Frontier Road - Short Stories (written by humans)

Part 1 of the Short Story Series, Dear Moses

“And the woman conceived and bore a son; and when she saw that he was a goodly child, she hid him three months. And when she could not longer hide him, she took for him an ark of bulrushes, and daubed it with slime and with pitch, and put the child therein; and she laid it in the flags by the river’s brink.”
—Exodus 2:2–3

I killed for Pharaoh.

Not just once. Not just the overseer in the sand. I carried a blade for him before that, before I knew who I was. I rode chariots with the king’s soldiers. We fought against Kush. Against raiders from the east. I saw fire in the hills and bodies split down the middle. We killed fast and hard and didn’t bury anyone who wasn’t ours.

I was good at it. My arms were strong. I didn’t flinch. The generals liked me because I followed orders and didn’t ask why. They said I had the blood of gods.

Maybe I believed it. But not in the Gods. Just in the strength of a human willing.

They started to favor me, fed me well. Dressed me in fine robes. Taught me how to sit at court and drink like a noble. I spoke their language clean. Not like the workers. Not like the Hebrews.

That word, Hebrew, it didn’t mean much to me then. Just a name for the ones who built everything and got nothing.

I passed them every day. Men hauling stone in the heat. Women with their backs bent from the fields. Children crying and still made to work. And I didn’t look long.

Not until I did.

There was one man. Couldn’t have been older than me. His hands were bleeding. Rope burns across both wrists. He was lifting bricks anyway. No shouting, no noise. Just working through it. I watched him. I don’t know why.

He looked up at me.

Not in fear. Not hate either. Just a tired kind of knowing. Like he already knew I wasn’t who I thought I was.

I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

After that I started walking the long way through the quarter. Not just once. A dozen times. More. I listened. I saw how the guards talked to them. How they spat near their feet. How they hit them just to be seen hitting someone.

Something started cracking.

I didn’t know God. Not then. I knew Pharaoh. I knew kings. I knew bronze and fire and the way a man’s eyes go when you cut too deep. But God? No.

What I felt was smaller. Human.

I started to see them not as slaves, but as people.

And that was the beginning of the end.

You can’t fight for Pharaoh with the same hands that watch a man bleed and know he didn’t deserve it.

So I stopped going to court.

I stopped showing up at the drills.

I started walking more in silence.

I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know who I was. But I knew I wasn’t theirs.

Not anymore.

Napoleon didn’t invade Spain. Not at first. He came in through the back, through Portugal; quickly, quietly, and with hardly a shot fired.

By the fall of 1807, France and Spain had signed the Treaty of Fontainebleau, supposedly agreeing to carve up Portugal between them. The French would march in from the north and center. The Spanish would help from the sides. On paper, it was about punishing Portugal for its alliance with Britain. But in truth, it was about control, Napoleon’s control, and Portugal was the test run.

The French Army of the Gironde, 25,000 strong under General Junot, crossed into Spain on October 18. They took their time, covering three hundred miles in twenty-five days. No battles. No resistance. Behind the scenes, French engineers sketched out every fort, bridge, and mountain pass they passed, mapping Spain like a future enemy, not a friend.

Meanwhile, Spanish troops, unknowingly aiding their own undoing, moved into position from Galicia and Badajoz. Their role was to secure the flanks and help the French take Lisbon. But the real purpose of the operation became clearer with each step. Napoleon had no intention of stopping at the Portuguese border. Portugal was never the endgame. It was the excuse.

By the time Junot marched into Lisbon in November, the country had been taken without a single major engagement. A kingdom of three million had surrendered in silence. Not from lack of pride, but from the sheer psychological weight of Napoleon’s name. The Portuguese government crumbled. The royal family fled to Brazil. And with Portugal in hand, Napoleon had his foot firmly planted on the western edge of Europe.

Spain was next. It just didn’t know it yet.

What Shakespeare Taught us about Life and Death

In the spring of 1616, William Shakespeare returned to his hometown of Stratford-upon-Avon for good. He was fifty-two years old and, by outward appearance, in decent health. He had already written his final play. The London stages had gone quiet. His daughters were grown, one of them newly married. He had signed his will a few weeks earlier, and two days after his birthday, he was dead. The official records say little, but a local vicar later wrote that Shakespeare, along with fellow writers Ben Jonson and Michael Drayton, drank too much at a dinner and caught a fever that killed him. The story is thin, but it holds just enough truth to make you think: The world’s greatest poet may have laughed himself right into the grave. And maybe he was at peace with that. Because somewhere in the middle of his plays, buried in his kings, his clowns, his traitors and lovers, Shakespeare had already made peace with death. Not as something to run from, but something to understand. To name. To live beside. “A coward dies a thousand deaths,” he wrote in Julius Caesar, “the valiant taste of death but once.” The ones who fear it die from it daily. But the ones who look it in the eye, who learn to carry it, die just once. And they live better because of it.

Columbus died on May 20, 1506, in Valladolid, Spain. He was 54 years old, broken by illness, debt, and the weight of unfulfilled promises. The years of ocean voyages, brutal weather, and battle with both nature and men had left his body twisted with arthritis and his spirit worn thin. Once the toast of Europe, he spent his last months largely ignored, left to draft long, pleading letters to a royal court that no longer had use for him. The riches he believed he had opened to Spain never arrived as he’d hoped. The lands he had claimed in the name of the Crown were now being governed without his input. The titles and powers promised to him, especially his lifelong demand to be restored as Viceroy of the Indies, were never granted.

He finalized his will on May 19, 1506. In it, he asked that a male heir of his family always live in Genoa, the city of his birth, to honor his roots. He also instructed Diego to care for Beatriz Enriquez, the mother of his illegitimate son Fernando. “This weighs much upon my conscience,” he wrote. “The reason cannot be written here.”

To this day, some claim the line of Columbus still exists, quietly, anonymously, somewhere in Genoa. A descendant who still honors the will. A man who keeps a house there, who lights a candle on Ascension Day, and keeps a worn copy of the Admiral’s map tucked in a drawer. Some believe this quiet heir maintains legal presence through the Bank of St. George or resides near the old Casa di Colombo, where the Admiral himself was once a boy. He may even be tied, however distantly, to the noble line of the Dukes of Veragua, descendants who were ennobled by the Spanish crown but never fully embraced in Genoa.

The next day, Ascension Day, he died. Tradition says his final words were taken from the Gospel of Luke: “Into your hands, Lord, I commend my spirit.” He was buried first at the Franciscan convent in Valladolid. From there, his body was moved to Seville’s Monastery of Santa María de las Cuevas. Later still, it was reportedly taken to San Domingo. Centuries after, some claimed his remains were moved again to Havana, then returned to Seville after Spain lost Cuba. No one knows for certain where he lies. His body, like so many parts of his story, is disputed.

He left behind little wealth and no confirmed gravesite, but his legacy stirred centuries of praise, resentment, and confusion. In Seville, his name is etched into plaques and memorials, yet most modern tour guides accompany these with a pause or an asterisk. There is a statue of him at the Cathedral of Seville, where some say his bones rest in a massive tomb guarded by four heraldic kings. His chains, the ones he wore when he was arrested and sent back to Spain in disgrace, are still displayed at the Cathedral of Seville, a sobering relic of how far he fell. At museums in Genoa, you can see models of his ships and maps he helped inspire. And in Valladolid, a small plaque marks the building where he died.

Columbus died convinced of his mission. He believed that God had called him, and he convinced himself that he had been justified in what he had done. But the weight of his actions never fully left him. He was tormented by sins he could not name, ones he carried to his deathbed. He died a man of fierce will and great ambition, but also one worn down by a world that changed faster than he could.

The world continues to remember him, uneasily, unevenly, and in ways that shift with each generation.

After returning from his second voyage, Columbus finds his reputation damaged, his colony in chaos, and growing resistance from both colonists and native people. He tries to hold things together, but the settlers are frustrated with the lack of gold, and the natives are sick of mistreatment and broken promises. As rebellion brews, Columbus uses harsh measures to control the island and ship Indigenous people back to Spain, claiming it’s for their “conversion” but also to profit the Crown.

On his third voyage, Columbus discovers Trinidad and parts of mainland South America, but he’s in poor health and still obsessed with finding a route to Asia and defending his right to rule the Indies. Meanwhile, Spain starts to doubt him, hearing constant complaints from colonists. A royal commissioner, Bobadilla, is sent to investigate, and he arrives in Hispaniola just as Columbus is away trying to settle disputes. Bobadilla arrests Columbus and sends him back to Spain in chains.

Columbus, humiliated but still has a sense of divine calling, says God justified him, even if the world did not. The Spanish crown eventually frees him, but his power is finished.

In part 3 the narrative follows Christopher Columbus as he steps ashore on the islands he believed were the outer reaches of Asia. Planting the royal banners of Castile, he took possession in the name of Ferdinand and Isabella, declaring to all present, “I took possession before all others, as in fact I did take possession of the said island for the king and the queen, my lord and lady.”

The indigenous people, “gentle and friendly,” approached the newcomers with offerings of cotton, parrots, and simple bread of cassava, astonished by the glittering steel and scarlet garments of their visitors. Columbus noted their innocence and lack of arms, writing that they “would be good servants and of good disposition, for I see that they repeat very quickly everything which is said to them.”

From San Salvador to Fernandina, Isabella, and onward to Cuba, Columbus interpreted every detail through the prism of his ambitions. Hearing tales of gold and distant kings, he imagined he stood on the threshold of Cipango or the dominions of the Great Khan. His private journal reveals how easily he read the evidence to match his dreams.

Yet even as he claimed new lands, Columbus’s sense of purpose began to change. The drive for exploration grew into visions of religious conversion, political power, and the wealth that could flow from these unknown shores. “With a handful of people,” he wrote, “I could conquer the whole island, were it necessary.”

The History of the story is taken largely from three sources:

1). THE LIFE OF CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS by EDWARD EVERETT HALE,

2). CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS AND HOW HE RECEIVED AND IMPARTED THE SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY BY JUSTIN WINSOR and

3). "The life and voyages" Washington Irving

Christopher Columbus is in Lisbon in 1473, a young Genoese sailor growing used to Portugal’s capital. He tries to reconcile his past mistakes, praying for a sign. Again and again, he hears the same words:

“God called you and you are justified.”

Columbus first meets Filipa, the daughter of a Portuguese navigator. Their marriage is simple but rooted in respect, and soon Columbus finds a sense of belonging he’d never had before. Filipa’s family opens the door to maps and knowledge gathered from voyages around Africa, knowledge Columbus studies

“for hours, then days, then weeks, then months.”

They build a small family together, welcoming their son Diego and settling on the island of Porto Santo. But this short peace ends abruptly with Filipa’s death, likely soon after Diego’s birth. Columbus is left a widower, broken, unable to bear the silence of the house he once shared with her:

“If Filipa had lived, I think I would never have left Portugal.”

With no family to anchor him, he throws himself fully into the idea of sailing west. Encouraged by a letter from Paolo Toscanelli, and inspired by Marco Polo’s tales of kingdoms dripping with gold, Columbus becomes convinced that unimaginable wealth lie across the Atlantic, just four thousand miles away.

Strange evidence washes up on Atlantic shores: giant reeds, carved planks, even two bodies with features unfamiliar to Europeans. Columbus interprets these as signs:

“All of it pointed in one direction: land, somewhere out there, sending these things as a kind of message on the tide.”

In the meantime, he keeps his skills sharp, sailing north to Iceland and down the African coast, pushing his limits, while the world around him changes. Printing presses spread new knowledge, the compass gains trust, and Portuguese explorers stir again under King John II.

Columbus sees that if he is ever to chase his dream and the idea of sailing west to reach the east, his moment is coming.

In this first episode of Cristoforo Columbo: Admiral of the Sea, we find Columbus in 1504, alone and retired in Valladolid. He walks with a limp through the stone streets, worn down by years at sea and a lifetime of battles, carrying the guilt of what he calls “sins of my hands.” Despite his prayers at the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Sea, the silence there only sharpens his sense of failure. “God called you and you are justified,” he keeps hearing, but those words bring no peace, only a sort of dread.

He can’t quite let go of the titles people still give him: explorer, conqueror, Admiral of the Sea. They feel heavy, tangled up with regrets he can’t name. He tries to picture Jesus on the cross, hoping to find relief like others do, but instead he feels the voice of God growing louder, almost like a warning.

Looking back, he remembers being just fourteen, sailing from Genoa on his first voyage with Captain Colombo, a distant uncle and a rough teacher. Those early years were brutal, with piracy, storms, and endless fear. “I slept where I could,” he would say, “cold and wet, thinking of home.” The harsh sea hardened him, pushed him to survive, and gave him no choice but to fight.

Still, that voice kept coming to him, then and now: God called you and you are justified.

The following story is adapted from a chapter called The Son in Hermann Hesse’s 1922 novel Siddhartha. Born in Germany in 1877, Hesse was the son of Protestant missionaries and shaped by questions of identity, rebellion, and the tension between spiritual ideals and real-world suffering. Like many of his works, Siddhartha draws from Eastern philosophy and Hesse’s own struggles with alienation and fatherhood. After the collapse of his first marriage and a period of personal crisis, Hesse began writing Siddhartha, a novel about a man’s journey toward spiritual enlightenment.

This short story, part of the greater work, The Son is arguably the most emotional chapter in the book. It’s about a father desperate to connect with a child who doesn’t want anything to do with him. It’s about love that isn’t returned, patience that isn’t rewarded, and the painful truth that you can’t walk someone else’s path for them.

In this version, the story has been modernized and Americanized for a more familiar setting. Siddhartha becomes Henry, a quiet man who’s retreated from city life. Vasudeva, the ferryman, becomes Walt, Henry’s aging uncle and mentor figure. Siddhartha’s unnamed eleven-year-old son becomes Josh, now seventeen—a bitter, grieving teenager suddenly dropped into a rural world that feels completely foreign to him. The setting shifts from ancient India to the rural American Midwest, but the heart of the story tries to stay the same.

“By the Waters of Babylon” is a short story written by Stephen Vincent Benét and first published in 1937. It’s a post-apocalyptic tale that explores themes of knowledge, truth, and the rise and fall of civilizations.

The story is told from the point of view of John, a young man from a tribal society that lives in a future, post-apocalyptic world. His people have strict religious rules, including prohibitions against entering the ruins of old cities, which they refer to as the “Place of the Gods.” Despite the taboos, John, who is training to be a priest, feels compelled to seek knowledge and undertakes a spiritual journey to this forbidden place.

When John finally reaches the ruins (which are revealed to be New York City), he realizes that the “gods” were actually humans—advanced people whose civilization was destroyed, likely by nuclear war or some technological disaster. This discovery transforms his understanding of the world and convinces him that it is time for his people to rebuild knowledge and move forward.

Benét wrote this story at a time when technology was accelerating, and global conflict (pre-WWII) loomed. It’s a cautionary tale about the dangers of technological hubris and a reminder that future generations might one day view our current society with the same awe and misunderstanding we often apply to ancient ruins.