Twenty Historical Plot Starters

Are you a history buff that lacks inspiration?  The past is full of stories waiting to be told.  We frequently share story prompts on our Pinterest, Facebook, and Google+ pages, but right here is your gold mine for inspiration.

As a gecko on Noah's ark, he saw everything that went on, including the scandal between the elephants and the tigers.

Most know her as Queen Esther, but she's best known to me as Aunt Essie.  We did everything together, from housework to playing practical jokes on my father.  Everything was flowers and rainbows, and I couldn't have been happier.  Until they came and took her away.

It started as a quiet rumble, then grew, and the giant wall began to crumble.  The people living inside the wall screamed, and I shuddered, selfishly glad that though I lived inside Jericho's previously-impenetrable wall, my home stood safely in the center of the city.

The castle lay silent in the vast forest. It seemed enchantingly beautiful...so why did history have a different story to tell?

Sleeping beauty. That's the fairy tale that was so often associated with the mystery of the missing princess. But who would have guessed that instead of playing Beauty, the princess more closely resembled the wicked queen?

The rough wood under his hand threatened to leave splinters, but he didn't care. Gripping the hull of the ship until his knuckles turned white, He watched as the rouge ship sailed closer. The Dragon at the head told him all he needed to know. Vikings.

The ship listed to one side, and she caught hold of the rail to keep from being washed overboard.  The New World had better be worth this misery or she may as well swim back to England.

The plow broke the sod in satisfying furrows, following obediently behind the horse.  He'd never enjoyed plowing, but today was different.  His father would be home from war any day, and the field would look better than it ever had before.

A horse.  That's all this animal was—a horse.  So why did her knees quiver beneath her buckskin riding skirt?  Why did this beast haunt her nightmares?

I, Napoleon Bonaparte, met Benjamin Franklin on the street during one of his many trips to France during the Revolutionary War.  We had a delightful time discussing politics.

Backs aching, they planted row after row.  The endless task stretched on in the form of southern soil, their skin nearly the color of the dirt in which they worked.

The Lewis & Clark expedition was a huge success for everyone.  All the folks in town celebrated and packed up, ready to move.  Except for one family that locked their doors and primed their muskets.

Nobody bothered to tell him that attempting to assassinate President Andrew Jackson would earn him more than he bargained for. 

The ground quaked beneath her feet.  It started as a low tremor, growing in magnitude until she fought to remain standing.  A fracture in the pavement appeared with a low groan and widened, then raced down the street, seemingly intent on swallowing her whole.  Screams echoed up and down the street, and a single thought crossed through her mind: it was 1906, and the world was coming to an end.

She used to like the color red.  But as the crimson flag rippled in the breeze, she felt as if she were drowning in a sea of pure evil.  Evil every bit as ugly as the black swastika that sat proudly in the center of the fabric.

Peace and love—the very words that had inspired the bell bottoms and tie-dyed shirt that were the most-loved part of my wardrobe—became hated to my own ears.

The old man stood erect and silent on the porch as the sight of his uniformed grandson faded away. Then, a silent tear slipped past his defenses and made its way down the wrinkled cheek. He knew the truth so many denied; no one would be the same after Vietnam.

From the deck of the passenger vessel, the immigrants could see the lighthouse shining in the distance. But the welcome light was overshadowed by the ominous shadows that lay between their vessels and the shore.

Rain mixed with the tears he could no longer hold back. Looking toward the sky, he wished the rain could wash away the aching hurt that pounded inside his chest. Would this war take everything he held dear?

The haunting notes of a violin swirled through the crisp leaves of the forest, carried by the Autumn breeze. Where did it come from, and why would such a gifted person play where there was no one to hear?