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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 2 of 10

The Weight of Peace

Submitted to Contest #305

The night smelled of burnt earth and gunpowder when Dan Hicks said, "You know what? I quit." But that came later, after the world had torn itself apart one more time.The trenches stretched like infected wounds across the landscape, carved deep into ground that had forgotten what grass looked like. Dan pressed his back against the muddy wall, feeling the vibrations of distant artillery through his spine. Each explosion sent tremors through the earth, through his bones, through what remained of his sanity."Christ, Danny," Jamie whispered besid...

17 likes 8 comments 8
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Lyle gets an agent

Submitted to Contest #304

Lyle was Restless he sat at the table with paper and pencils and pins scattered across it. He reached for his phone, once again he came back with a silver plated pocket watch. He liked the watch, but he couldn’t google “how to fill a fountain pen” on it. He wondered if he would ever get used to not having the world at his fingertips. “When will ballpoint pens be invented?” He addressed a stack of wooden pencils and pencil sharpener; picked up a pencil and began to writeOctober 24, 1922I arrived suddenly in 1922 from 2023. I entered the Witne...

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Future Unwritten

Submitted to Contest #304

He awoke slowly that day. One of the few times in the last four years. The fog in his brain, parting just enough for consciousness to percolate in like a cup of coffee. As it dripped and dropped him back to the realm of the living, pain was close behind.His head pounded like an artillery piece as he wrestled his eyes open. The ceiling light blinded him, adding to his discomfort. With his senses now being kicked back into working order, now that his eyes were temporarily disabled, he could feel the cold stone beneath him. It was surprisingly ...

6 likes 0 comments 0
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Fiction Writers' conferences: Night School

Submitted to Contest #304

WC: 1,314 Fiction Writers’ Conferences: Night School Well, welcome to the first writers’ conference of the semester, Mr. er Impalovich. Sir, that’s Impa LOW vich. Quite an unusual name for around here. Yes, Professor Redd. Accent on the penultimate syllable. The “low’ means illegitimate, like, say, oh apostrophe in Irish. Just call me Eric. Sounds East European. Yes, Professor Eric. Romanian to be exact, and I go way back. No, it’s just Eric. We can dispense with titles here, Mr. ImpaLOWvich. My theory is when you sit around the w...

9 likes 1 comment 1
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Ascension

Submitted to Contest #304

Includes depictions of physical violence and suicide.They call her Witch.Not for her magic, but for her wretchedness. And so she knew the witching hour, but often wished somebody would tell her what haunts it, because it can be a struggle to define whether she is the haunter or the haunted. Under skies that char black by the heat of the day, its darkest minutes are when she can weep for her creativity. Yet even through her tears, half-formed ideas still flicker through the bleak sea of her blank eyes. And there was her terror, and there was ...

4 likes 0 comments 0
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Where the Spirit Horses Drink

Submitted to Contest #305

Where The Spirit Horses Drink By Johanna Lor Rain Parry ---- this story is based on true events, and real experiences. It includes historical trauma from indigenous genocide. She could hear them drumming for those praying in the lodge...the heart-beat rhythm reminding her of the thousands of tears that drip slowly into the red earth from the eyes of those who have seen too much. A trail of prayers trickled upward from the fire in front of the sweat lodge. The swirling smoke spiraled, threadlike towards the sky. Life had always been hard in ...

14 likes 1 comment 1
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What Occurred At Haukstrǫnd House On An Autumn Afternoon—1865

Submitted to Contest #304

Mister Jonas Harkstreader set the pages of the manuscript down on his desk. He exhaled a deep, exasperated breath. “Mister Groschinger—or Herr Groschinger, if you prefer. This...this cat is going to take the little girl to the Moon, of all places—on a pirate ship, of all things? Are you even aware that the Moon is a quarter of a million miles from the Earth? Moreover, there is no wind to blow the sails, on account of there being no air in those rarefied regions!” He knew that Kyric Groschinger hailed from one of the states of Germany, but wh...

5 likes 6 comments 6
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Who We Become At Night

Submitted to Contest #304

*This is a work of satire, with serious themes of dehumanization. It parodies multiple written works which are highly controversial. Discretion advised.* Night had fallen, and most of the city had gone to sleep, but not Otto Katz. He sat at his writing desk as moonlight flooded through his window, rippling across the literature he was given at the synagogue during a recent trip to Venice. He knew he should be sleeping like everyone else, but that was impossible when he had a story in his mind, which had taken seed when he read the literature...

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A Writer's Mind

Submitted to Contest #304

“You oppose us, Leonitus, when we have the day in our hand?” Finnegan raised his tall silver sword to the sky. The blade flashed blindingly with the golden sunlight before its wielder pointed it directly at the Roman ruler. “Your servants will be like dogs, trotting after your demise that is soon to come. The Norse shall rule Borwell by the time the sun hits the hill you will die upon tonight!” He jabbed the sword toward a tall hill behind the Roman army with a deep grunt, his tiny black eyes glinting with rancid anger. Or perhaps that might...

2 likes 0 comments 0
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Thomas Malory's Postcards from Prison

Submitted to Contest #304

Newgate Prison, 1469My ryght dere frende William, Confynement shalle not mean the voyce of Sir Thomas Malory, knyght, be putte to sylence. It is sayd, a good man may not be cast adown! Though he be ymprysoned for armes taken unlawefully, extorcion, steelyng of horses and entente to slay. And enterynge wythout leve. I thanke thee hertily for sendyng the quill, ynke and parchment. Despyte thys, the sum of these items doth not meete myn ambycion. Myn purpose ys not ful symple - I shalle not scryve but smalle lettres. Myn purpose ys a dreme of g...

13 likes 4 comments 4
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Bent back Brandt

Submitted to Contest #304

With one last snort the loyal beast’s legs went out from under it. The farmhand sparing the oxen along leapt, just as one ton of meat and muscle collapsed where he had been standing. Blood poured from its nose as it let out its final rasping breaths. “Pushed you too hard, didn’t I fella’.” Janeck said patting the skin between the animals two great horns. It was already mid-March and there was still another field that needing tilling. That sickly old beast had been their last hope, ill as it was it could still do the work of ten men. Ever si...

4 likes 2 comments 2
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Krasnaya Pod Davleniem (Кра́сная Под Давлением)

Submitted to Contest #304

Pressure biting on hull. Metal groan like lamenting of preachers outside Leningradsky railway terminal. Depth gauge: glowing green, like mould growing in brain. We are past safe. Long past. It does not matter.Silence down below. It is heavy. Not peaceful kind, like sleep. No. This kind, it sit on your chest like dying dog. It settle in your marrow, thick, like dirty oil. Become part of you. Each breath, like last sigh of world.No light. Only glow green from console. Three buttons: surface, hold, launch. That is all there is. That is all ther...

5 likes 2 comments 2
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Fever

Submitted to Contest #304

Fever Fever. Feel it in the air. Lawd! It's hot. Louisiana hot on a summer Saturday night. Not a breath of a breeze. Sultry. Like trying to inhale a sponge.Gossamer iridescent wings of dragonflies helicopter above clouds of gnats hanging low above the muddy waters of the wide Mississippi. Mosquitoes hatch and blacken the tall marsh grasses in the ditches still sodden with flood waters from the last downpour. Bullfrogs croak as if they are dying, poisonous snakes slither unseen, gators lie in wait with only their beady eyes peering above the ...

42 likes 36 comments 36
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The Unfinished Sonnet - Charles Baudelaire - August 31st, 1867

Submitted to Contest #304

Many years have passed since I have read the works of de Nerval or even thought of him. Today though, I walked home from an early breakfast at the café that’s run by an old Roma couple on the corner of my street. It was at a time when our labors had surpassed the successful career of Romanticism’s founding father to be deemed by academic institutions, literary reviews, and, most importantly, the informal conversations of the fine art’s aficionados as “all the rage of Paris.” Delacroix, where were you when he needed you? De Nerval had hair th...

7 likes 0 comments 0
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Ocean Singer of the Night - Voyages of the Destiny's Dreams

Submitted to Contest #304

"Labyrinths of the wild,Nature entwined,Ocean's stories,Beyond time and mind."The voice of Ocean Singer wafted over the ocean.The canvas sails of the boat gleamed in the lantern light, beneath the stars and moon.A new tale bubbled up from Ocean Singer's mind.Something different had been carved into him by his recent experiences. His stories took on new shapes.Now, each night he wandered the mystical sailing ship decks. In the darkness, more stories sparkled in the depths and essence of his being.His lost storytelling skill was coming back. S...

43 likes 13 comments 13
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