This is a list of all the work we’ve published so far, in chronological order of each piece’s historical setting. We update this list at the end of each season.
The beginning of time: How Monday was Made by Guy Biederman
It’s been a rough day. Ice Age in the morning, Vesuvius after lunch, and the loss of God’s favorite trattoria in Pompeii….
The Stone Age, give or take an epoch: Wheel of Fortune by Nick Black
Oh yeah, life’s been nothing but sweet for Jasper since he invented that flat round rolling thing of his.
3400-3100 BCE: Ice Man by Jan Stinchcomb
She stitches his leggings and sews his hat, stuffs his pouch with dried mushrooms, and carves her sign into the handle of his knife.
12th/13th century BCE: Thrice Around the Walls of Troy by Gary Duncan
Remembering the stories he’d heard about her: the face, the ships, all that. That first time he saw her, his idiot brother smirking by her side: That’s her? All this, for her?
1000 AD (give or take): Love in the Margins by MaryPat Campbell
Two decades ago, my father brought me to this monastery. Our long journey made me sick for home, while he talked mile after mile about the honour of being schooled in the art of the scribe.
Late middle ages (or not!): The Convert by Clio Velentza
See the swamp under the bridge, how it holds its breath. Its rough skin is an outright lie.
1542 / 1520: Whispers, behind closed doors by Rosanna Hildyard
Many years ago, back in our green days, we played at the new game of tennis, dressed up for May masques and dared call King Harry’s wife ‘the Spanish woman’ almost openly behind the backs of our hands, our eyes gleaming sideways like Holbein’s drawings. We were careless with our talking as with our dice; there were no forfeits.
1577: Santo Spirito, 1577 by Michele Finn Johnson
My parents consign my eldest sister, Paola, to Venice’s Santo Spirito convent. There is no dowry for Paola and so her duty is our salvation.
1643-1644: ‘Boye‘ by Christine Collinson
Before the battle, we said that Boye was bulletproof. A white devil-dog with a black heart and enchanted blood: a shapeshifter, a sorcerer.
1645: The Essex Girl by Michelle Hemstedt
I have told them she killed my daughter.
I have told them she kissed her and gave her an apple, and the child perished.
Late 1600s: In Dead Waters by Sarah Arantza Amador
We held our fortified port for six weeks while the King killed Protestants in the northern lowlands but the South Gate finally gave way during a fight for fresh bread. So many died in battle that no sacred ground was left for burying the dead. We stacked the bodies one on top of the other in the gendarmerie tower and covered them in salt, of which we had plenty.
Late 1600s/Early 1700s: Footsized by Sarah Peploe
Her breasts hurt with milk, still. They’re heavy. They leak sometimes, dark and obvious through her dress. She is behind with the washing. Her big girl who is nearly seven has been helping, and her sister Doll, but Doll is close to her own confinement.
1752: The Fire She Feels by Kate Finegan
Mama always knew there was something about that lightning, even before that old rascal Franklin tied a key to a kite.
1775: Declaration by Madeline Anthes
“I’ll come home,” he said, taking on the face of a soldier. Serious. Focused. “We’re fighting for independence. Liberty.”
He liked to repeat things I already knew.
Mid-18th century: Hidden in Darkness by Diane E Tatlock
At the dank, doomed mine they pay money to see where I took my last steps two hundred years ago, to hear the tale for entertainment.
late 1700s: Blood Orange by Sherri Turner
I thought about what had made the orange bleed. Was it hurt when it was picked, when it was cut? It wasn’t special, it was tainted and I didn’t want it.
18th century: The Garden Statue by Amy Barnes
The lady of the house pays me not to move. It isn’t enough for her to have garden statues made of stone. To have a genteel party, there must be living statues.
1800-1950: ‘Soul Theft‘ by Remi Skytterstad
They built internment camps in red, white and blue: and called them schools.
Early 1800s: Eleanor’s Last by Nuala O’Connor
I see those small ones about me betimes, when I bind rope or thresh corn. My living childer work with me, all three, but the others appear and do their share
1800s: Tyn by K.B. Carle
Tyn, a man the color of the coals that collected under his mama’s good cooking pot before turning to ash when the fire got to them, digs his hands deep into the earth, letting every bit of pain loose through the tips of his fingers.
1805-1810: Professor Lazzo’s Stupendous Flea Circus by Jennifer Falkner
Perhaps there are actors, however lowly, however unrecognised in the world, who are born to act, to take on other names and others’ words. If they cannot — well, possibly they end up here, in a grubby boarding house in miserable London.
1825-35: Water Over the Tunnel by Sian Brighal
This ain’t no rock or land I’m familiar with. It’s as though the stone has steeped too long in the river above it, becoming soft and corrupted on what the city adds to the brew. From which stinks and damps rise up like disturbed spirits to tighten round our throats or drown our thinking. The subtle and vicious ways this earth works to keep us in our place.
Early 1830s: A Note on the Understanding of Fossils by Cathy Lennon
Don’t wake the baby, don’t wake the baby, don’t wake the baby.
1832 – 1845: Life at the Colliery, 1832 -1845 by Matt Kendrick
It’s dark. Darker than coal. Darker than Ma’s eyes when I came home caked in mud after football on the common. Which is before. When we weren’t down here. Crouched in our sidings. Waiting.
1840s: ‘Invisible‘ by George L. Hickman
We had been whipping the whiskey wash for three hours now, my socks long soaked from the Scottish rain. Four of us boys stood around a bubbling vat of yeast and barley, piercing its thick foam with long sticks, splattering a sugary grime into each other’s faces.
1846: A Falling from the Sky by Aileen Hunt
That night, the wind bore a strange cry. Not the cry of a banshee. They knew that sound, carried it around like a familiar chill.
Mid-1800s: Tilda Always Did Love Her Flowers by Christina Dalcher
A miracle became—
“Necessary,” said the midwife.
“Imperative,” insisted the father.
“A thing best left to God,” thought the mother, meaning the miracle, not the baby, but possibly meaning both.
Mid-1800s: There Will Be No Lace by TM Upchurch
I shrug them loose, lean in and swaddle you tight so you won’t feel the cold. Pretend I’m still here. Your eyelids close, open, close, open less… As they slide down, sealing you into sleep, I am still here. I brand my mind with the moment, breathing in deep, sucking you into me before they take my wrists.
Mid-1800s: Shoes in the Wall by Olivia Fitzsimons
They took his shoes, they slipped them from his feet and placed them in the wall, beside the lintel of the door.
1857: Comfortless Cove by Linda Walsh
I grip the sides of the swaying rowing boat, my face scorched by a cold-hearted sun. Ahead is Ascension Island, Queen Victoria’s lonely outpost, lying between Africa and the New World, a desolate rock in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. As Assistant Surgeon, it fell to me to order Captain Butt to evacuate the sickest men to the shore.
1862: The Bathtub by Amy Slack
I’d have his bath waiting for him, the water warmed by the same coals he blasted and carved from the earth, the same coals they paid him with. A bonus, they called those coals. A pitman’s hearth should never go cold.
1866-1869: ‘Erased‘ by Winston Bribach
The bosses told us Chinese to stay away from the photographer. Most didn’t need to be told. They didn’t want to lose their souls.
1867: Postbellum by Fiona J. Mackintosh
Somewhere outside Jacksonville, Illinois, the train slows to a crawl. Clara cups her hands and peers into the darkness but sees only the rail bed stones and the ragged edge of a sorghum field.
1870s: Gutshot by Peter Jordan
With this same rifle he learned to shoot at Cemetery Ridge, taking Confederate soldiers from a distance of two hundred yards. In those three days of slaughter he knows exactly how many men he killed. At night, each pallid face comes to visit.
1870s: A Piecer’s Tale by Christine Collinson
Cotton fluff swirls around us like snow, only it is as hot as an oven. All the windows are shut, but I can see grey sky if I peep out when no one’s watching.
1879: When the Walking’s Done by Mary Scott
The outback never ends. Frank’s seen nothing but orange and brown for hours now. Burned colours. Enough to drive a man mad.
1880s: You May Hear of a Killing by Becca Borawski Jenkins
The heat made her an inch shorter as she watched the dust devil tread toward her down the only road in this not-even-a town. Her hands rested at her hips. No—her palms hovered, brushing the grips of her pistols.
1887: Becoming Helen by Stella Klein
Though sometimes, lately, insistent in her touch, my somebody-other comes to still me in her folds, tap-tapping with her game of lines and dots. And sometimes, tapping back, I feel her urgent pleasure more than mine.
1895: Frau Roentgen’s Left Hand by Anita Goveas
The thumb is indistinct, mid-sized and slender. If it were a tree limb, it would reveal I was fifty years old.
1896 – 1940: Oh Be A Fine Girl, Kiss Me by Donna L Greenwood
Edward’s large head looms like fat, round cheese whilst he watches her; ready to whisk away her ideas as soon as they are born.
June 1898: ‘The Lost, Independencia‘ by Ryle Lagonsin
From my window overlooking the mountains, I watch a line of soldiers climbing up the footpath, small as ants in the green totality of the range. They are all the same, only multiplied in the distance. Each one, a shaded head under a Baliwag hat, defying the high noon.
Late 1890s: The Fur-puller by Peter Burns
Mr Matthews lays the sack on the scales. Rose doesn’t blink, for fear of missing the tilt of it, doesn’t breathe, for fear of losing more than she already has.
1908: Marie Curie’s Kitchen by Ellen Goldstein
Your mother spreads out pitchblende from Czechoslovakia. Your job is to pick out the pine needles from the crevices of the lumpy grey-black ore, a radioactive Cinderella.
1908: Three Hundred and Eighty Five Yards by Rob Walton
Some say Conan Doyle is only here because the organisers offered him a good seat to watch the athletics. Others say he is here on behalf of the Daily Mail. I really don’t mind about that.
1908: The Writer’s House by Caroline Greene
The great man is in the drawing room sitting for a portrait. We’ve had to roll up the rugs, but there’s sure to be paint for me to scrub off the parquet. He’s had that many pictures done, there can’t be anyone in England who wouldn’t recognise him on a dark night.
1911: Stones Heavy in Their Pockets by Gina Headden
As she nears her destination, she stops and scans the street. All clear. She chaps the door, tapping out the code, her heartbeat hopscotching in her chest.
April 15, 1912: Iceblink by Mary Morrissy
You was the senior man. Four years on the Oceanic, you. You stared straight ahead, damned near blinded with concentration. And saw nothing at first.
World War I: Plum Jam by Frances Gapper
From our ladders we can see the plum-blue Malverns. The army’s bought up this harvest, still on the trees.
World War I: Ogdens by Gaynor Jones
She scoops a clump of dirt-brown tobacco from the barrel and tries not to think of gunpowder.
World War I: Potato Masher by Jake Sullins
He’d found the stick grenade half-buried in mud in a bend of the Somme, in the days after Amiens…
World War I: Casus Belli by Melanie Haws
John Haas went to war, aged twenty-three, a plumber’s helper, with a few dollars saved, and a picture of his Dresden-doll sweetheart he carried in his left breast-pocket…
World War I: Life After Death by Jennifer Moore
After he died they put a stranger in his stitched-up shell, sewing his name into the fellow’s mud-mushed brain to keep it from slipping.
1915: ‘The Colours in His Hair‘ by Davena O’ Neill
We only had one hour.
Sixty minutes alone, without sympathetic looks or words of encouragement. Everyone asked me after where we’d gone, but I never told.
‘We lost track of time,’ was all I said.
1917: Gutted by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon
She collapsed into my arms, where she belonged. We knew each other inside out, solid together since her husband enlisted.
1922 (told several decades later): On The Ethics of Book Burning by Nick Lord Lancaster
These are the facts of the matter. The warehouse fire was entirely accidental. I don’t know the cause of it; I’m not privy to that level of information.
1928: No More Than an Eggshell by Bronwen Griffiths
I wake early in thick darkness to a wind crashing over the rooftops, a wind howling like our neighbour’s dog after he was run over by a cart last year. I hear the fire of the maroons and my husband sits up in bed and says he must go and all I say is to take care as fear swells in me like the storm itself.
Early 1930s: The Blockcutter by Sarah Smith
In the factory, blue overalls hung loose on a wiry frame; lavvy-brush hair and jug-ears stuck out in permanent surprise. He studied the older men, deep in concentration at their workbenches, paunches solidifying.
1932: A Pot of Usefulness by Jane Lomas
When he was used up the lads gave him the grand title of Chief Splosh Maker, and he’d spent a few happy weeks warming the pot, spooning loose tea and pouring for the exhausted gang. But they couldn’t cover for him for long.
1940: ‘Aetheris Avidi‘ by Louise Mangos
Our other sister Joan is delivering a Lancaster bomber for the Air Transport Auxiliary. It was the first thing she wanted to do when our boat forged its way across the Irish Sea and we stepped off the gangplank. She prefers the thrill of the sky over amorous young soldiers heading to their destinies on the frontline.
1940s: I Was a Man Who Breathed by Chris Milam
She was statuesque with a face that could make a soulless man swoon. Or a soulless woman. Skin as flawless as fresh paint.
1940s: Send Him Victorious by Jude Higgins
I last saw my big brother Charlie laugh in 1937, the day after George VI’s coronation. He nearly wet himself when I asked him about a word in the National Anthem. Why were we supposed to send the King Victorias? They weren’t in season.
1940s: It’s Raining Today by Mark Left
When I dream it is raining. That is normal, that is what it does in Poland. Rain falling in sheets like wire mesh stretched to the four horizons. Keeping me in, shutting me out – it is all the same thing.
1940: Black Two by PJ Stephenson
“Next time I looked, he…”
My voice catches, like someone releasing the R/T button too quickly. My lower lip quivers. What’s wrong with me? I’ve lost sprogs before.
1941: Freedom Pass by Tamsin Cottis
Jackie and me on the bus. Front seat, top deck. Number 38. Hackney Central to Victoria. Memory of this bus came with me to Hospital. German Doodlebugs screaming through clouds. Stop. Wait. Boom! Doctors said I’d be better off out of it. Ma was crying the day they left me at St Caths. Told me it was a palace in a park. Turned out more of a prison. Only a boy I was, but a man when I left.
1941: Phoenixes by Sophie van Llewyn
Mother’s pinkie draws away from the teacup, reaching towards our glorious past. The footmen have been drafted, the maids soldier on in factories, but the afternoon tea is holy in our house.
1942: Inner Thief by Claire Polders
He says they have enough. Their eyes meet. The word “enough” sounds foreign to her, as though it has lost all meaning.
1944: Snow in March by Emma Venables
Anna crouches, wonders if the pilots can see her: if she stares right at them will her image haunt them long after this day, this raid? Will they remember the defiant German woman? Will they tell their grandchildren she had it coming?
1947: The Partitioning of Dreams by Susmita Bhattacharya
Years later, she would think back on how she had cried for her dolly, and not her brother who had been buried by the roadside. Years later, she would wonder about the home they had left – if the new owners feasted on the mangoes from their trees.
Late 1940s: From Darjeeling, with Love by Kiira Rhosair
Uphill, lush rows of foliage are speckled with faded cotton saris. Her sisters in suffering have moved on. She wonders if one might have a drop to spare. Neither her legs nor her voice will carry up. The country is free but she is not, trapped in the mazes of this place the sahibs call Heppi Balli.
1950s: Promiscuous by Elizabeth Burton
Promiscuous, they called Dorrinda. Callie wasn’t sure what that meant. She reckoned it must mean forced down on the dirt and pushed into the way fourteen-year-old Dorrinda had been by that man.
1958: A Long Way Away by Diane Simmons
It is realy horrible here. The journey took AGES and AGES and I blubbed and the lady took my pear drops away so I didn’t choke.
1950s &1960s: Balm by Charmaine Wilkerson
“What? What?” her son said, with that down-curved oh-shape that his mouth took on when he was annoyed. He wouldn’t understand. She couldn’t expect him to. Tiger Balm in America, after all these years.
1960: In 1960… by Grace Palmer
The foetus curled, I swear, somersaulting and dreaming in my watery home. I thought, it will stop soon, lay down bone and blue, grow into the caul.
Late 1960s: Estelle by Sheila Scott
‘It was on the clipboard at the last check.’ The commander pulled open a small drawer beneath the seats and rifled through its contents, sending odd items drifting into the air around them.
1980s: Red Eye by Lee Hamblin
First time in New York; first time in Brooklyn. Johnny P has a bit of blow and some weed he needs to dispose of on account he doesn’t indulge during the week. Would be rude not to help him out.
1982 / 2012: The Landmines Up Near Sapper Hill Sing by Santino Prinzi
He knew the dangers, we all did, and it weren’t as if he were taking risks. We all had experience of clearance projects like these, heard the stories, seen appendages blown to mist or found a few miles off. But this was Yousef’s legs. Yousef’s. The kindest heart in the group. S’way it always goes, though.
1983: ‘Not a Rehearsal‘ by Anne Summerfield
We should have gone to Greenham and slept under the tarpaulins, under the stars. We said we would, knew too that there was more at stake than protest.
1985 / 1994: Senna by Steve Campbell
Go, Go, Go, Go, screams the commentator. The cars burst toward us from the start line and Dad reaches over and grabs my arm, squeezing each syllable. Go, Go, Go, Go.
1985/now: Once Upon A Time In Philadelphia by Tia Ja’Nae
Steel melts at 2500°F. Pigs made sure it’s hotter than that so our dark, meaty flesh roasts to a crisp at the police barbeque. Feels like I’m melting. Can’t barely breathe.
Guess that was the end result they were counting on.
1991: Compost by John Nicholson
The Berlin Wall is down and my pension is in real marks. The notes feel good between finger and thumb, substantial. My shovel feels good too, balanced horizontally in my left hand, cold wood and colder steel. It gleams in the dull sun, low in the sky as the days grow short. Using it will give me pleasure.
2000: Y2K by Charles Duffie
Kaamisha squeezes her eyes and prays to wake up at home but she’s still here, in a bathroom stall at school.
…?: Two by Two by KM Elkes
They say Noah died, 350 years on from the Great Flood, as a naked, purple-lipped drunk. But some know better.
Image of Prague’s Astronomical Clock by Vera Kratochvil.