Period Fiction

The clacking of typewriter keys filled the newsroom, a constant percussion accompanying the frenetic energy of reporters rushing to meet deadlines. Marian sat hunched over her machine, her fingers flying across the keys as she transcribed yet another article dictated by one of the male journalists. She paused only to push her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, leaving a smudge of ink behind. “Faster, Miss Holloway!” barked Edward Blackwell, the portly editor-in-chief, as he strode past her desk. “That piece needs to be on my desk in ten minutes!” ...

The silk threads danced between Mei Ling’s nimble fingers as she worked the loom, her eyes fixed on the intricate pattern emerging before her. The rhythmic clack-clack of the shuttle filled the small workshop, a soothing counterpoint to the bustle of the village beyond. Mei Ling paused, stretching her aching back and rolling her shoulders. As she did so, her gaze fell upon the faded tapestry hanging on the far wall - an heirloom passed down through generations of her family. ...

Evelyn Marsh clutched her textbooks to her chest as she hurried down the crowded hallway of Westfield High. The cacophony of slamming lockers and boisterous chatter faded into white noise as she focused on reaching her next class without incident. Head down, she wove between clumps of students, careful not to make eye contact. Just a few more steps and she’d be safely ensconced in Mr. Holloway’s AP European History class. Evelyn allowed herself a small smile of anticipation. History was her sanctuary, a place where she could lose herself in tales of long-ago events and fascinating historical figures. ...

The gentle clinking of ice in crystal tumblers punctuated the hushed voices drifting from Eleanor Rosewood’s sunroom. To any passerby, it appeared to be nothing more than another lazy Sunday afternoon gathering of well-coiffed housewives discussing the latest bestseller. But beneath the veneer of suburban propriety, a quiet rebellion was brewing. “Ladies, if we could turn our attention to chapter seven,” Eleanor—Ellie to her friends—said with a conspiratorial smile. “I believe Mrs. Holloway has some particularly insightful comments to share.” ...

The old magnolia tree cast a long shadow across Eleanor’s porch, its gnarled branches reaching out like arthritic fingers. She rocked gently in her wicker chair, sipping sweet tea and watching the neighborhood children play in the fading summer light. Their laughter carried on the warm breeze, a bittersweet reminder of days long past. Eleanor’s weathered hands trembled slightly as she set down her glass. At eighty-seven, her body was failing her, but her mind remained sharp as ever. Perhaps too sharp, she thought ruefully. Some memories were best left to fade. ...

Abigail Thorne stood at the edge of the gallows, her fingers curled around the rough-hewn wood. A chill wind whipped across the town square, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke. She stared at the trapdoor, imagining her brother’s feet dangling above it. “It ain’t right,” she muttered, her jaw clenched. “Thomas wouldn’t hurt a soul.” The crowd had dispersed, leaving only a few stragglers milling about. Abigail’s gaze fell on Judge Elias Blackwood as he emerged from the courthouse, his black robes billowing. The judge’s eyes met hers briefly before he looked away, a flicker of… something… crossing his face. ...

The salt-laden wind whipped across the docks of Bristol, carrying with it the cacophony of seagulls and the shouts of sailors preparing to embark on their next voyage. Amidst the chaos, a slender figure in ill-fitting men’s clothing made its way purposefully toward the imposing merchant ship, “Poseidon’s Grace.” Eliza Blackwood tugged nervously at the rough fabric of her borrowed jacket, willing her racing heart to slow. She’d spent the last of her meager savings on this disguise, and everything hinged on her ability to pass as a man. At thirty years old, she was taking an enormous risk, but the alternative – a loveless marriage to a man twice her age – was unthinkable. ...

Paris, 1788 Margot’s fingers moved deftly, weaving golden thread through rich velvet as she sat hunched over her embroidery frame. The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across the opulent drawing room. Outside, a cool autumn breeze rustled the trees lining the Rue Saint-Honoré. She paused, flexing her cramping hand. At twenty-three, Margot was already one of the most sought-after embroiderers in Paris. The nobility clamored for her exquisite handiwork adorning their gowns and jackets. Little did they know that hidden within the intricate patterns and flourishes were secrets that could bring their world crashing down. ...

Emilia’s hands trembled as she climbed the iron ladder, her breath forming small clouds in the chilly night air. At the top, she paused, glancing furtively down the empty cobblestone street. Seeing no one, she quickly slipped a folded piece of paper behind the glass pane of the gas lamp. “May this light guide you to safety,” she whispered, before descending and melting into the shadows. It had been three months since Emilia began her nightly ritual of leaving secret messages at lamp posts throughout the city. What started as an act of quiet defiance had grown into a full-fledged underground network, with Emilia at its heart. ...

Ellie Pearson pressed her nose against the car window, watching identical houses blur past as her family’s station wagon wound through the streets of Levittown. The summer heat shimmered off the pavement, distorting the perfectly manicured lawns and cookie-cutter homes. “Almost there, kiddo,” her father called from the driver’s seat. “You excited?” Ellie mumbled a noncommittal response, pushing her thick glasses up the bridge of her nose. Excited wasn’t quite the word. Anxious, maybe. Terrified, definitely. She’d never been good at making friends, and now here she was, thrust into a new neighborhood in the middle of summer vacation when everyone else already had their social circles firmly established. ...