omghistoricalfiction-blog

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Inés

By Isabella Ruffatti

Artwork by Isabella Ruffatti

20 March 1994

Dear Diary,

At 18 I can open a bank account. I can drink. And today I voted for the first time.

“El Salvador will be the grave where the reds will end up”, ARENA party members asserted with startling security. This is the party of the rich, the conservatives and my parents.

“The people united shall never be defeated”, ex-guerrilla fighters and their supporters proclaimed. Defiance has been their song for the past twelve years. This will not change now that they’ve become a political party. The plan is to keep on singing from the presidential pedestal.

People waving FMLN red flags and people waving ARENA tricolour flags waged war against each other - It’s as if the war never ended.

But among them were those in plainclothes, neutrals. Sent by the UN to make sure the peace is kept and that the elections ran smoothly and they could leave us in a Salvadoran-chosen pair of hands.

No one shot bullets at each other, so that was a start.

My hands shook as I placed my vote inside the ballot -My first contribution to hopefully a brighter future.

[omghistoricalfiction-blog]

Maria

By Maria Colantoni

Artwork by: Isabella Ruffatti

10 August 1981

Dear diary,

After the attack in Bologna last year everything has been very difficult for my family, and for everyone else.

My life was going absolutely impeccable; I was finishing my last year of university, my boyfriend was working in the family farm, we were about to get engaged and I was happy, that sweet happiness that is almost unbearable to feel.

Then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.

I am trying to hold the tears every day since he left for the army, but is really challenging to bare.

Is he going to come back?

If yes, when, my beloved diary?

I remember as it was yesterday the day he told me he was going to the army.

I begged him not to, but “I have no choice, I am a man, I need to go”, he said.

Since that moment my family has pushed me to find someone to marry, someone with money, someone with a degree that doesn’t have to die fighting for our rights. Someone to build a future with.

My family has always controlled my life.

I wanted to be a writer. I was dreaming about a small house by the sea, where to live with my Giacomo, drinking some wine and reading his poetry.

But reality slaps  me every time I wake up in the morning, realising he’s not next to me, I am about to become a lawyer, but I have no power to stop people from fighting and destroying countries and save my man.

I am armless.

[omghistoricalfiction-blog]

Dorothy

By Chloe Wright

Artwork by: Isabella Ruffatti 

Thursday 29th March 1942

Dear diary,

My father. He’s back! He’s safe! Evelyn and I were listening to the radio whilst mother prepared the soup for dinner when he walked through the door. Hearing the door close, we both looked up and Evelyn hugged her teddy bear to her chest in fear. After a few heavy footsteps, he was standing in the doorway of the living room, his presence looming over the room in a protective way, just like a soldier back from war. A hero. I squealed which made Evelyn squeal – she always copies me. Jumping up, we both ran towards him and wrapped our arms around him. He smelt just like I remember. Just like my father.

Mother has not been this happy in months. I heard father tell her secretly he’s only back for a couple of days, just while they re-direct him. But the house is happy again. Mother even went to market and brought some bacon, even though she had been saving the ration coupon for almost a week. She said we were celebrating. Her and father kept kissing and snuggling up together.

I do not want him to leave. Never, ever, ever.

- Dorothy.

[omghistoricalfiction-blog]

Judith

By Luc  Škorvagová

Artwork by: Isabella Ruffatti

June 4th, 1767

It supposed to be the day of my death. A sunset.

A glare as red as blood of innocent victims shining on the dark blue sky was a signal of a salvation. A wind became furious, howling in the tower of sinners, harmonising its requiem with wail and cry. Misery and pain. Prayers.

Broken souls and human bodies wishing to die. They were empty, helpless, shivering next to the cold stone walls and so far away from world they used to be part of. Their spirit felt apart and so did mine.

Yes, there was a devil in the tower, but he wasn’t possessing bodies of those poor creatures who were more dead than alive. It wasn’t witches who'd seeded the evil and had woken up demons. It wasn’t me.

It was a fear of people, who were scared of change. People, who were cowards afraid to face the sun. People, who were obsessed with power and didn’t care about human lives. They sacrificed them in flames burning their own sins and lies.

Cacophony of voices mixed with wind’s song was calling for justice, not knowing how terribly wrong they were, stepping further and further to the dark. My light of a difference had to be eliminated.

Bright flame outside the tower was ready to purify. Burn my flash, boil my blood.

And demons were dancing to the melody of my torture and agony.

-Judith