“This is it, Big Louie’s private speakeasy. One of those illegal gin joints back in the 1920’s and 30’s. In its day, this place was the cat’s meow. The police padlocked the steel door and bricked up the back door within days after the murder. There are no other entrances. They never came back to investigate. They concluded that it was Big Louie’s gun, and Big Louie committed the murder as a show, and that was that.“

Sir Francis Drake sat in the moonlight, watching as the movement of the Defiance made his claret swish back and forth in the exquisitely chased silver goblet he’d stolen years ago from the Spaniards. He’d tried to get more treasure this trip, tried to take it from the Dons at San Juan harbor. What a fiasco that had proved.

A cannonball had nearly ended him. But his infamous luck had held out. he hadn’t been in bed when the great ball of iron tore through the hull and landed where he should have been lying.

The Good of Sparta

There are some tasks that a man must do alone.
These are the moments that define whether one understands the truth or lives a lie. Whether one is able to bow to the will of the Gods or is unable to understand that the will of the gods will come to pass regardless of the resistance of any mortal. That Sparta shall be protected, now and forever. The way of Sparta is as it must be: absolute, unwavering. This is reflected in the glory of the city. A monolith, forever mighty.

Spiking the Guns
by C.J. Cutcliffe Hyne
read by Shawn Robertson

“The regiment will be annihilated,” observed the Adjutant, coolly. And then, in the same immovable tones, he asked someone to pass him a biscuit.

In my experience, those who beg for mercy seldom deserve it.

They’d told Wayland these were the last words Rebecca heard, before she died and night after night those words and her desperate gasps hunted him through his nightmares. That year, though, fate was to offer him up a full revenge. Revenge is, as they say, is a dish best served cold.

Summer of 1647 it was, a period of some small respite from the English civil war, at least in the county of Essex. Wayland, the village blacksmith, had returned from his service with the Parliamentary forces. His young son, a crouched, smoky shape in a corner of the smithy, was watching the sharp white sparks fly into the soft fleshy-red of the furnace. Neither spoke – the boy sensing perhaps that his father was somehow trying to hammer out more than the molten iron. Thirty roughly-formed pike points lay waiting because Wayland still couldn’t bring himself to work the finer stuff. Instead, he pounded on, absorbed. Only when he rested the hammer did he hear the disturbance outside. The smithy door burst open and the sudden light threw a shaft of fizzing dust across the coke-dark smithy. Instantly, the boy drew back into a corner. Three men crashed in, only to stop short, squinting through the light. These men were not built strong like Wayland; they’d grown up pale and spindly, like rye sprouts under a bucket.

‘The Bull McGee is back in town!’

I was sat in a coffee shop in the High Street, near the docks, when young Billy Smith came bursting in with that news. Every head in that crowded place turned to look at him when he shouted thus and about half of them, those in the know, turned to look at me straight after. I paused with a mug halfway to my mouth as a terrible premonition came to me of my own headstone. It read: ‘John Jackson. Born 15th June 1730, Gloucester; Died 2nd September 1752, Bristol.’

It was not a pleasant vision.

After the Emperor learned of my refuge at the Diamond Silence
Cloister, he dispatched a different son each year to seek my hand in
marriage.

Three Manchurian princes and their cavalry had come and gone. They
would arrive not long after the full moon on the tenth month, bearing
lavish provisions to bribe the Abbess into giving me up, but they
would be gone before the first flurries of snow settled on our
cloister’s rooftop.

For generations my people lived in Mesa Verde inside the deep caves beneath sedimentary rock overhangs, thousands of feet above the canyon floor, where we farmed the land, hunted only what we needed to eat, and survived the others. Down the red stone canyon, in more caves another flute softly echoes. A medley gently floats between our villages as we sit huddled together, the women, so close, I can feel their skin next to mine, and their warm breath upon my shoulders. Behind us, the men stand bare-chested with their long, black hair pulled away from their flat, chiseled faces, and together we watch as one of the elders points to stars in the sky. He tells us our people arrived from the heavens, many light years ago, then outlines the image of Kokopelli, the humpbacked flute player, our god of fertility and life-giving water, and we listen as he tells us the story of our exodus. Of how we followed the sounds of Kokopelli’s harmonic flute, escaping the marauding, bloodthirsty assassins, the others, who we fear have followed us from Chaco Canyon to our home here beneath the mesa. Tonight we pray that Kokopelli will come again and guide us to safety.

Setting: Vietnam War

The essence of combat was for Robert nearly impossible to convey.  He’d tried to keep a journal from his first patrol but after his second fire fight had abandoned trying to clarify. He could write the necessary military logs and action reports required, that was simple enough.  “At 0130, 12 June — at the mouth of the Ba Sac River (coordinates) encountered and sunk two sampans attempting to place submerged mines.  Four enemy dead. Mines detonated by 50 cal. fire.” Or “18 June — came under RPG fire from high rock formation on beach, four meters, Tinh Vah Village. Returned fire with twin .50’s and two HE 40mm grenades. 2 dead VC . Russian 7.39 mm. rifle destroyed.”  No, he had not the will nor the ability to clearly capture those impingements on human limits.

read by Christian James

Setting: 650 A.D. Central Britain.

After years of victory, King Cenwalh now knew defeat. Two dozen of his personal guards, the finest warriors the kingdom of Wessex had to offer, lay scattered and exhausted in the woods around him, survivors of the Mercian onslaught. Several wounded stifled stoic moans as they tightened bandages to staunch the bleeding. The occasional clink of armor sounded as the soldiers shifted to find comfort among the tree roots. The king’s horse, weak from the day’s combat, sipped water from a shallow pond. The men stank of the copper of blood and the panicked sweat of defeat.

Pictures of the found treasure

“If” by Rudyard Kipling read by Martin Clifton, courtesy of Librivox.org

Inspiration comes in many forms and great authors take it whenever they can get it.

It was the spring of 1903, at the dawn of the brief Edwardian Era, and eleven-year-old Oliver Finch was in dire need of an adjective. He had been laboring over his latest short story for three days and was about to complete it, but he lacked a modifier for “populace” in a stirring tale of the Boer War which he called “The Relief of Mafeking.” He was thinking of something along the lines of “courageous,” only more so.

The Cold War produced bitter enemies, but also friends. But who can a spy ever really trust?

This would be the last time Harald met with Walter Peake , a cover name backstopped by a passport, driver’s license, business cards, family pictures, credit cards, a couple of memberships and a social security card. The identity would hold up under thirty minutes of casual questioning, but probably less than two hours of interrogation and back checking.

by C.J. Lines
read by Kevin Harty
In the foggy streets of Victorian London, Patrick O’Hare has set up his latest Freak Show , a veritable promenade of wonders and horrors. Are they real, and where does he aquire them?

Closing music by Panda Transport, courtesy of Music Alley

Period: American Civil War (and others)
What could be worse than a gruesome death by Minie ball in a bloody civil war? Maybe having to do it more than once.

“Your name is Private Absalom T. Zirkle,” the nurse told him. “My name is Charlotte. You’re in a field hospital just south of—”
“What day is this?”
“Saturday.”
“No, what day?”
“July the Fourth,” she finally told him. “The saddest we have ever seen.”
“Pickett,” he whispered. “1863. Little Round Top…Absalom T. Zirkle.” He looked into the nurse’s—Charlotte’s—eyes, and the fog in his mind cleared a little. He tried looking around but couldn’t move his head from the folded towel where it lay.

Main fiction: The Crusader from Cross Plains
by Teel. James Glenn
Setting: Egypt, 1938

Main fiction: Period: 1938s, Setting: Egypt

By Teel. James Glenn
Read by Shawn Robertson

In some of the infinite worlds of the multiverse some men live that might die in others.
This story takes place in one of those parallel worlds where a bullet was not fired in Texas in 1936, an Englishman survives a motorcycle accident and a jail term was served in full in Germany.
And so the world was changed.

I saw the cowboy start to rise but three other armed and burnoosed figures poured through the door. Bob’s body was tense, his great muscles coiled like springs like a panther waiting patiently to for the right moment to pounce.
A thug with a wild red beard stepped into the doorway. “You will listen and hear me, infidel dogs,” he proclaimed. “You are in the presence of Abdul Azim who serves the great and magnificent Abu al Kayar. You will give no resistance or you will die.”

Period: World War II
Setting: London

The city of London was bombed for 76 consecutive nights in 1940 and 1941 in a strategy called “The Blitz” from the German word for lightning. More than 40,000 English civilians died during this time.

She stood by the canteen, waiting as we reported for duty, a grim hard duty, but the only one open to us. The sun was setting and in a few hours German planes with German bombs would find the city and blow streets, houses, homes and people into small pieces. During those hours Will Tanner’s volunteers drove the ambulances.

It’s not a crime to search for the truth. Wait a minute, to the Inquisition it most certainly is.

“Giulio Vanini,” said the Archbishop, “do you know why you are here?”
The prisoner barked a laugh that abruptly ended as though it had been strangled.
“The reason I am here,” he said as he fixed the Archbishop with a hard stare, “is the reason I’m here.”

In 1590, the daimyo Toyotomi Hideyoshi completed the dream of his dead liege lord, Oda Nobunaga, and unified Japan by conquest. As kampaku to the figurehead Japanese Emperor Go-Yozei, Toyotomi was ruler of all Japan. Seeking to engrave his name eternally in history, he turned his eyes west to the glory of Joseon Korea and the beauty of Ming China.

In 1591, Toyotomi demanded Korea’s surrender and aid in the conquest of China. King Seonjo refused, as Korea was a close ally of China. Toyotomi raised an army of 160,000 veterans hardened by decades of battle in Oda’s and Toyotomi’s domestic campaigns, and invaded Korea in 1592. It was the largest army ever deployed until then in Northeast Asia.

Excerpt from Instructions for American Servicemen in Britain 1942:

“You will be Britain’s guest…. Don’t refer to the First World War by saying America came over and won it…. Don’t play into Hitler’s hands by mentioning war debts. You will naturally be interested in getting to know your opposite number, the British soldier, the ‘Tommy’ you have heard and read about. You can understand that two actions on your part will slow up this friendship – swiping his girl and not appreciating what his army has been up against.”

Source used for the introduction

My parents’ house is full of amazing books about history and everything else. They are generous lenders so I had to pull myself together not to take away more than I could possibly read in a year. I had borrowed Will Durant’s The Life of Greece so many times that I finally broke down and bought it for $1 on Amazon.

By Christian Carter-Stephenson
E-Reader Kindle

As the city loomed in the distance, Perth considered what he knew about the place, hoping to guard against the horrors within.  Its real name was Londinium, but this had passed out of usage with the departure of the Romans.  In the years since its abandonment, it had been the subject of many unnerving tales.  Some spoke of the ghosts of former inhabitants, others of a mischievous family of fairies.

Since I started the podcast in June 2011 I’ve had to learn a lot, but I’ve also gotten a lot of encouragement. It is hard to believe that we already have 28 episodes out. The written stories are a new thing I’m playing with. A few people have said they would like to have the option of reading the stories. That’s kind of counter-intuitive to me, but the stories are good, so if you are not an audio person it is another option. I’ve tried to make the latest stories available for Kindle, Nook, and just online reading. I have no way to check if the Nook option works. I’ve checked the Kindle with my son’s Ipod Kindle app. No, I still don’t have one, but I haven’t opened my Christmas presents yet! You may have also noticed that I am trying to add a little more historical background before the stories. If anybody would like to contribute any historical bits, either audio or written (which I would then read) please let me know.

We have gotten a some donations, for which I am exceedingly grateful. Thank you very much. The way the podcast works, most of the stories are new. Authors submit stories to me via email and I buy the stories that appeal to me. Early on I got advice from other magazine editors to use a form letter when I rejected a story. I did that, but I started to feel really bad about not making some personal contact with the people that were slaving away to create something for all of us. So now I respond to each entry personally, whether I accept it or not. If you are interested in submitting a story, the guidelines are on our website www.talesofold.org. I have solicited a few stories and I’ve also used some good out of print stories.

Thank you to all of you who have commented on Facebook or on the website. So far we have not gotten enough to put up a forum, but I would be happy to do that if there is interest in the future.

I will sign off now with a final big thank you to everyone who has submitted a story and for all of you who listen! I hope you all have a wonderful holiday season and a happy New Year.

We don’t have an enormous listenership, but it is becoming a little bit of a community.   there will be no story for December 25th. I just got too far behind and pulled into Christmas activities to pull the show together.

by Teel. James Glenn
read by Shawn Robertson

Read Online E-Reader Kindle
“Come in, sit down, smile and talk of pleasant things,” The Chinese Bandit Ping said, a wide grin on his pock marked face, “Or I will shoot you through the head.”

by P.D.R. Lindsay
read by P.D.R. Lindsay

Read Online E-Reader Kindle

Cultures clash in the Land of the Rising Sun. England is leading Japan into the 20th Century, opening the country to new ideas and ways of thinking. Captain Langley thinks he understands the Japanese, and his lady of the moment, but he has no idea.

by Leslie Lupien
read by Shawn Robertson

Read Online E-Reader Kindle

What can a Templar knight, a widowed baroness and a tattered army do against the relentless onslaught of the Mongol hordes?

The fearsome reputation of the creatures had preceded them from Poland, where they had swept all before them. The Poles called them Tatars. Some said they were Satan’s minions that Alexander the Great had driven beyond the Eastern mountains. Others said that they won by Satanic enchantments. That must be right, Jocelyn thought, because they were scrawny, wore what looked like fish scales instead of armor, and rode short-legged horses.

Mongol Conquest

By Russell James
Read by Shawn Robertson
Text version

Twenty hours.  Less than one full day.  Less than an hour for every year of his life.  That was how long Terry Greenwood had spent behind the controls of a Nieuport 28, the 94th Aero Squadron’s pursuit fighter.  It was all the preparation he would get before challenging the Kaiser’s biplanes in the skies of France.  Not that he thought he needed more.

There was no time to waste in the summer of 1918.  The ground war had settled into a horrible stalemate on the Western Front.  Masses of infantry charged across blasted moonscapes to obliteration by cannon and machine gun fire.  Each acre of land cost thousands of lives.  The hopes of the High Command lay in two new technologies, tanks and aircraft.  Terry chose the latter.

By Townsend Walker
Read by Shawn Robertson

Colonel Janós Hajdú strode out of Cavalry Headquarters cursing. General Bauer had been brief.

“Hajdú, there are rebel bands in Borshod County. They’ve stepped up their activity in the last three weeks. They attack then disappear into the countryside. The local garrison can’t stop them. You know the land better than anyone. I’m giving you five hundred men. End this.”

The General was asking Janós to suppress a rebellion fomented by people he had grown up with.

Bauer stepped closer. “Hajdú. Do it quickly. Vienna is watching.”

Little Brother of War

By Harper Hull
Read by Shawn Robertson

The fate of the Choctaw nation and the future United States may depend on a single ball game.

Hands and Knees

By Erik Svehaug
Read by Shawn Robertson

Father Corazo has a vision for the Mission of San Francisco in California. All he has to do is convince the natives, the priests, the soldiers, and God that he is right.

He was in his own league, without equal, incomparable, so what if his so-called peers never once voted him “Magician of the Year.” As much as he has personally liked Harry Houdini and as greatly as he had admired his magic and escape artistry, being referred to as “The Second Houdini” or worse yet, “One of the greatest magicians of all time,” never ceased to upset Elias Crosskeep. He was the greatest magician, the only real magician.

Art by Gabriel Hardman
Closing music: Married a Magician by Dust Poets
J.J. Steinfeld’s book A Glass Shard and Memory

Period: 1750′s
Setting: Malta

The once gallant Knights of Malta, the Order of St. John, have grown wealthy and degenerate, but swords are still drawn when honor is at stake. But what good is cold steel against a ghost?

Interlude music: Church Yard by David Beard
Closing music: Halloween by Fishing for Comets

Ghosts of the Golden House

By Andrew MacRae
Read by Shawn Robertson
Period: Roman times

The Golden House of Nero. Mere words coined by mortals cannot possibly begin to describe that monument to one man’s ego.

Nightingales

By David Pilling (David’s blog)
Read by Jane Osborn
Period: World War I

Now his eyes filled with horror, and he looked around him in confusion.
“No!” he shouted, “I am dead already! Why am I here? I cannot die twice!”

Closing music: Ghost by Robyn Dell’Unto

Period: Mid Roman Empire
Music after the story by Marc Gunn

The tune is an old one, a soldiers’ song springing into my head to match the pace of my steps. I’m not far from home and my feet know it. I’ve heard soldiers sing this song often enough yet the words come slowly. I sing them under my breath. It’s a love song, but my voice is thin, rattles like a reed on high notes, not shaped to sing of love. Still, the ponies don’t startle, although Brannan, in the lead, flicks his ears, as if to a fly.

“When I come again, I’ll bring you gifts my sweet.
Gold for your neck and silver for your feet,
Oils for your soft skin, perfume for your hair.
Watch for me, my darling. I will soon be there.”

By the time the falling sun stops lighting the western skies with flames and the air turns goose grey I will be there, crossing the causeway to the village where I was born. Laila will be down by the water, watching the geese fly over, pulling my message-feather through her fingers over and over again. She knows I’m near.

The countryside is changing. The forest trees have gone, oak and beech gave way to slim birch and straggles of aspen some miles back. Scrubby hazel and alder line the track in sparse groups. There’s a sheen in the air, light from the sky shining on patches of water. But it’s the smell of water that tells me I’m home. Nowhere else does water have that sharp, heart catching tang, a smell as brown and peaty as the water’s colour.

I’ve seen the green-grey water of the Baltic, bone chilling and thick with salt even on a summer’s day. I’ve smelt the sun-warmed, herb scented blue waters of the warm Roman sea, the one their home-sick soldiers talk of as sweet as honey and warming as wine. Cold Germanicus those soldiers call my home, but I love it and nothing is like seeing and scenting the waters of home. I know I’m back in my land of small dark lakes, peat swamps, low horizons and rolling hills.

Period: Elizabethan England

Some of the best theater takes place after the curtains have fallen and the last patron leaves. This weeks historical fiction dares to peak behind the curtain at Blackfriars where young William Shakespeare and company are about to be tossed out on their ears.

Closing music: Shakespeare Pie, by Robert Lund of The FuMP

In the icy cold of January of 1597, the acting company of Lord Chamberlain’s Men accompanied the grieving widow and her sons to bury James Burbage. My tears were genuine. Many a time he and his wife had invited all the lads to their home for a feeding, and filled us with meat pies until we nearly burst. In a hard world, I had found few kinder people than the Burbage family.

I was only a lad, one of the boys that played women’s parts for four pence a day, but I was there. My parents had paid eight pounds to apprentice me to the company, for I wanted nothing more than to be an actor.

As I placed my clod of dirt upon the coffin, I remembered my father, still healthy, and wondered how I would feel if it were him in the grave. Then I looked at his sons, Cuthbert and Richard. Where did they find the strength to stand? Tomorrow night, Richard would strut upon the stage, spouting fine words and mimicking all the emotions a man can show, while inside, he must feel as empty as a discarded bottle.

Period: 1930′s
Setting: Soviet Union

What if the great Igor Sikorsky, inventor of the American helicopter, had not left Russia when the great civil war began? In the dark, suspicious days after the revolution, no one is safe, not even the great ones.

The awareness that he was being followed grew in Nikolai Bukharin’s mind over a period of weeks, through the accretion of small details, incidents, and suspicions, until he awoke one bright summer morning with the knowledge firmly rooted in his mind.

Cheka, the secret police, was having him followed, which, given Bukharin’s stature, meant Trotsky wanted him followed.

His driver’s customary “Good morning, comrade Bukharin!” seemed blackly ironic and only agitated him further. It occurred to him that his driver was the logical man to use to keep an eye on him, and even reminding himself that he had known and trusted the man for years did not put Bukharin at ease.

Period: 1800′s
Setting: South America

By Roselyn Silverman – her latest story is in Midwest Literary Magazine
Read by Kevin Harty

Check out the History Chicks podcast

Closing music: Evolution Rocks by Overman, courtesy of Music Alley from Mevio.

Origin of the Orign

Unpublished manuscript found among the papers of Charles Darwin after his death in 1882. Also found, two pieces of pottery of uncertain origin, craftsmanship, and provenance.

The Beagle anchored at Bahia Blanca during the early part of September 1832. In order to survey the southern and eastern coasts of South America during the succeeding year, the Beagle was to leave and return to this port periodically. This left me with the freedom to roam and collect at will while the Beagle was not in port. After being incarcerated for several months in a ship, I felt buoyed by the freedom of walking over unfenced grasslands, unrestricted by the narrow confines of the ship.

I intended to stay some weeks in the area, during which time I would collect and preserve some of the local animals, birds, and reptiles. I would also chip out fossils if any were found in the geological strata on the beach. When I returned to port, I would eventually send back my cleaned and preserved findings on returning ships to family, friends and mentors in England. This was accomplished during the first few weeks of my stay in a manner that bettered my expectations. My description of this collection and the local fauna and flora was carefully made, to the best of my ability, in my original notes concerning this trip.

This week’s historical fiction is a story about espionage and the Senate Internal Security Subcommittee by Steve Sagarra. To put us in the moment, I’ve included a poem by Jack Spicer called “Response to the Loyalty Oath.” Those were dark times. There was both the real fear of communism and fear of the committees themselves.

Affairs of the Union

The year is 1952. Katarina Madin and her lawyer, Bill Ward, hurriedly walk into the United States Senate building. Entering a chamber through a set of wooden doors at the end of the hallway, the two take seats at the center table. Siting across from a governmental committee investigating domestic communism, the admousphere inside the room matches the winter chill of the Washington morning beyond the frosted windows. As the two confer over a few points, Senator Patrick McCarrran calls the proceedings to order.

“Please take your seats. This committee will now come to order.”

After some shuffling of papers, calm spreads over the room.

“Would you please state your name for the record,” Senator McCarrran requests in a haggard, bureaucratic monotone.

“My name is Katarina Madin.”

“And where were you born, Mrs. Madin?”

“The Soviet Union, Moscow.”

Download this Episode to your computer! Right click (ctrl click for Mac) the link above the story title and select “save link as.”

Fools
By Jon Chan
Read by Shawn Robertson

The emperor had shut himself away almost two weeks. All around him were his drawings, piling up on every available surface. His only company during that time was David Falcon, his fool. David walked into the room carrying a tray with a jug of wine. He picked up one of Emperor Constantine’s drawings.

“What do you think?” asked Constantine.

“Think? I do not think,” said Falcon. “Thinking is what gets you killed.”

Once Upon a Dwarf
By Todd McKie artwork
Read by Shawn Robertson

Hampton Court, 17 August, 1337

Herald: Your Highness, the Dwarf would approach the throne.

King: Have the little fellow step forward. Where is the rascal?

Herald: He stands behind me, My Lord. Dwarf, approach His Highness.

King: Get up here, you little scamp.

Dwarf: I hurry forth as quickly as my poorly fashioned legs can spin me, Sire.

King: Our Dwarf is in a merry mood today! Will you entertain us?

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Period: 1940′s
Setting: World War II

Our first outing into alternate history. The German paratroopers have taken the north of England. When Amy Miller recognizes her former German professor as their commander, she is torn between patriotism and old friendship.

Lake District December 1940

Amy stood on the hillside, overlooking the POW camp in the valley below. The Germans in their grey uniforms mingled with the familiar khakis of the British and she found it hard to believe this could be happening in England.  She also had to remind herself that for now, at least, the Germans were the guards.

So much had occurred in Grizedale in the last few days, she scarcely had time to consider what might be happening elsewhere.  She only knew that the Battle for Britain had finally been lost and the German army had begun the long-feared invasion.  She thought about her friends and neighbours and wondered what would become of them all.

To Amy, that’s all these frightening strangers were; grey uniforms without personalities.  But these men were human too.  This wild country seemed alien to many of the young German paratroopers, still traumatized by the battle for Grizedale.  Most weren’t even sure why they were here. Oberst Karl Schiller, commander of the Wehrmacht forces, knew the reason.

He looked up at the snow-covered hills he knew so well and wondered how his presence would affect the people who lived here.  He felt no hostility towards them but he was under no illusions.

To these people he was the enemy

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By: Pat Tompkins
Read by: Shawn Robertson

Period: American Civil War
Setting: New York City

Not all of the action in the Civil War happened on the battlefield. Today’s historical fiction brings us back to that time in New York of spies, saboteurs, and assassins.

Hearts of Ash

The men in the park huddled, their breath mingling in a smoky haze around their heads. In the chilly November twilight, they appeared to be gathered around a fire for warmth. Had a passerby gotten a close look, he would have seen them peering at a heap of rags. But the men were in a shallow vale, surrounded by boulders and trees, not on a stretch of lawn. They did not want to be seen.

“We’ve been humbugged by that chemist,” said Ezra. He turned his head away from the circle and spat.

Rob held up his hand, as though to signal stop while keeping his eyes on the watch in his other hand. Another thirty seconds passed before the rags burst into flame. “Ha,” Rob shouted. “Just short of six minutes,” he said as they backed away from the blaze.

“Six? Seemed like twice that,” said Ezra. He tugged a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and blew his nose.

“That’s no humbug,” said James, punching Ezra’s shoulder. “Gives us time to get away.”

“Exactly,” Rob said.

Ezra held his hands over the fire while another of the group said, “That’s enough of that,” and poured a scoop of dirt over the rags. James added double handfuls of dirt and the two men stamped out the fire. Seven minutes had passed since they wet the rags with “Greek fire,” a mixture similar to the explosives used in hand grenades. Then the rags seemed to combust spontaneously. The test had worked. The stuff was good.

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Period: World War II
Setting: Russian front

Historical fiction from the front lines of the Great Patriotic War. By November of 1941 the German army was threatening Moscow and Leningrad. Millions of Russians had been killed or taken prisoner in the first months and the air force was out of pilots Marina Raskova organized the 588th night bomber squadron, composed entirely of women – mechanics, pilots, navigators, and officers.

“Ot vinta!”

At her command, mechanics stepped away from the propeller. She turned ignition on and thumbed the starter button. The engine coughed, belched smoke, caught with a rattle.  Prop wash reached around her windshield into the open cockpit, tugged at a flyaway strand of hair.  Katya tucked it under her flight helmet.  She listened to the engine for a few seconds, then gunned it.

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Period: early 1700′s
Setting: Assisi, Italy

Today’s historical fiction returns us to Italy, this time to the monastery of St. Francis of Assisi where we find the great violinist Giuseppe Tartini hiding out from the persecution of the Cardinal in Padua.

Giuseppe Tartini (April 8, 1692 – February 26, 1770) was a Venetian composer and violinist. According to legend, his most famous solo violin sonata was inspired by a dream…

Giuseppe awoke in darkness. Eyes closed, body relaxed, he stretched out on his simple bed listening to the sounds of night. He heard no birds calling, signaling the hour before sunrise. He heard no distant rattling of boards and stone sheets as Brother Guillermo baked the morning’s bread. It was early, and all of Assisi was shrouded in blackness and quiet. Yet in the stillness, without a sound to confirm it, Giuseppe knew someone stood in his chamber.

He listened for the stranger. Could it be the Abbott, watching him as he had done every day for the last six months? Why would the Abbott come stalking in the middle of the night? No, there was a malevolence present, and the hairs on Giuseppe’s uncovered neck and forearm rose with gooseflesh.

He flung the covers back and jumped out of bed. Facing the dark corner and doorway, he stood there poised, ready to grab at the rapier leaning against his headboard.

The chamber was empty.

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Setting: Jacobean England
Time: early 1600′s

Amy Myers (aka Harriet Hudson) is a master of historical fiction, and even more exciting, historical crime. What could be a more holy, unlikely setting for a crime than the busy scholars, creating the King James Bible from the ancient Hebrew and Greek texts? Yet murder lurks….

“See, the witch cometh!”

The raucous cry sat strangely on the lips of the richly dressed old woman at my side. Her eyes gleamed with hatred as she pointed her finger at the fair bride who was now entering the banqueting house of Saxton Hall on the arm of her newly wedded husband. Not a man present but would surely be envying Master Thomas Bell his good fortune in marrying the beautiful Countess of Carlross -if he lived to enjoy it.

“The witch, the witch,” the assembled guests around me were murmuring, but none dared speak out in the presence of His Majesty King James I. An authority on witches he might be, but he is also the countess’s cousin.

He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. The words consumed me, as I gazed at the bride and her groom. Oh, the Song of Songs, the Canticles of Solomon; they have ruled my every thought for four years now, ever since had had the honour of being chosen to be one of the fifty-four translators for the new Bible authorized by His Majesty at the great meeting of 1604.

That I, Septimus Fish, a humble vicar of a small Cambridgeshire parish, have been so chosen I owe to my dear friend Archdeacon Clarence Hall. It is because of him that am here at this wedding today, for he is presently chaplain to the countess.

Did I say wedding?

Perhaps one that foretold a funeral.

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A gripping tale of from the mines of north England in the 1800s.

At five thirty I hear the back-gate creak and his heavy boots. The stones laid in our yard are not bedded properly and they scrape and bang like slammed doors. The hair on my neck stands up.

‘I’ve put you water and soap out,’ I shout through the window, my voice cracking, I’ve spoke to no one all day.

The colliers stand in yards along our street all half or fully naked scrubbing the coal off at basins which turn ink-black from the fine dust. Thomas says nothing and begins stripping. Stooped body, long thick bones, his ribs and red raw skin. His awkward shape carved into place by hard surfaces and painful actions.

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Historical Fiction
Period: 20th Century
Setting: Italy

In a narrow cobbled street in the village of San Giovanni nestled in the hills of Calabria, on a Monday night in the summer of 1870, a pitched wail from the rooms over the butcher’s shop heralded the arrival of Bruno. On Wednesday morning a sharp cry from the adjacent café told the village that Mario was born. And Thursday evening the baker’s new son, Tommaso, announced himself with a lusty squall. So began the story of the three friends. From that moment they were known as I Tre.

Additional links:
Cantaraville, international PDF literary quarterly

By Don D’Ammassa
Read by Malcolm Grieve

I do so enjoy a picnic,” said Miss Harrington. “I feel that it’s quite important not to lose touch with the natural world. Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Shaw?”

Artemus Shaw disguised his incredulity with a pretended cough, bobbed his head vaguely. They were seated on cushioned chairs in a screen house almost within view of Harrington Hall. The servants had brought china place settings, sterling silver flatware, and crystal wineglasses from the house, arranging them on the marble topped table that the groundskeepers had carried out earlier in the day. Their meal had been carefully trundled from the kitchen on wheeled carts, kept warm by chafing dishes whose oil fueled heaters were efficiently sheltered from any stray breeze that might blow them out. They were dining on stuffed Cornish hens and drinking wine freshly imported from France, while the servants kept watch for any stray insect that might have penetrated the fine mesh of the fabric stretched over the ornate framework that surrounded them. Artemus was dressed plainly but practically while Miss Winifred Harrington was fully coifed and corseted, her only concession to their “natural” surroundings having been the choice of relatively sensible footwear. Even her parasol was more decorative than functional.

So tell me about your adventures, Mr. Shaw. You promised to do so. Father says you’ve been quite reticent but I assured him that I’d draw you out.”

Link to the book Being Wrong by Kathryn Schulz mentioned in the outro.

By J.J. Steinfeld
Read by Shawn Robertson

When the tall man, without knocking or uttering a word, entered the two-bedroom apartment, the small woman inside tried to throw her arms around him. His face was pale and covered with perspiration; his coat was torn in the front and back. She had never seen him appear this frightened.

“Tell me, tell me,” the woman demanded, but the man moved silently away from her and went to the front room’s window. The heavy curtain was drawn. as he had instructed before he left the apartment in the morning. Dark, he wanted it dark when he came back, if he came back. When she held him this morning, she felt she was holding all the heroes of history.

The woman, in her late twenties like the man, had waited for him all day, occupying her time worrying and pacing around the cramped, dark apartment. Only when the man was at the opposite side of the room from her, did the woman notice the blood on his left hand.

By William Hope Hodgeson
Read by Kevin Harty
Read full text

Captain Drool and the two mates sat in the cabin and argued, gross and uncouth; but Monsieur Jeynois said nothing. Only smoked his long pipe and listened, while the bosun held the poop deck!

I had grown to like Monsieur J eynois, for the brave, quiet way of him, and the calm speech that seemed so strong and wise against the rude blusterings and oathings of the captain and the mates.

The Saucy Lady was a private venture ship – in other words, an English privateer – at the time of the French war. She had been a French brig, named La Gavotte, and had been sold at Portsmouth for prize-money.

Monsieur Jeynois and Captain Drool had bought her, and fitted her out against the French, with six twenty-four-pounder cannonades a side, and two long eighteen-pounders – the one mounted aft and the other for’ard, for chasers.

The brig was a matter of 350 tons burthen, and sailed very fast, and made good weather of it.

By Stephen Crane
Read by Shawn Robertson
Text version

The great Pullman was whirling onward with such dignity of motion that a glance from the window seemed simply to prove that the plains of Texas were pouring eastward. Vast flats of green grass, dull-hued spaces of mesquite and cactus, little groups of frame houses, woods of light and tender trees, all were sweeping into the east, sweeping over the horizon, a precipice.

Period: 1300s
Setting: England

This story ©Jean Davidson 2001, first appeared in The Mammoth Book of More Historical Whodunnits, edited by Mike Ashley

You may, try to escape the past, but its long chilly fingers can stretch out to touch you whenever and wherever you least expect. I’d thought myself free and clear, reborn and reinvented as Scotland was reborn with Robert the Bruce as king. I thought I was so safe in my new life and new identity I’d even started courting a Highland girl.

But who should have known better than me? You can never be safe.

And now here I was, clattering up Tower Street past All Hallows Church under armed escort. The walls of the Tower of London loomed on my left, ahead the River Thames sparkled in the early morning summer sunshine. I shuddered as we turned and crossed the first drawbridge and entered through the Lion Gate. Long ago in my old life I’d been instrumental on several occations for sending other men on this route. They’d not come out again and I could only pray that i would escape a similar fate. But first, I had to find out what I stood accused of before I could talk my way out of it.