Havok Publishing

Rebecca Morgan

The Reasons I Cry

Morning’s pale light radiates through the cracks in the storehouse where I sleep, and I lean into the comforting warmth. The air is silent and still. Heavy with expectation. My stomach pinches in hunger and I tuck my legs to my chin, whimpering. Wait for the pain to pass.
Pain. One.

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Semper Fidelis

I’m late.
My sandals slap against the cobblestones as I hasten to my post. Scents of olives, fish, and fresh bread assault my nostrils. My stomach rumbles.
I stop at Clelia’s stand, a simple board set atop old barrels. She has the best takeaway food of anyone in the city.

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Remember Me as Victorious

Joyful laughter fills the air as my men arrange carts filled with their wives, children, and the spoils of war at the edge of the battlefield. Their families need to be here to witness when Briton claws her way from the eagles’ talons.
I can almost taste victory on my tongue, sweet

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Nessie Sings the Song

Inverness, Scotland 21st April, 2023
My grandfather told me stories of the Loch Ness Monster. Or Nessie as he lovingly called her. How she surfaces in the spring when life is new and the waters are warm. He saw her once, when night’s cloak had descended. Head thrown toward the moon, she gave…

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Welcome to Australia

Slap. Slap. Slap.
Waves hit against the side of the Friendship. Slap. Slap. Slap. We are an invader in their domain. My stomach roils, and I clamp a sweaty palm over my mouth. I wouldn’t lose much in the way of food if I retched, but it’s the principle of the whole thing.

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This Thing Called Ciabatta Bread

Gaul,47 BC
Scents of olive oil and flour tickle my nose as I set up my bread stand. Caesar’s statue rises above me, a constant reminder of who’s in charge. That I can never escape those who are always watching. I send a prayer to the gods thanking them for the coolness of the

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The Night Passes Swiftly

Big Ben chimes the hour. One. Two. Three. Four… all the way to nine. Nine in the evening. But it seems darker. Blacker than midnight. Not even a candle allowed. Shadows lie heavy over London, suppressing all thoughts and laughter. I toss off the covers, trying to free myself from the constricting bed clothes.

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Poisoned Beauty

The market is an organ pulsing with life. Beating with the hearts of hundreds, thousands of people. Beating with the laughter of happiness and friendship. Palpitating with the cries of sorrow. The exertion of merchants as they compete to sell mounds of golden turmeric, blood red paprika and earthy cinnamon. Trinkets.

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The Vice of Drinking to Excess

“Bert! Another.”
I throw my empty tankard against the wall, where it clangs and rolls under a table. The customers there give me a look of wariness and move to hide in a shadowed corner. They are the fortuitous ones. Shadows no longer hide me.
Bert gives me a look of disgust as he slams the fresh

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Fate

It isn’t every day that fate gives you a second chance. Most days she seems content to let the stars direct the courses of time and space—punishing humans for going past their limits. Today is different. Today is a day you don’t throw away.
I, Captain Anton Carrick Stansy IV, stand at the helm

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