Hattie,Of course, I’ll take over your teaching for a time – you must go to your brother. I will pray every night for his speedy recovery.Please write to let me know you made it there safely. How is Adam? How is Kitty Hawk? I’ve never heard of such a place, and it took me ages to find it on a map. I checked four different ones before I found it hiding off the coast in the Outer Banks.Sending love all the way to Kitty Hawk,ClaraSeptember 17, 1900Dear Clara,I will admit this to you and only you, but the journey here was far more arduous than I’d anticipated. First was the challenge of finding the place – I’m impressed you found Kitty Hawk on any map at all. I wandered Elizabeth City for half a day before I stumbled upon a Mr. Israel Perry (no relation to Nathan, who tells me that this is the most common surname among the residents of Kitty Hawk), born and raised in Kitty Hawk. Mr. Perry kindly agreed to ferry me from Elizabeth City to Point Harbor, and then across Currituck Sound to Kitty Hawk. From the outset I was suspicious of his boat, which looked a complete wreck, but he assured that me he'd safely delivered a Mr. Orville Wright to Kitty Hawk just last week.In retrospect, I’m shocked that we made it at all – I’ve never seen a boat take on so much water! But Mr. Perry seemed to think this was perfectly normal, just business as usual as he tossed bucket after bucket of seawater over the side and shouted at me to keep bailing. My arms will be sore for days.Despite all this, I’m very glad to be here in Kitty Hawk. Adam looks in terrible shape, so weak that he was barely able to muster fury, indignation, or even an ill-timed joke when I showed up at his bedside. He coughs all the time which doesn’t help the pain in his ribs, and alternates constantly between being awake, restless, and in pain, or dozing fitfully. He often jolts awake feverish and disoriented.Besides caring for his health, I worry equally much for his mood, which is as dark as I have ever seen it. Adam is the only one from the fishing boat that was found by the lifesavers, and distracting him from these circumstances is another full-time job. It doesn’t help that there are almost no books to be found in this town. I’m reduced to telling stories from memory or making them up entirely.But Clara – he has been so well taken care of. This is the best part about Kitty Hawk: the people are so kind and welcoming. I have not been here long, but already I’ve realized that Kitty Hawk is a place without luxuries, instead structured around the maintenance of bare necessities. For example, there is hardly any furniture in Nathan’s house (I am currently sitting on the floor by the cot they’ve set up for Adam), and this scarceness seems to be the norm. Despite this, Nathan and his sisters could not be more generous. Nathan’s sisters, by the way, are a delight. The oldest is Anna, who is eighteen and quite industrious, a master at cooking, cleaning, and coaxing all kinds of vegetables to take root in the sandy soil of their garden. Emma is fourteen and very quiet, but she adores Adam and kept him company before I arrived. Last is Margaret, twelve, called Greta for short. She reminds me of you at that age, forever daydreaming and asking questions. I’ve been worried sick about Adam and it took a full day for me to regain enough presence of mind to wonder why these girls weren’t at school. Nathan tells me that children here go to school erratically, only ever three months out of the year.Nathan himself is a bit reserved, but excellent company. He works as both a lifesaver and a fisherman, which means that he has the most wonderful stories when he can be persuaded to tell them. Further, he is my source on all things Kitty Hawk – when asked how his family ended up in such a place, he replies: “storm and misfortune.” Apparently, his grandfather washed ashore after a shipwreck, same as Adam, and ended up settling. Nathan says that this is true of most families here. Kitty Hawk is a strange, lonely place, and Nathan speaks most longingly of leaving it behind some day. Not just for himself, but for his sisters, especially Greta, who decided the day I arrived that she wants to be a schoolteacher one day.Anyway, Adam is waking up now, which means I must sign off, but I owe you a million thanks. When I return home, I promise to make you chocolate eclairs whenever you want, not just for special occasions. I will gift you my copy of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, or that purple dress with the lace, or even my favorite red leather Edwardian heels. In short, I will do anything you ask.All my love and thanks,HattieSeptember 22, 1900Clara,I feel rather guilty for all the times growing up when I teased Adam for his inability to sit still. I’ve been here in Kitty Hawk all of a week and already, I’m so restless that I could scream. It turns out that, while caretaking is hard work for a couple hours out of the day (and emotionally draining always), there is also much downtime during which I have little more to do than watch my brother sleep.Nathan and his sisters are a Godsend – they do their best to keep me company while I keep Adam company. But there’s sand everywhere in Kitty Hawk, and I feel that it has somehow crawled under my skin, leaving me with this restless, itchy mood. It is my biggest worry that I will lose my temper and snap at Nathan or one of the girls – after all that they’ve done for me and Adam, can you imagine?Apologies for inundating you with letters. How are you? I miss you terribly.Love,HattieOctober 3, 1900Dear Hattie,Poor Adam – I can’t imagine him being cooped up in bed. Do you remember when we were kids and he ran miles and miles along the James River just for fun?It doesn’t surprise me that you’re so restless. Anyone would be, but especially you who is forever whittling away at some odd project to keep you busy, whether it’s Latin verbs or ambitious herb gardens or bicycling, writing letters or reading novels. Anyway, Nathan and his sisters sound lovely – tell me more about this mysterious lifesaver of yours!Regarding your class: I may have to fail Edward out of spite. Simply put, he is rude and thinks far too much of himself. You owe me so many chocolate eclairs.I’m sorry I don’t have time to write more – I’m doing well, but things are fairly hectic at home right now between my sister marrying rich and my sudden return to teaching. Truthfully, in the two years since I stopped teaching, my Latin has become rather rusty. I study every night to stay up to speed. But please don’t feel guilty! If anything, I’m grateful to have an excuse to escape the tedium of wedding planning. Ruth wants a New Year’s Eve wedding, and it’ll be a ridiculously grand affair.Give my love to Adam. And keep your shoes, though I’ll gladly accept the dress. Write as often as you can.Missing you terribly,ClaraP.S. I’ve enclosed something which I hope will help somewhat with the restlessness. October 15, 1900Dear Clara,Thank you for the books, and the sympathy. At the post office, I suspected right away what the package was when I picked it up. I unwrapped it right there and cried when I saw that you’d sent Emma and Around the World in Eighty Days – it must’ve cost you a small fortune! I can’t imagine what the postmaster must think of me. Anyway, I now share custody of these treasures with Nathan and his sisters.Love,HattieP.S. Nathan is wonderful, but you can stop with your teasing – he is a very good friend.October 20, 1900Clara,Nathan was off work yesterday and around lunchtime, when I emerged from Adam’s room, he took one look at me and insisted I get out of the house for a bit.These days, the most exciting thing happening around Kitty Hawk has to do with two brothers named Wilbur and Orville Wright. Rumor has it they are here in Kitty Hawk to test a flying machine. The general sentiment about town is that they are quite mad, but with an undertone of admiration for their continued persistence. Nathan tells me that their experiments take lessons from birds: they spend hours at the beach staring at gulls and imitating them, turning their arms and wrists at funny angles – like children playing.Some of the lifesavers, Nathan included, assist in their experiments. He brought me along yesterday to Kill Devil Hills to watch. It was extraordinary, Clara. They fly massive gliders like kites – I think the wingspan must be around twenty feet. Even more extraordinarily, Wilbur Wright proceeded to strap himself in and fly three or four hundred feet in that glider! The brothers brought a camera and diligently photographed it all.Adam continues to struggle, but he seems more stable now – I’m hopeful the worst has passed. He very much enjoyed my recounting of the Wright brothers' experiments, which gives me an excellent excuse to bother Nathan into taking me back sometime soon. Love,HattieNovember 1, 1900Dear Clara,The situation here is much improved! Adam finally has some color back in his face and is moving around the house on his own, though he tires quickly. With Adam increasingly mobile, Nathan has taken it upon himself to show me more of Kitty Hawk. As much as we both want to leave this sandy island town, he claims it has some redeeming factors.I do love the beach and the post office. The postmaster, Bill Tate, jokes that you and I alone keep him in business. His two little girls, Pauline and Irene, are both in the habit of hugging me around the knees every time I stop by.As for the beach, it’s simply breathtaking: picture white sands and unending waves and the most beautiful sunsets. Nathan and I have taken to frequenting the one closest to his home after dinner.How is home? You say not to worry, but I feel terrible for foisting my teaching load upon you. I can only hope your role in Ruth's wedding planning hasn't been too wearisome – it’s just like your sister to plan something needlessly elaborate, isn’t it? Sending love from Kitty Hawk,HattieNovember 4, 1900Hattie,And you claim that Kitty Hawk is dull and lonesome! I can hardly picture the flying machine that you’ve described, much less believe it. Is there any chance you can get your hands on one of the photographs? Am scribbling this reply under the guise of writing out invitations – Ruth has been a terror. But so, so relieved to hear that Adam is improving. My fingers are crossed to have you home soon. Miss you dearly.Love,ClaraNovember 14, 1900Dear Clara,We’re coming home! My friend, I simply cannot wait to see you - I've dearly missed your hugs, your teasing, and your wisdom.At last, Adam seems healthy enough to make the journey back. Nathan has offered to accompany us home to ensure everyone’s safety. It's funny, now, to think that I couldn’t stand Kitty Hawk when I first arrived. Sand and fish everywhere, and no books in sight - it hardly felt like civilization at all! But I nearly cried saying goodbye to Greta, Anna, and Emma. Even the thought of never seeing Bill Tate again has me a little teary.I have a confession to make. You have teased me all along about Nathan, but I think you were right, and I am just the last one to see it. How quickly a person can entrench themselves in your life – my heart aches at the thought of saying goodbye.Still, I am above all so thankful that Adam has recovered. There were certainly moments when it seemed unlikely.Sending love from Kitty Hawk one last time,HattieNovember 30, 1900Dear Nathan,Thank you again for seeing us home – it was wonderful to have you in Richmond! I only wish you had been able to stay long enough to meet Clara, who has heard so much about you in my letters.I have already tried (and failed) to articulate my thanks to you in person, and I don’t expect I’ll have any more luck on paper. On top of everything that you did for me and my brother, you made Kitty Hawk seem like home despite the circumstances. Perhaps I disremember, but here the stars seem half as bright as compared to Kitty Hawk; the sunsets dull in comparison. I miss the sound of the ocean, but I miss you more.Give my love to Anna, Emma, and Greta. Yours,HattieDecember 12, 1900Dear Hattie,It was my pleasure. Greta won’t stop talking about visiting you and Adam, and I’m inclined to agree. Kitty Hawk is quiet without you.You said to me once that Kitty Hawk seemed a world away from home, as foreign as any place on the other side of the Atlantic. That there is even a strange bend to the way us locals talk, unfamiliar words and sayings, like “hoi toide” in place of “high tide.” Did you notice that you slipped into the Kitty Hawk way of speaking in your letter? “Disremember” instead of “forget”?I wish the Wright brothers had made even more miraculous progress on their flying machine, so I might fly to you now.Yours,Nathan
","August 26, 2023 03:55","[[{'Vicky Chen': 'This was wonderfully entertaining. I can’t imagine how you manage to bring to life these characters in such short writing. Kudos!', 'time': '10:22 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",zlbmpd,My letter to Abhi,Subroto Sinha,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zlbmpd/,/short-story/zlbmpd/,Historical Fiction,0,['Historical Fiction'],3 likes,"
 Dear Abhi,
I received your email and from its contents I inferred that you are very disappointed and perturbed now. The reasons seem to be manyfold but the important ones, I gather, are the following:
1.    Your strained relationship with your boss, whom you suspect to have been instrumental in depriving you of a deserved promotion.
2.    Lack of freedom and encouragement to pursue innovative work in your project.
3.    Your perceived notion that your views are deliberately ignored while discussing your project.
These problems are relatively small when compared to the colossal problems faced by most people, including myself, when I was of your age several decades ago. I shall take you to an important historical event and the role played by one of the greatest leaders in our country, Subhas Chandra Bose.  
Subhas Bose was born into wealth and privilege in a large Bengali family in Orissa during the British rule in India. He was educated in the best schools and colleges, where he excelled in his studies. Like other privileged children of that era, he also went to England to appear for the Indian Civil Services examination (ICS) and return to India to join the elite service. He succeeded with distinction in the vital first examination and was preparing for the second when he received some disturbing news from India concerning the ill-treatment of Indian nationals and the strong protests made by the Indian National Congress party, led by Mahatma Gandhi, to the British Indian government.  The news excited his nationalism, and he decided not to appear for the ICS examination and return to India to join the Indian National Congress (INC) and fight against the British imperialism.
After joining INC, his first task was to meet the Congress working committee members and discuss what actions should be taken by the party. However, he was not happy with Mahatma Gandhi’s views of relying upon satyagraha or non-violence movement to register its protest. He believed in active retaliation.
“For an enslaved people, there can be no greater pride, no lighter honor, than to be the first soldier in the army of liberation.” 
The CWC were not in favor of opposing Gandhi’s views, compelling him to resign from the party and take his own action to liberate the country from British rule. Most of the people who have lived so many years in the British rule, it was an honor for them to be the first soldier in the army of liberation.  He chose to abandon the luxurious life as an ICS officer and follow the dictates of his conscience to lead a rough, uncertain life in quest of liberating the country and the people from British rule.
Subhas Bose, or Netaji (leader), as he was affectionately called, built the first-ever force against the British and named it, Azad Hind Fauj, (Independent Indian Army). He instilled in them great patriotism and inclusiveness. These were his words:
“When we stand, the Azad Hind Fauj, must be like a wall of granite, when we march, the Fauj has to be like a steamroller.” 
Netaji was aware of the fact that with the “Azad Hind Fauj” alone it was not possible to fight the British army. He decided to form the “Indian National Army” (INA) comprising of Indian soldiers who fought in the British Indian Army and deserted the force to join INA at the call of Netaji. He also needed help from a big Axis power during World War II like Germany, or Japan to assist INA in the task of liberation. In 1941 he arrived in Nazi Germany to request help. He received equivocal sympathy for India’s independence and German funds were employed to open a “Free India Centre” in Berlin. A 3000-strong “Free India Legion” was recruited from among the POWs who were captured in the German campaign in North Africa against the British army. 
In 1942 a radio service, “Free India Radio” was started under the leadership of Netaji and Adolf Hitler, which broadcast news bulletins in all Indian languages to encourage Indians to fight for the Axis powers.  On October 21, 1943, Netaji proclaimed the establishment of a provisional independent Indian Government, with headquarters in Japanese occupied Singapore and recognized by the Axis powers. Although it was short-lived owing to the defeat of Japan, it was the first independent India Government, with Subhas Bose as its Prime Minister.
Netaji was respected as a great iconic leader with undoubted patriotism and intense desire to see his motherland liberated from the British rule. However, his effort to seek help from fascist countries like Germany and Japan evoked criticism from various quarters including INC. The British government branded him as a traitor, which stuck to his name even after India became an independent nation governed by the principles of democracy.  In the case of Nazi Germany, the annihilation of millions of Jews in concentration camps worked against Netaji’s effort to seek help from the same people who committed those heinous crimes against humanity.
In reply to the INC’s satyagraha approach to achieve freedom, Netaji tells:
“No real change in history can be achieved by discussions. It is blood alone that can pay the price of freedom. Give me blood and I will give you freedom.”   
In other words, Netaji emphasized that no ruler will willingly give up his sovereignty unless he is convinced of violent reactions if he continues to hold on to his empire. It is imperative to demonstrate this threat realistically.
“Freedom is not given – it has to be taken.” 
When somebody raised the point about so many people losing their lives in the battles, who may never see the fulfilment of the purpose of the battles, he said:
“One individual may die for an idea, but that idea will, after his death, incarnate itself in a thousand lives.  Life loses half its interest if there is no struggle – if there are no risks to be taken.”
These words emphasize the fact that life is full of hardships and struggle. You have to take risks to be able to achieve your goal. If while executing the idea the individual dies, then that idea is communicated to thousands of others who will be inspired by it and continue the idea to its logical end.
“Remember that the grossest crime is to compromise with injustice and wrong. Remember the eternal law: You must give if you want to get.”.   
When someone asked him why the INA was joining the Japanese forces in the south Asian front, he replied: “The secret of political bargaining is to look stronger than what you are.”    
Japan had overrun the countries in entire east Pacific region and was attacking the British empire through Singapore and Burma. The joint armed forces will appear formidable, enough to send them into a panic.
*********
Now, after going through the life sketch of Subhas Bose what are the inferences you can draw:
1.    If you are not on the same page with the leader of your party, regarding handling a particular problem, and you are convinced about your action plan, then it is best to leave the party and form your own group under your leadership. Then you can pursue your action plan in your own way and ensure success.
2.    Freedom of thought is essential for the citizens of any country if it wants to make progress. This is only possible if the country is independent and not ruled by a foreign power. If the country is not free, then there are two alternatives. Either make the country free by undergoing all the necessary sacrifices or compromise your principles and accept the sovereignty of the foreign power along with all its drawbacks. 
3.    While framing your action plan you must look at the priorities in assessing the benefits. When your house catches fire your first task is to seek help to escape from the burning inferno. That is not the time to decide if the helper is a good man or a murderer! Generally, even murderers like to do good work on such occasions and would not take advantage. You can discuss the conditions for help, after you are safe. You need not be under pressure to accept his conditions if they are unfavorable.
4.    There are always risks in any action plan. If you fail once, you can change the action plan and try again. Risks should not be a deterrent to your action plan.
I hope your problems will be solved after considering the inferences from the life of Netaji. In case you wish to seek any further clarifications, please do not hesitate to write to me. I am always at your service to help you.
 
Yours’ lovingly,
Dad
","August 25, 2023 06:13",[]
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",qbz4hs,Thoughts & Decisions,Tyler Ellis,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qbz4hs/,/short-story/qbz4hs/,Historical Fiction,0,"['American', 'Contemporary', 'Sad']",3 likes,"
September 18, 2001
 
Nathan,
 
I did not do it. I cannot tell you if I will, and I cannot tell you if I will not. After the way we left it that last night at home, I considered not even telling you. Considering everything that has happened, it made me rethink everything. I know you will be upset that I did not go through with it, but I still have time. I just need to think about things. I am writing to you now because it’s the only real way I know how to tell you how I feel without being distracted or without you interrupting me. I know that is not completely fair, but I just need to get all of this off my chest. You can hate me if you want, I figured you already do. 
 
When I left my dorm that day to walk to the clinic, it was like walking underwater. I had no real sense of what was going on around me. I was completely consumed with what I was about to do. And yes, what I was about to do. It is just me going through it. You are not here, and you did not want to be. All you were concerned about was making sure I went through with it.
 
I floated through the crowds. I could not tell if I was high up above everyone around me or sunken beneath them all. I just knew I was on a different plane. But, when I heard the explosions and saw the smoke, I knew something had changed. I could not tell you what that something was, but I know I felt it. I had no idea what was going on. I thought about calling you right then and there but chickened out. I tried calling my mom, but I had no service and it looked like others were having the same problem.
 
I went on for a few more blocks towards the clinic and when I arrived, everyone, patients, nurses, doctors, delivery men, were all standing in the waiting room, all staring at the little tv fixed to the upper corner of the room above a fish tank. Someone had turned the volume up as loud as it could go. All I heard was accident, malfunction, war. A nurse flipped through the news channels and every talking head said something different. Some claimed we were under attack. I turned around and left. I walked back to my dorm in the same daze that I walked to the clinic in, but this time consumed with a different type of anxiety and fear. It was the not knowing.
 
It took until that night, while sitting in the lounge with Christy and Brenna and the rest of the hall, to find out what had actually happened. Or what we were told happened. The World Trade Center was gone, the Pentagon attacked. It all seemed so surreal, who would attack us? Isn’t America the worlds protector and friend? It did not make sense to any of us. 
 
Anyways, that was a week ago, and we have been glued to that tv since. Classes were cancelled indefinitely. The only job we have now is to sit and fester about what is happening to our city and this country. I am scared and anxious, but my mind still drifts towards thoughts of you and how we would be as parents. I know that is the last thing you want to hear but that is why I thought a letter would be the most appropriate way to tell you. When my dad was overseas, he would send me postcards and letters letting me know what he was doing and how much he missed me. This did nothing to ease my ache for him, but the letters became the physical manifestation of our bond. Each postcard a hug, each letter an intimate conversation we may not have ever had at home. He would ramble about his hopes and fears, and this is what led me to write you this letter. Just seems like the right canvas for what I was trying to express all along.
 
My friends would call me stupid, but I still have feelings for you. Not sure if it is still love or if the arguments or the attack fossilized that love to hate. I just do not really know what to feel anymore. I know this is not what you wanted to hear. You made your feelings on the situation clear the night before you went back to school. I am not saying I won’t go through with it, but I’m not saying I will either. One thing that became clear in the moment when I heard the explosions and saw the smoke rise above the buildings was that we are all inherently alone. You helped make what is growing inside of me, but that is just it, its inside of me. I know I am alone in whatever I decide. I am not looking to pick a fight or get your sympathy. Or even your opinion which frankly I have had enough of. This letter is just as much about my own catharsis for what happened as it is about telling you that I did not make it to the appointment.
 
There is just so much death in the world now. Part of me cannot bear to throw a baby on top of the piles of dead bodies they keep showing on the news. But is this really a world I want to bring a child into? My philosophy professor would get a real kick out of this one, a problem with no right or wrong answer. Just a decision that needs to be made. One choice involves doing absolutely nothing, but I then have to take care of a brand-new human for 18 years. Or I do one of the most difficult things a woman can do within the next three weeks, and I can live my life baby-free. Either way, I will be the one with the baggage. Whether it is a kid I have to lug around or the burden of knowing I said no to that kid and never gave them a chance. There are no real options, the only thing I know is that its my decision to make and they are my consequences to deal with. 
 
Respond if you want, or do not. I am not asking permission or seeking forgiveness. Honestly, I would probably prefer if I never heard from you again but it’s a free country, apparently. Some of us carry burdens, some of us do not. Maybe it’s just freer for some than it is for others.
 
L. P.
","August 25, 2023 18:21",[]
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",h6yz7q,The red and pink carnations postcard,Rebeca Patrascanu,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/h6yz7q/,/short-story/h6yz7q/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Friendship', 'Historical Fiction']",3 likes,"
2nd of February 1989 Remember that beautiful postcard we found last September, the one I sent Mircea, with the red and pink carnations? Well, he sent it back without even signing it, the pig. Can you believe him? Anyway, since you liked it so much, I put it in the envelope with this letter. You have it. I don’t even want to look at it anymore. That jerk doesn’t deserve it. Or any of my attention. I can’t believe I said I loved him. I really don’t. I’ve talked to father to put in a good word for him with comrade Vasiu for a Fram fridge. You know how my dad is. I had to beg him for 3 days; kept telling me he was going to owe comrade Vasiu, even though I told him Mircea had money to pay himself. He got really mad. And I'm the fool who got scolded for a prick who doesn’t even bother to call and say thank you. In fact, he hasn’t called me in over a week. I’m not going to suffer any longer. If he doesn’t want us to be together, he should say so. What a prick. Do you think I should call him sometime? I really think I should. Just to tell him I don’t need to see him anymore. He never liked me talking so much. And that I’m not allowed to stay out past 9. As if it’s my fault father is strict. He's not even that strict, he lets me use the telephone whenever I want, you know that. The only thing I don’t like is when he has me go and stand in line for food in his place. Tomorrow is my turn again to go get some salami and a packet of butter, so I’ll have to wake up before 5 if I want to buy more than one of each. You’re so lucky to study abroad. I bet you don’t even have to wait to buy your rations there. You just walk up with your card and get served. Have you met a cute Hungarian yet? I joke, of course, your parents would kill you if you brought him back home. Anyway, write to me soon. I have no one else to talk to since Marius and Lucia left last week. They kept talking about going abroad to their relatives in Austria. Not to me, just between themselves. But you know I’m a nosey rosey. Anyway, they had no car, so I thought they were joking. Or at least that it would take longer for them to leave. You know how long it takes for a passport. And that you have to bribe them with something. Dad denies it but I know. I know he gave the butcher some chocolates too, the ones I got for my birthday, just for an extra piece of salami. Anyway, I didn’t think they’d leave so soon and without even saying goodbye. But I saw them Thursday morning rushing to some car. I didn’t know the guy who was driving. Some other friend, I suppose. Dad was talking to comrade Nicolae, that quiet neighbour on the third floor, and I heard him say they were going to get caught at the border. I’m not sure what he meant. Obviously, I’m not stupid, I know you’ve told me the militia surveillance has become very severe, but they’re not felons. Why would they get caught? What for? Anyway, maybe I’ve misheard him. It's happened before. Like when I thought he said to mother Uncle Liviu got questioned and then disappeared for a few days. And then it turned out he had been to the seaside. Mother told me. Though she didn’t want to discuss him anymore. Which is fine, we barely talk anyway. Please send me pictures from Budapest. I want to see everything you’ve visited so far! Oh, how I wish I were there with you. Then I'm sure I would forget about Mircea. Kisses, Mirunica 26th of September 1989 I’m so sorry I forgot to send the postcard with the last letter. I'm going to send it with this one. I don’t have much time because I must leave in a few minutes for a trip to Timisoara, but I couldn’t resist not telling you: I met a boy, his name is Radu and he is so handsome, with dark hair, not like that blond brute, Mircea. I hate him, by the way. So, we met when I went to enrol in university. He was assisting a professor, handing out some tickets to the Freshmen Ball. He is so smart and cunning, Ioana, and likes to read, which is a bit boring, but at least he doesn’t do it when he’s with me. He also plays football and he’s so much better at it than Mircea. That prick looked like he had two left feet. Anyway, I definitely don’t have feelings for him anymore, because Radu is so much better. He is taking me on a trip with his group of friends and we’re going to Timisoara to meet with other students. He’s a little secretive about it like we’re the only ones who are supposed to know about it. But it’s alright, I trust him, and he trusts me. We make such a cute couple, everyone says so. Well, not my parents, because Radu told me not to tell them about us yet. But all his friends say we are cute together. I have to go now. But I’m so happy, Ioana! I’m sending you many kisses. Yours, Mirunica 12th of December 1989 My sweet friend, I don’t understand how I have already sent you three letters and you haven’t bothered to write at least one to me. Have I upset you somehow? I’ve sent you the postcard with the red and pink carnations. I've even sprayed some of my mom’s perfume on it. I don’t think she’s noticed. Father kept saying I’ll probably get one for Christmas, but fat chance of that now. He came home yesterday and said comrade foreman Vasiu gave the promotion to someone else. Direct orders from higher-ups. So father got drunk again and finished both bottles of palinka. Of course, mother is mad and hasn’t spoken to him since, because now she has no drinks to serve our relatives when they come over on Christmas Day. I for one couldn’t care less. You know how Uncle Remus always tries to toast me a shot though I've said time and again I don’t like alcohol. It’s really bad for my complexion. Anyway, Radu said there’s going to be another trip to Timisoara before Christmas and he’s leaving with his friends, but this time he hasn’t invited me. I don’t understand why. I've kept thinking about it and haven’t been able to sleep. I feel all my friends are deserting me. Today was the first snow of the year and I wanted to invite Radu out and walk around romantically, like they do in the movies. But he said he can’t, he has serious business to prepare for, and that things are happening, and change is coming. He always talks like that. I barely understand him half the time. It's the beginning of December and it’s snowing so obviously things are changing.Also, I don’t understand why I can’t go with him to Timisoara again. When we went the first time, I was really bored because we barely got to see anything or go anywhere. All Radu and his friends did was meet at some guy’s tiny apartment every day we were there and talk. I don’t even know what about. Politics and people whose names I didn’t recognize. And they were all so serious all the time. I couldn’t tell a joke or convince them to eat the roulade I had made. They were all so preoccupied. I was going crazy. But this time I wanted to go sightseeing with Radu. He used to be so light-hearted and funny when we first met two months ago. Now all he cares about is writing and printing pamphlets and being secretive. He doesn’t tell me where he goes most days or with whom, he barely spends time with me and now he said I can’t go to Timisoara. He has the same friends, so it can’t be them who’ve changed him. In fact, they all act the same way. It really pisses me off. I'm his lover, he should give me more attention. He should call and invite me out to dance and stroll around with me while we talk about us. I am older now and more mature. I know how things should go and what we could do. And I know he doesn’t do them. I thought he would be better because he’s a second-year student. Maybe he doesn’t deserve me. Maybe he should just go to Timisoara and never come back if he likes it better without me. I'm so upset I could probably cry. Please, please write to me before Christmas. Miruna Sometime in 2002 Finally, I have some time to myself. I’m glad to hear the kids are settling in okay at their new school. I'm dreading the thought of having to take mine tomorrow for their first day at kindergarten. They haven’t learnt the language yet, so it will be difficult for them to make friends. But that’s a risk you take as an immigrant. Apart from everything else that can go wrong. Not that I wanted to leave in the first place, but how could Mihai say no to an opportunity like this? And I can’t play the role of the nagging wife who crushes his dream and keeps him close to the ground. I’ve never learnt my lesson. Remember Radu, the boyfriend I had in my first year of university? I couldn’t tie him down either. I sure know how to pick them. I wonder what became of him. You know we haven’t spoken since I last saw him the day he left for Timisoara back in 1989? How unlucky was he to go right before the riots began, right? I can’t imagine what a nasty trip that must have been. I still remember the noise from the gunshots and the broken glass, all the people shouting like madmen. It's given me nightmares. Father was right to make us leave after the trials and everything. How horrible to die like that and on Christmas too. I would’ve hated it. But it got my mind off Radu and made it easier to get over him. He never called or wrote to me after he got on that train to Timisoara. I should’ve seen the breakup coming from a mile away. We were simply incompatible. Anyway, that’s all in the past now. I'll send you my new address via email as soon as I manage to move all the boxes into the new apartment. Things are happening fast, and I feel I can barely keep up. The interior designer is supposed to come on Thursday to discuss the layout for the living room and Mihai is supposed to start work this Monday. So I might have to deal with it alone. P.S. I found that old picture of you by the Chain Bridge in Budapest. You're holding a postcard with red and pink carnations. I can’t believe we used to like those tacky things. I'll send it over, for old times’ sake. Kisses, Miruna
","August 26, 2023 00:11",[]
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",j6fbfa,Black as Ink,David Lontok,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/j6fbfa/,/short-story/j6fbfa/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Kids', 'Friendship']",2 likes,"
Hola, Gaspar,It has been a while.Gracias a Dios Señor Felipe, the mailman, agreed to take this letter to you. He just told me to leave it and a white blanket sticking out of a closed first-floor window. I hear that he’s willing to do the same with you if ever you wish to also send me a letter. Just do the blanket thingy like I do. No te preocupes, he only takes the letter.It’s a little weird. Señor Felipe wore a scarf over half of his face and these thick raggedy gloves. Well, he’s not alone. Papa ties his blanket around his neck like a cloak every time he goes to work, and as he reaches the streets, he keeps a rag pressed on his face.I miss Mama. It’s been days. She may be close by, but Papa told me not to open her door without him saying so. I sit still. I just talk to her past the walls. She talks back, but never in the words you can write down. Sometimes, I think it’s all groaning coming from her. I try to be I’m happy whenever I hear her voice, but on most days, it just isn’t enough.Being stuck in the house and alone somehow pulled me back to writing letters. At least my words could journey past the front door. I hope you’re doing well and hope to hear from you soon.Tu amigo,LucioP.S. What do you see outside your window?***Buenos dias, Lucio,Got your letter. And I trust the kind Señor Felipe brought you mine. It’s sad to hear about your mama. Maybe she just has a headache that gets worse whenever she sees sunlight. And moonlight too, maybe. Let her rest, amigo.It isn’t much paradise here, either. Like you, mi tio forbids me from leaving the house. Town rules, of course. I’m stuck taking care of Abuelita the whole day. Tio does all the working for food. He also came up with some weird fashion with this checkered hood over his cheeks. I may be missing a lot of school nowadays. But I know wrong when I see it.Mi tia is a great help around the house. I thought only the kids were banned from the streets. But Tia takes that rule to heart and stays indoors. She even shivered a couple of times just by touching the front door.Speaking of windows, I see a slouched man walking his pig outside mine. I see a couple of carriages hurrying past the road. I see a few civil guards walking far apart. And I see a house sparrow perched on a lamppost.Why did you ask? Anyway, I guess it’s you, me, and the letters from now on. Stay strong and less crazy.Atentamente,Gaspar***Hola, Gaspar,Say hi to your abuelita for me. I miss those honey-dipped Torrijas she makes whenever I come over. I could go for one right now. Mama still hasn’t come out yet. Papa just sneaks a tray of food and a pitcher of water into her room before he leaves for work. I tried to say hi to Mama as he opened the door earlier, but he shoved me carried me away.Lo siento if I’m ruining the mood.Hey, thanks for telling me your view. I needed to yawn today, gracias. Me? I see a castle sitting on top of a floating island and a silver dragon sleeping on its roof. The king is scratching his head outside. He might be wondering how to shoo the winged monster elsewhere. He called me outside a couple of times to help, but I told him that I was too busy writing.I told this to Mama through the walls before I told you. I still couldn’t catch what she was trying to say, but I could picture her smiling.It reminded me of our evening bonfires in the forest. You tried to make me and Pascual pee in our pants with your creepy stories, but I only did that once.I look forward to having such moments again. Y tu?Tu amigo,LucioP.S. Wanna check your window again?***Buenas noches, Lucio,I see someone’s been reading too many storybooks. Or have my campfire stories gotten to you and you’ve just fluffed them up with butterflies and rainbows?Ah, Pascual. I never knew a boy could say so much with his eyebrows and smirks while keeping his lips quiet. Remember the time we were skipping stones by the lake and his stones kept sinking as they hit the water? But he had the last laugh when he accidentally killed a fish with one. Sí, it’s a shame he and his family fled town. But I’m here and wondering if we should’ve done the same.As for Abuelita’s Torrijas with the honey, they never met any dish or tray ever since we stopped having guests over. I could tell her that you’re dying to dig into a few and promise to send them your way. But the temptation to eat them halfway to the door is strong, amigo. If ever I resist the urge, I can’t say that Señor Felipe will do the same.Before you start nagging, I did look out my window. Let me tell you about a road less busy. Let me tell you about Conchita and her mama from the other side hanging their wet clothes from windowsills. And you’ll want to hear this… a beggar stood guard near the Hermosa flower shop and kept scaring the bees away.But then I looked out again. Right past bedtime. A gang of civil guards wearing masks escorted a cart pulled by horses. Under the covers, a mountain of stuff seemed to be hiding. And when it passed by a lamppost, I think I saw a person’s limp arm swing down from the cargo with soot on its fingers.I stood frozen behind the glass even though nothing happened in the minutes that followed. But when I saw a fully clothed figure step out of a house across the street, I ran back to my bed. It stood like a man, wore black from top to bottom, and had this big beak of a bird.Lo siento it took me this long to send another. You might already know why.Atentamente,Gaspar***Hola, Gaspar,I don’t think you’ve noticed, but we are not near any campfire in the forest. That second view is so you. I still haven’t wet my pants yet in case you were wondering.Conchita, huh? Nice. Didn’t the days of you two looking at Hermosa’s flowers together blow any heart-shaped bubbles in your head? Once these rules are over, I’ll push you through the highs and lows into love, chico. Speaking of high, you won’t believe the buildings that are standing right outside our house. It’s just impossible to count the windows on their faces. Several of them already have their roofs in the clouds. Would it be crazy to think that giants are living inside of each one? Maybe. Ever seen store signs that light up at nightfall? I see them, but I’ll never know how they work. And boy, these self-driving carriages that roll without the horses are blowing my mind. Oh, I could picture you drooling over my window now.By the way, if any of those sweet Torrijas ever find their way here, I’ll give the first to Mama and get started on that long “Thank You” note to send you. Gotta help Papa with the dishes before he hits me now. Write back!Tu amigo,Lucio***Buenas noches, Lucio,Unlike some people I know, I am sure of what is going on outside my window. I pinched myself a few times and I stayed awake. Is there something they’re not telling us?Now, I’m telling you to quit it with me and Conchita. Does the “barely friends” part between her and me mean anything to you? I say “no” to your question and “no, thank you” to your offer.As for the view, I might need to borrow your window soon. I’m not looking out of mine these days.Just be safe, amigo. I hate to admit it. But I’m starting to see what Tia sees, feel what she feels. This time, I’m glad I’m not allowed outside.Atentamente,Gaspar***Hola, Gaspar,Please take it back. Take back what you said about the black figure with the bird’s beak.A horse neighed nearby, and I woke up. The front door creaked open. Then from the quietness of the night, Papa mumbled and footsteps walked deeper into the house. I opened my door a bit and took a peek. This black birdman wore a hat, and he stood beside Papa. Papa let him into Mama’s room. I wanted to stop the birdman, but I could not move. I hid behind my door while covering my ears as hard as I could.I didn’t bother counting the minutes, but when the front door slammed shut and hooves galloped away, I found the courage to go back out. Mama’s door let out some air. Mama walked out. The one who walked out looked like someone I knew. She was shaking. No, this couldn’t have been Mama I don't know her. I don’t know anyone who has inky patches of skin and bumps as big as eggs on the neck. I rushed to my room and tripped. I remember hitting my head, but I don’t remember laying it on my pillow. I sat up from my bed with a new day before me.Por favor. Take back what you said about the birdman outside your window. Tell me last night was just a nightmare. Tell me it wasn’t Mama. Dime, por favor.Tu amigo,Lucio***Buenas dias, Lucio,I wish I could, amigo. But we’re growing up. We can’t always close our eyes and dream the real world away. Big boys should take it as it is.But yes, my real and not-so-real stories are bound to give people nightmares. Lo siento por eso.Tia and Tio keep telling me about a band of child killers on the loose. I asked Tio the second time. And he didn’t change his answer. It didn’t look like he was lying. He often hides his face and blinks quickly when he tells a lie. Maybe the birdman is a secret hero who investigates the moves made by these child killers to stop them.I told Abuelita my theories. She just smiled with her eyes closed, nodded, and said “Problamente” more times than needed. She might not have meant it, but somehow, it helped me sleep soundly. But there was this one time when I kept one eye open, that night when I heard a scream and groaning coming from our neighbors. I called it a prank after getting a quick nap. Then I wondered why no one laughed after.I still haven’t looked out my window. But don’t let that stop you, daydreamer.Atentamente,GasparP.S. I’m scared too.***Hola, Gaspar,Papa said he didn’t carry me to bed that night. So maybe I never left it. I asked him about the birdman. He didn’t know anything about it. It was just a nightmare. That doesn’t mean he’s not out there. I’d like to believe you. That he’s a hero.Tienes razon. We are growing up. I used to sleep three hours before midnight, but now I stay up one hour more. I used to peel the apple before eating it, but now I bite through its skin like a beast. I used to clean my teeth with a wet rag alone, now I wipe them with rags saltier than the sea.Now I see a cavernous cave lit by flowing lava outside my window. Mushrooms sticking out from the up and down spikes and glowing in yellow. Rocks floating on the river of lava. I see glimpses of Mama carrying me past my bedtime. The ink has gotten to my hands, I think. I need to I’ll just lie down, chico grande.Tu amigo,LucioP.S. Tell me what’s outside your window, por favor. Gracias.***Buenas noches, Lucio,You might want to put that pen back into your right hand, amigo. Be glad I’m good at reading past the squiggles.So your house is inside a volcano now, huh? Neat. The glowing mushrooms could go well with Tia’s Champiñones al Ajillo. Imagine a dish that could turn the heads of the entire town. They’ll be so jealous.Sounds peaceful, though. Your Mama carrying you. My heart could melt.And again with the window. You’ll be glad to know that I did take a peek. I knew not much could haunt me during dinnertime. I saw a cloudy night sky, windows of houses, and merchants pushing their carts. I’ll rest well tonight and write more soon. Now, I have to wash this blanket. Señor Felipe might not see it as white anymore.Atentamente,Gaspar***Buenas dias, Lucio,I may be impatient, but it’s been three days. I was hoping to hear from you again before telling you about the birdman exiting a carriage and knocking on a nearby house. People really let him in. I knew he wasn’t dangerous.But I had no idea what he and a few of his men dragged out after the visit. It looked like a long sack of potatoes. It might be a love gift. Then he is a well-loved hero! Maybe he scared off one of the child killers in that house. I told Tio to ask around to help turn my guesses into facts. He said that he was too busy. I threw a bit of a tantrum after that.Can’t wait to hear what you think.Atentamente,Gaspar***Buenas dias, Lucio,It has been a while.Tell me if I said something, sí? Fine, listen. Outside my window, I see diamond-shaped lights floating between the many trees. The owls are forced to squint as they pass by. It’s as if a starry night is hiding inside a tall forest. There.Increíble. Did you get goosebumps too? I see now why you love this. I'd like to see you beat that, hijo.Atentamente,Gaspar***Buenas dias, Lucio,I talked to Señor Felipe. Wondering if he keeps forgetting your letters. He said he had not seen your blanket poking out of the window for almost two weeks.Need to borrow one? Or do you need a refill of ink? “Problamente,” Abuelita had said many times.I think I’m running out of words. You have more, right? At least a dozen? Don’t hold back, por favor. Tease me about Conchita. Crave for Torrijas. Talk about my campfire stories. Write back soon, I beg you, mi amigo.Atentamente,GasparP.S. What do you see outside your window?
","August 25, 2023 18:07",[]
prompt_0019,"Write an epistolary story set during a major historical event. The event may be the subject of the letters directly, or be referenced in the background.",ocrcf8,Fax,Nick Baldino,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ocrcf8/,/short-story/ocrcf8/,Historical Fiction,0,"['Historical Fiction', 'Contemporary', 'American']",2 likes,"
FaxTo: Marty Gilbert                                          From: Benny CroftmanFax: 97840Company: Citi BankDate: September 7, 2001Subject: Make me a stiff oneMarty,It’s Friday, I’m 58, and I’m still dogging around like it’s my first week in the Apple. Woe is me- let’s grab an old fashioned when you’re out.In other news, Citi’s utility division could use a jump. Thinking about eating up some of this sliding Enron stock. 2,500 should be appropriate. Thoughts?-Benny----------------------------------------------------------------FaxTo: Benny Croftman                                   From: Marty GilbertFax: 86790Company: Morgan StanleyDate: September 10, 2001Subject: Enron’s for AssholesBenny,Enron is rotting from the inside out. The only reason it still looks fresh is because the talking heads have their pockets loaded. Lace up those running shoes and run far, far away from that stock.American Electric Power is trading well. Sniff that out- selling at 48.53 on this fine Friday evening.Looking out from the Center and wondering why the hell I’m still here. It’s Tuscan blue all around, and I’ve got dogs at home that need walking. Rain check on the whiskey.-Marty----------------------------------------------------------------FaxTo: Marty Gilbert                                          From: Benny CroftmanFax: 97840Company: Citi BankDate: September 10, 2001Subject: American Electric PowerMarty,Good advice on Enron. I’ll steer clear.I like where your heads at. I need 2,000 shares of AEP at 47.50. Still trying to size up Citi’s utility portfolio. They’re pretty hungry. If you can make it happen, let’s hop on the horn. P.S. How’d that Jets blowout feel? Stomped on by the Colts, of all teams- you owe me a shot next time I’m in Manhattan.-Benny----------------------------------------------------------------FaxTo: Benny Croftman                                    From: Marty GilbertFax: 86790Company: Morgan StanleyDate: September 10, 2001Subject: Fuck YouBenny,The market’s running hot for AEP. I can get you 48.40- anything more and my boss will have me eating ticker tape.Does Citi need any tech liquidity? We’ll give you a good price for Subcom if you’re overburdened. Think about it. I’ll call you at noon.P.S. The season is early. The only shot I’m giving you is a knuckle to the face when we cook you in the playoffs.-Marty----------------------------------------------------------------FaxTo: Marty Gilbert                                           From: Benny CroftmanFax: 97840Company: Citi BankDate: September 11, 2001Subject: Where to Go?Marty,Pete Major over at Fidelity is floating a short on some manufacturing stocks. Are you rebel rousers dipping your toes in such madness?Just feeling the wind. Honestly, my portfolio looks pretty good right now. If it holds steady I might be able to close up shop this year. I doubt it- there’s too many goys in this office that are trying to screw me.Can’t feel unhappy with this weather. These are the days that make a man believe winter will never come. Take a sick day and enjoy it with the pups.-Benny----------------------------------------------------------------FaxTo: Marty Gilbert                                     From: Benny CroftmanFax: 97840Company: Citi BankDate: September 11, 2001Subject: UrgentTried calling you Marty. Are you OK?Call me when you’re on the ground floor. ---------------------------------------------------------------FaxTo: Marty Gilbert                                          From: Benny CroftmanFax: 97840Company: Citi BankDate: September 20, 2001Subject: End of DaysMarty,Drove out to Hoboken this morning. I hate that town- the dirty wet houses, the curdling meat, the echoes of Sinatra- but what I hated more was seeing that gap-toothed skyline. It was like seeing my mother with two black eyes, blind and crying.I sat next to an older Italian woman on a bench near the riverwalk. We were quiet- the city had that feel these days, of something to be said but no one wanting to say it- until she spoke up. Told me she had watched it all happen from that bench last week. The first, and then the second. I asked her what it had looked like. She said she’d expected more fire. Instead, it was all smoke and dust and gray, marching across the city like a legion.I don’t think that gray will ever leave the city. At least for me it won’t. Every coffee shop, every streetlight, every seat in Madison Square will have some remnant of that gray dust upon it. And within that gray is you. I want to cry, Marty, but I just don’t feel like crying.I wish you took that sick day.-Benny ---------------------------------------------------------------FaxTo: Marty Gilbert                                       From: Benny CroftmanFax: 97840Company: Citi BankDate: October 2, 2001Subject: BurnMarty,Last night, they showed the planners on the news. They’re these short little Arabians, and without their tan skin, they could pass for one of us. Curly hair, dark black beards, Coke bottle glasses. The only difference is our faith would never allow something like this. Talking heads say it’s a modern Holocaust- I’m sure you would call that “hyperbolic”. Still, I wouldn’t mind hanging each one by their necks under the Brooklyn bridge.I picked up your dogs yesterday. Your landlady was nice enough to hold onto them- told me she was “sorry for my loss.” I think she was more upset about losing a tenant. Who wouldn’t be in this climate? New York is bad stock, and people have laced up their running shoes.On the elevator down, your dogs were going apeshit. Your beagle Lucy paced around, tying me up in her leash, and Miles, the French Brittany, patted at the door with both paws. You can never know what a dog is thinking, but I think they knew. It made me want to scream, scrape the moss from my soul and send it flying. That’s when the elevator dinged, and a young executive entered inside. Her back was straight, her shoulder pads poised, and on her lips was a zipper, tight as her blond bun. Yet as she turned towards the door, I caught her gaze, and I recognized it. It was the same look I’d gotten from every passerby in the city these last few weeks.We could all use a nice, long scream.-Benny ---------------------------------------------------------------FaxTo: Marty Gilbert                                           From: Benny CroftmanFax: 97840Company: Citi BankDate: October 12, 2001Subject: Business as UsualMarty,We’re back in office. There is chatter again- less lively, but it’s something. Conversation steers clear of the past month, and yet it always ends there. Did you know someone? Are we going to war? How long will this take to heal?I hate that last one the most. It triggers something in me because I see you, trapped under ten thousand pounds of steel girder, and I know there’s no healing that. You are dead, and if you aren’t dust already, you’ll be part of the foundation for whatever memorial they end up building there. You’re a casualty, and I guess in a strange way, so am I.I still fax you, fully knowing that your machine is a million shavings of metal hanging on the scruff of firemen coats. I still fax you because that’s how we always did business. We weren’t Internet yuppies like the rest of the office- we were old school, cocktails on a Friday, bagels and football and family kind of people. We used the fax machine because it worked.People didn’t used to stare when I’d fax a document at the front of the office. Now they do- they know I only sent faxes to one place, and that one place doesn’t exist anymore.Baruch Dayan Ha’emet.-Benny ---------------------------------------------------------------FaxTo: Marty Gilbert                                             From: Benny CroftmanFax: 97840Company: Citi BankDate: November 11, 2001Subject: RipplesMarty,I came into work today at 8:30 AM. Sent some messages, had a phone call with Leeman Brothers, perused market opinion. Lunch was tuna on rye and a Coke. After lunch I met with my manager, and then went back to my desk. Spoke with Tommy at the water cooler. Made some buy, sell, and hold ratings. Picked up some airline stock. When work was over I went home, walked the dogs, watched some Charlie Rose, and went to bed.Sounds nice in hindsight. It’s too bad I wasn’t there for any of it. It was another person, another Benny that replaced me when all this shit went down. He sees the world like a dog would- in faint gray outlines, without mind or structure. I remember your French Brittany, patting against the door, and I find that with each mouse click, each weather conversation with Tommy, I am striking the same exit.On the subway home, I sat next to a bus boy at an Italian spot downtown. On his black dress shirt were splats of marinara and cooking grease. He was reading a TIME magazine article of a place with long, golden plains and strutting camelback mountains. I asked him where it was. “Montana,” he said. The glossy page folded over itself, showing an icy clear lake peppered with slanting pines. “Have you ever been?” I said. “I always wanted to,” he said, closing the book. “But the city’s crumbling. I don’t want to leave my mom here all alone.”I looked out the window, each subway light a star to be wished upon. It was the only time I’d felt awake all month.-Benny ---------------------------------------------------------------FaxTo: Marty Gilbert                                            From: Benny CroftmanFax: 97840Company: Citi BankDate: December 2, 2001Subject: Hollowed OutMarty,They put the Rockefeller tree up last week. It’s patriotic as hell, practically boiling in red, white, and blue. The town seems to like it, although I’m sure you’d say that plays into Giuliani’s hand some way or another. Luckily, you’re dead, so you won’t have to worry about that.Snow is starting to crust up on the streets, and everyone notices the gray tint that hallmarks every flake. No one’s talking about it, and I won’t be the one to start the conversation. I’m happy to see people smiling, and I’ve got other things on my mind. Whiter snow is on the horizon.Montana. That’s where I’m going. Ol’Benny is out there, waiting for me, and I want to find him again. I’m taking the two dogs (Lucy won’t like it, but Miles will be right at home) to a ranch house fifty miles outside Bozeman. It’s a cozy place, with a built-in heater in the floorboards (some things a New Yorker will never give up) and cedar paneling that accents the granite leviathans surrounding it. I’ll try to wait out some of the cold, but I already put a down payment for February, so I’ll hit the snow regardless.I stared through the hallways of my flat today. Most of the furniture I’ve sold, aside from my La-Z-Boy and a mattress that I’ll throw out day-of. It’s eerie in the dark- there used to be a hum that no longer lives here. I’d imagine it left with the furniture, but we both know that’s a lie. It died when our city died.An empty place like this will make a good home for a newcomer. Just not for me.-Benny ---------------------------------------------------------------Marty GilbertMorgan StanleyMetropolitan Club, 4, East 60th StreetNew York, NY 10065March 28th, 2002Mr. Benny CroftmanRetired8600 Fowler LaneBozeman, MT 59718Marty,It feels strange writing you a letter, licking it with cold cracked lip, and sending it to you without hearing so much as a keyboard tapping or the screech of a fax machine. It’s better this way, I know, to indulge in this quiet. I’m sure you won’t be offended if this is the last letter I send you. I am watching your two pups play outside my window in the frozen yellow grass. I was surprised, as I’m sure you would be, at how they get along here. Miles jumps on Lucy’s rear legs, softly snapping at her tail, and instead of pouting, Lucy makes off through the newly thawed field, soft spring light shining on her back in rainbow splinters. This new world is magnetic, this Montana. Sometimes I fear I will never leave.I still think about you daily. Yesterday, I was out by the lake, spot fishing trout on a dead brown stump, and as wisps of smoke billowed from my nose, I recalled that cigar we shared at the Diamond Lounge on Eighth Street. The Jets had just put away a game-ending field goal, and you pulled two Cubans from your coat pocket with that salt lick smile you loved to tout. I asked how you knew to bring them. You never answered- just cut the tips and handed one to me. We sparked up and laughed until dawn.I’m not sure when I’ll head back to the city. At times, I consider it, but then I remember that blond-haired gaze, that Italian skyline, the sidewalks that cracked three blocks over. That’s not how I want to remember you. I want to remember you with that cigar in your mouth, your Groucho Marx eyebrows strung out wide, and a fax machine between your lips. You were more than a wading pool and an etched name on granite. You were Marty fucking Gilbert, and you would have loved it here.Words from a friend,-Benny
","August 25, 2023 21:22",[]