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Discover weekly, the best short stories

Looking for a steady supply of historical fiction short stories? Every week thousands of writers submit stories to our writing contest.

150+ Historical fiction Short Stories to read

Submitted by writers on Reedsy Prompts to our weekly writing contest. Whether you’re looking to step back into ancient civilizations, the 19th-century, or anywhere in between, our collection of historical fiction stories is here to keep you riveted.

Historical fiction Short Stories – Page 8 of 10

Battle of Agincourt, 1415 (Fictional Captain s POV)

Weekly Contest #344

Trees left with as much hope as the English army who stand pridefully though with their shoulders slumped from diminishing hope of survival, dot themselves wildly among the arid battlefield. As Carter, a trusted army captain, ponders along with King Henry V's honorable yet evocative monologue he can’t help but picture the now soddenly brown shrubs stained crimson after the coming days. Shocked as the king presents the soldiers with the generous offer of returning home with their transport taken care of, Carter stars at Angus in awe. Is etern...

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Utopia

Weekly Contest #344

The Mariners ‘Sir, that isle is inhabited.’ The ship’s lieutenant and second-in-command handed the telescope to the captain.‘Hmm, that’s unexpected. There appears to be a jetty…boats…and yes, people are on the foreshore. The place looks utterly inhospitable.’ The captain refocused. ‘I believe they are literally living below a volcano.’ He handed back the telescope to his subordinate.‘It seems to be active, a miasma is ascending from its summit, sir.’‘Yes, I think we’d best have a closer look. Our arrival might be fortuitous. They appear to b...

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The Mulberry Bush

Weekly Contest #343

(CW: death, child death, imprisonment, violence) We wear our uniform without shame for our daily march. Your starfish hand is so small in mine, just big enough to grip tight to my index finger, your body tucked into the starched wool of my skirts. Skirts made from the same material your trousers are made from, your jacket too; they match everyone else who makes up our rank and file, each of us cut from the same cloth in a parade of grey as we walk the prison yard. We start the day with our usual song. The mulberry tree, our substitute maypol...

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The Witching Hour

Weekly Contest #343

The clock chimes twelve times when midnight arrives.From its eternal resting place on the hallway of the second floor, the grandfather clock and its first chime hails a hot, heavy darkness inside Madeline’s chamber. She measures the man and derives that he is as tall as a bedpost and as broad as a shade. He is too tall to be the physician and too broad to be her brother. And his eyes are the deep color of the late hour. They are on her face where her mouth is open wide enough for her breath to be sucked out by the mere sight of him. She feel...

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An Ode to the Archduke

Winner of Weekly Contest #344 🏆

June 27th, 1914: Today started out like any other day. I was a bit hungover from grabbing a drink and going to the cinema the night before, and it still never ceases to amaze me how well the real world can be captured in a black and white film. The headache that has already begun to plague me was expected, and most certainly worth it. After rolling out of the bed, I dipped my head below the faucet and drank what felt like at least two liters of water. My morning routine as of late has consisted of eating eggs with a dash of salt and paprika,...

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One sky above me

Weekly Contest #344

The sky is blue. Incredibly blue. There is no cloud. Only the light and hopeful color. The sky doesn’t care about us.I turn away from the window and instead focus on my father and mother sitting with me at the table.“It’s an affront. How dare they treat us like this!”My father’s face is red, and I know the expression all too well. His eyes are glistening dangerously and his hands are balled into fists. My mother is staring at the pamphlet in the middle of the table. Her eyes are moving, and I know she is reading the words she can make out. U...

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The Last Signal

Weekly Contest #343

Nassau, 1718. The bell of Christ Church strikes once. Eleven fifty-five. They will hang him at noon. The harbour lies bright and deceptively orderly beneath the Bahamian sun. Since Governor Woodes Rogers arrived with the King’s Act of Grace and a fleet at his back, Nassau has been performing obedience. The pirate flags are gone. The taverns close earlier. The gallows remain. Eliza Vale stands three rows back from the scaffold erected beside the wharf. The air smells of tar, salt, and drying seaweed. British marines line the platform in crisp...

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Dusted

Weekly Contest #343

After three months of indecision, she arrives at the front. The air ripples and gleams like molten glass.Anne jumps down from the back of the truck and dusts off her trousers and the embroidered collar of her once-white shirt. Her back aches. It took eight hours to reach Brunete, and the canvas she rested on offered no protection from the metal joint she had to lean on.Her legs falter. Unbearable heat.A courtyard made of compacted soil. A huge, two-story, gray stone building, flanked by two hangars. Many soldiers lined up in formation, equip...

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MICHAEL AND THE WIDOW LADY

Weekly Contest #343

MICHAEL AND THE WIDOW LADY. ELK RIVER, CANADA, 1923 Michael Lynch returned from the Great War with sunken cheeks and a face as white as birch bark. He was still pale and scrawny five years later as he sat on the widow’s porch thinking about his dead buddy. He often thought about Jimmy though he never talked about him, and while time had faded many of Michael’s memories, his memories of Jimmy had grown stronger. What Michael remembered best were the nights they spent on look-out duty, thirty yards from the en...

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Look, Timmy

Weekly Contest #343

CW: This story contains implied violence and racism that some readers may find disturbing. I remember things from way back. Mama and Pop are shocked by my memory. Hellene, my wife, says her oldest memory goes back to when she was in first grade. I remember things from back when we lived in Chicago. I was born up there and we moved away when I was eight.There’s one afternoon that’s as vivid as the day it happened. I was probably, judging from the newspaper clippings that I have collected over the years, only 3 or 4 years old.Those clippings: ...

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A Piece of the Soldier’s Heart

Weekly Contest #342

*Story contains descriptions of actual and fictional military events, and the emotional effects of war. I A gust of cold air made it in one final time before the doors were latched shut. Twenty-three year old Private Joseph Harvey looked side to side throughout the full Douglas C-54 Skymaster. He thought he was lucky to have a seat along the wall instead of the floor for the six hour flight. But he didn’t know if luck was going to bring him home. Maybe he would get to see her again. But maybe she would have to carry on with just the memory o...

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St. Bartholomew's Day

Weekly Contest #342

Elizabeth slumped against the brick wall, her heart hammering her eardrums. That late August night, the air was thick and warm, a labor to move it in and out of her lungs as she had sprinted several streets from her home. She looked disheveled. Her sandy blonde hair had fallen loose from its plait and slicked back by sweat from her brow. The leather shoes she had stolen from her father at odds with her dress of thick black lace draped over the yellow silk. Perhaps with some preternatural foresight, she had dressed in mourner’s black before a...

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Coronilla and Gun Oil

Weekly Contest #342

Colton had always admired Martha Graves, although he had never once told her so. From the gunpowder she loaded into her rifle to the Coronilla she picked and slid into her satchel when nobody was looking, she did everything with such care and precision. To her, everything was precious. He didn't understand it, but somehow, it made her all the more ethereal. He rocked back on his heels, his hand on the butt of his pistol as he stood in the front of the tent. Yes, everything was precious, but it was the most precious things that were the first...

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SWAK1762

Weekly Contest #342

The guardsman took my hand and lifted it to his lips. I lowered my gaze. His lips were soft and warm. The skin on my fingers tingled slightly as though a butterfly had landed on them ever so lightly and then lifted off and flown away. I made a slight curtsy. And hoped I was not blushing. He gave me what seemed like a sly smile. He was rugged, tall, dark, and handsome, and smelled vaguely of vanilla and metal. Would I ever see him again? I sighed. If yes, it would probably only be to kiss my other hand. What was his name? He knew my name, P...

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What's Up?

Weekly Contest #342

In the spring of 1917, the British casualty clearing station outside Arras maintained a pigeon loft that stood straighter than most men.It was a narrow wooden tower behind the supply tents, painted a tired white that flaked under wind and smoke. Thirty-seven birds lived inside it. Each was banded, logged in duplicate ledgers, and trained to return to that exact structure no matter where it was released. The Signal Corps did not gamble on instinct. It relied on memory. A pigeon needed only one instruction: fly home.Evelyn Markham supervised t...

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RBE | Illustrated Short Stories | 2024-06

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