'The Resistance, a short historical fiction story
Anndrais mac Choluim | July 2025
Dear History Writers,
I am away this week on vacation with my little family, but thanks to the submission-based authorship of The Society of History Writers, that doesn’t stop this week’s newsletter landing in your inbox! What a wonderful community we have here. Thanks to an overwhelming response to my recent call for submissions, we are actually now all planned out for 2025 and I will have to close to any new submissions.
This week I am delighted to bring you a standalone short story by an author taking their first few steps into the world of prose fiction writing. That’s another great thing about this community - it’s for all history/historical fiction writers, whether brand-new, super-experienced, or somewhere in the middle. I do hope you enjoy this piece by
just as much as I did!All the best as always,
Holly
Editor,
Hello there! I’m currently studying for a PhD in Archaeology at Oxford, researching the role of women in the social and political developments of 6th- and 7th-century England and France. With a worldwide readership of over 1,500 (plus over 5,400 on my primary newsletter Medieval Musings), I provide a platform for the words of history writers at every stage of their career. Opportunities to contribute open up regularly, so make sure you’re subscribed to hear before anyone else! Our top 3 posts of all time have been an interview exploring the non-existence of medieval feminism, a guest post connecting the tyranny and injustice of Iron Age warrior queen Boudicca to the present day, and a hilarious journey through the myth of Arachne. You can support my work by becoming a paid subscriber at the link below or by making a one-off donation HERE. Thanks!
Anndrais mac Choluim
Anndrais mac Choluim lives under Galloway's dark skies. He used to be a poet and is now trying his hand at writing prose fiction.
‘The Resistance’ is a standalone story about the resilience of the human spirit. It’s set in Birmingham in the early 19th century, when the city was the 'button capital' of the Empire, producing brass buttons for both military and civilian use. This was also the time when Radicalism was emerging as a potent political force in Britain. In factories like the fictional Whitemoor Brassworks, workers began to form clandestine associations dedicated to broadening political participation in the state and improving their working and living conditions, a legacy of resistance to poverty and exploitation that has been passed down the generations to the present day.
The Resistance
Anndrais mac Choluim
The whistle shrieked thin and piercing, like a blade through cloth. The gates of the Whitemoor Brassworks groaned open, and the waiting men and boys shuffled forward in silence. The air was already thick with soot and the sharp sting of sulphur. It clung to his throat, to his skin, to every stitch Edwin Price wore.
He pulled his cap low as he passed through the archway, boots slipping on the grease-slick cobbles. Another day, same as yesterday, and the one before that. The metallic tang settled on his tongue, bitter and familiar. He said nothing. Eyes down. Don’t speak. Just work.
Inside, the roar of the furnaces smothered all thought. Flames licked at iron mouths, casting a hellish glow over the soot-streaked walls. Presses pounded, rattling their bolts and reverberating through the earth floor. Heat slammed into Edwin like a hammer. Within moments, sweat prickled beneath his collar.
He moved quickly, hands already blackened by brass dust. His thoughts flickered to his father—Thomas Price—who’d once walked that same floor. Two years gone now. They said it was a boiler explosion, an accident. But even now, Edwin wasn’t certain. He could still see the bundle of scorched cloth and raw, melted flesh that had once been his father, the way no one would meet his mother’s eyes.
“Oi! Price! You sleepwalkin’ again?”
The voice cracked across the factory like a whip. Edwin flinched and straightened. Crouch, the foreman, loomed through the noise and steam, ledger in one hand and a permanent sneer carved across his broad, pockmarked face.
“No, sir,” Edwin muttered.
Crouch snorted and shoved a dented tin bin into his arms. “Scrap pile’s growing. Sort the lot. And no dossing, or I’ll have you polishing press wheels 'til dawn.”
The bin struck hard against Edwin’s ribs. He staggered under the weight, biting down any reply. Crouch always made a show of him, as if he’d inherited the right along with the title of foreman.
He turned without a word and trudged toward the back of the workshop, where the defective buttons were dumped in a shallow tray against the wall. Warm brass fragments spilled over the edges—bent pins, misaligned moulds, scorched edges, failures. His fingers reached in, already inured to the heat.
His father had once been a master button maker. He now sorted the discards.
Still, he bent to the task. Quiet, methodical. He would do this well. To support his mother. For his father’s ghost.
A crash of metal startled Edwin where he crouched, the sound sharp as a pistol crack in the furnace-thick air. A fresh pile of rejected buttons had been dumped beside him, still steaming from the press. They spilled out in a jumbled clatter.
The bin was already half full. Now, he had even more to sort before Crouch came storming back. Edwin swore under his breath, then bent once more to his task. His fingers, soot-slick and raw around the nails, sifted through the mound with practised rhythm.
Then something caught the light. Not a gleam exactly—more a whisper of polish where there should have been none. Among the scorched rejects lay a single button different from the others. It was slightly larger, its rim smooth, its surface unmarred by soot or grit.
He picked it up, frowning. The front bore a crowned thistle. Edwin froze. The symbol was unmistakable. His father’s mark.
He hadn’t seen it since the day they’d carted Thomas Price’s effects from the workshop. The die had been declared obsolete, melted down, and Thomas’s name wiped from the ledgers. No one had spoken of it since. But here it was—solid, cool in his palm, defiant.
A lump rose in Edwin’s throat. He turned the die over, brushing the back clean against his sleeve. At first he saw only tarnish. Then, near the shank, he noticed something finer—something etched by hand, so faint it seemed part of the metal itself.
Truth beneath the brass. Ask Elias.
He stared. The letters were tiny, almost invisible, pressed deep as if meant to last.
His fingers closed around the die like it might vanish. Elias. The urgency of the name—hidden in an object that should not exist—thrummed in his bones like the pounding presses overhead.
From somewhere behind, Foreman Crouch’s voice rang out again, closer this time.
“Don’t make me come back there, Price!”
Edwin started. Quickly, he slipped the die into the inner seam of his coat. His hands resumed their sorting, but his mind was elsewhere now—racing, turning, reaching toward the a man whose name was being whispered back.
The factory roared on. But, in his mind, Edwin had already left his station behind.
The factory whistle blew long and low, slicing through the thick evening air. The day's labour was done.
Edwin straightened slowly, muscles stiff and aching. Relief flooded him, though beneath it lurked a restless knot of anxiety. Since hiding the die, his mind had never strayed far from it. Now, with the crowd thinning, he knew he had to act.
As the other workers poured through the main gate, Edwin slipped away, weaving through the furnace yard with careful steps. The narrow passage behind the stamping shed was a shadowed artery few used, thick with the scent of oil and smouldering metal. His heart hammered in his chest.
If anyone caught him lingering here, questions would soon follow. He forced himself onward, quick and quiet, searching for the one man who might know more than he dared hope.
A figure stood in the gloom, bent and thin, arms crossed over a blackened apron. Elias, the toolsmith’s assistant—half deaf, mostly overlooked.
Edwin hesitated, nearly turning away. Doubt gnawed at him. What if the name meant nothing? What if the die was just forgotten scrap?
He stepped forward, voice low and steady. “You’re Elias, aren’t you? I… found something. I think it was meant for you.” He held out the brass disc.
The old man’s eyes sharpened, moving from blank disinterest to wary alertness. Suspicion flashed like a shadow, quickly replaced by a flicker of fear. He stepped closer, lowering his voice into a rasp.
“Where did you get it?” he demanded. “Speak plain, boy. You don’t know what it is you’re carrying.”
Edwin glanced over his shoulder. The yard was empty. No ears but their own. His fingers clenched around the die.
“From the scrap bin,” he said. “It has his mark. My father’s. Thomas Price.”
At the name, Elias’s face changed again, to quiet grief. A heavy silence fell, thick and unyielding. Edwin said nothing, waiting for the man to speak.
“Thomas was a builder,” Elias whispered. “Of more than buttons. A builder of ideas. And he died for it. What you found wasn’t meant for you. But now it is.”
The die pressed against Edwin’s palm, heavier than before. No longer a mere trinket, it was a charge, a burden.
“Your father didn’t died by accident. He was silenced.”
“Then tell me what he built,” Edwin said, voice trembling but fierce. “And what I’m meant to do.”
Elias glanced nervously over his shoulder, his eyes flicking to the shadows where the last of the workers disappeared. Then he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a gravelled whisper.
“Your father,” he said, each word weighed with caution, “led a syndicate, a union. A resistance—against the cruel masters who bleed the workers dry.”
Edwin’s breath caught, the name ‘resistance’ stirring a fire deep in his chest. He had heard only whispers, rumours murmured in quiet corners, never spoken aloud. Yet here it was, spoken plainly.
“Tell me everything,” Edwin urged, voice low but firm.
From his apron, Elias withdrew a crumpled scrap of paper, stained and folded so many times its edges were frayed. He pressed it into Edwin’s palm.
Edwin carefully unfolded it. Before him lay a crudely drawn map of the factory floor, marked with strange symbols—hidden places, secret meeting spots.
His pulse quickened.
Elias nodded solemnly. “Your father planned to expose the corruption. The explosion—” He paused, voice dropping lower still. “That was no accident.”
Anger flared within Edwin, sharp and consuming. His father had been silenced, buried under a lie.
He folded the map carefully. The weight of the secret settled over him like a cloak.
“Tell me what to do,” he said.
Elias met his gaze, steady and grave. “Then listen well, Edwin. The fight begins here, now.”
Under cover of darkness, Edwin slipped quietly into the forbidden wing of the Whitemoor Brassworks. The faint light of a waning moon filtered through grimy windows, casting long shadows over rusted machines and dust-choked corners. The air hung heavy with the scent of old metal and neglect.
His heart pounded fiercely, a drumbeat of fear and determination. Every creak of the wooden floorboards beneath his boots threatened to betray him. He moved with slow, careful steps, guided only by the fragile scrap of paper Elias had pressed into his palm.
At last, he reached the spot marked on the map—a loose panel near the base of an ancient stamping press, its paint cracked and peeling. Fingers trembling, Edwin probed the edges, prying gently. The wood groaned softly, reluctant to give up its secret.
What if someone caught him? What if there was nothing here at all? He forced himself to keep going.
Behind the panel lay a small, dust-covered box, sealed with a rusted clasp that groaned in protest as he opened it. The box was cold and worn and heavier than he expected.
Inside were folded letters yellowed with age, sketches of intricate mechanical parts, and a leather-bound notebook embossed with the name Thomas Price.
Edwin’s breath caught. These were his father’s secrets—his rebellion.
He opened the notebook carefully, fingers tracing the faded ink. Every word, every drawing, was a testament to the man his father had been—and the fight he had begun.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed from the corridor outside. The watchman’s rounds. Edwin froze, his breath lodged in his throat. Panic surged like wildfire. He had to hide the box—now.
With shaking hands, he slipped the notebook and papers back inside, securing the clasp as quietly as possible. Then, pressed flat against the shadowed wall, he waited, the casket clutched to his chest.
The footsteps passed. Exhaling slowly, Edwin left the works and scurried home.
Back in the quiet solitude of his attic room, Edwin lit a small, flickering candle and carefully spread his father’s notebook and letters across the worn wooden floor. The trembling light cast long shadows that danced over the faded ink and yellowed pages.
A reverent hush settled over him, mingling sorrow with a deep, aching pride. This was more than just his father’s work—it was a legacy, a whispered promise to the future from the past.
He began to read, tracing the delicate script that revealed his father’s dreams and designs. There were sketches of ingenious machines meant to ease the brutal burden of the factory workers. Between the drawings, scathing notes condemned the greed and cruelty of the factory owners, their names inked with quiet fury.
Awe and heartbreak swelled inside Edwin’s chest. His father had dared to dream of justice and fairness in a world that knew only exploitation. And for that dream he had paid the ultimate price.
Edwin was jolted by a sudden, sharp knock at the door. His heart leapt into his throat. With shaking hands, he hid the notebook and letters beneath a loose floorboard just as the door creaked open.
His mother stepped inside, worry etched deep on her face. Guilt flooded Edwin as he met her gaze. She sensed something was wrong—but he could not tell her, not yet.
She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her voice soft but firm. “Whatever you’re facing, Edwin,” she said, “you don’t have to face it alone. There are others... like your father. They will give you belonging.”
A swell of warmth and sorrow filled him. As always, since he’d been a little boy, his mother wanted to protect him from the dangers that shadowed their lives.
Edwin’s breath caught as he approached the unmarked door beneath the old tavern near the factory. His heart hammered with a heady mix of fear and hope. The narrow stone steps leading down to the cellar were slick with dampness. The air grew colder as he descended, the walls pressing in around him.
Inside the dim cellar, a small group of workers huddled close around a flickering candle. Their faces were streaked with grime and marked by years of hardship, but their eyes burned with fierce determination.
Edwin felt a strange mixture of alienation and welcome. These were the men and women his father had fought for—the backbone of the resistance.
Swallowing his nerves, he stepped forward, voice steady but low. “I’m Thomas Price’s son. I want to help.”
A ripple of murmurs passed through the group—curiosity tinged with suspicion. Could they trust him? Could he truly carry his father’s cause?
An older woman with sharp, watchful eyes studied him long and hard. “Your father was a brave man,” she said slowly, “but bravery alone won’t win this fight. Only organisation and solidarity will.”
Edwin’s resolve hardened like steel. “I have his notebook—and share his dreams,” he said quietly.
The woman’s gaze softened, and she gestured for him to sit among them. “Then listen well. We’ve planned a strike—to disrupt the factory owners’ cruel grip and demand fair treatment for all workers. We’re going to cripple the machinery in the pressing room.”
Hope and fear washed over Edwin in equal measure. The path ahead was dangerous, fraught with uncertainty—and yet, it was necessary. Only the workers could free themselves.
The group’s voices lowered to urgent whispers as they outlined the details: risks, strategies, the fragile hope of justice.
As the candlelight flickered across determined faces, Edwin felt a heavy mantle of responsibility settle upon his shoulders. There was no turning back now.
Edwin stood among the shadowed figures gathered at the gates of the Whitemoor Brassworks. His heart pounded fiercely, a tumultuous mix of fear and resolve. The cold night air bit into his skin, yet sweat slicked his palms despite the chill.
This was the moment his father had dreamed of — a direct action, a spark that would ignite change. He must not fail him.
Silent and deliberate, Edwin moved with the others toward the pressing shed—their chosen target. His breath came in shallow bursts, mingling with the scent of oil and earth. Every step was a gamble, each shadow a potential threat. Tension coiled tight in his chest, but he forced himself steady.
At the shed, Edwin’s fingers trembled as he began to dismantle the rusted lock. The cold metal was unyielding beneath his touch, but he worked with precise, measured movements. Fear nipped at the edges of his mind, yet calm ruled his hands. Just a little longer—almost done...
Then, a sharp shout shattered the night. A watchman had spotted them.
Frozen for a heartbeat, Edwin’s survival instinct flared. He bolted toward the sheltering shadows, adrenaline blurring thought and fear into a single desperate will.
Run. Don’t look back.
He sprinted through narrow alleys, heart hammering against his ribs, breath ragged in his throat. The pounding of his feet and those of his comrades echoed loud in the silence.
He could not be caught—not now, not ever.
Safe for a fleeting moment, Edwin pressed his back against a cold stone wall, gasping for air. Relief washed over him, sharp and fleeting, tempered by the bitter sting of fear.
Then he took a deep breath and continued to run.
Edwin sat alone in the dim stillness of his attic room, the first pale light of dawn slipping softly through the cracked windowpane. The candle had long since guttered out, leaving the shadows to settle around him.
The chill of the morning seeped into his bones, mingling with a weariness that weighed his limbs down. Yet beneath the exhaustion, a restless anxiety stirred—a silent question echoing in the quiet. Their strike had failed. But that action was only the beginning. What now?
He reached beneath the loose floorboard and drew out his father’s worn notebook, its leather cover soft and familiar beneath his fingers. Flipping through the faded pages, a bittersweet comfort washed over him. Within these scrawled words and careful sketches, his father’s vision lived on—a flicker of hope in a world darkened by cruelty. Edwin set the notebook beside him, resolve hardening in his chest.
A sudden, soft knock at the door startled him. His hand darted instinctively, slipping the notebook out of sight.
“Yes?” he called, voice cautious.
His mother stepped inside, her eyes weary but steady. Warmth and guilt tangled within him—she worried for him, yet the truth was a burden he could not yet share.
She moved closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Whatever you choose,” she whispered, voice low but unwavering, “you are not alone.”
Her words sparked a fragile flame of hope and determination deep within him.
When she left, Edwin turned towards the window, watching the town awaken beneath the soft light of dawn. A fierce resolve settled in his heart like an unbreakable chain.
This was his path now. No turning back. He would carry the fight forward—for his father, for his mother, for all who suffered.
The rebellion was no longer a distant dream. It was his destiny.
Thank you Anndrais for sharing this short story with readers of the Society of History Writers.
Do join me in the comments in expressing your thanks to our guest author, sharing anything that you particularly enjoyed about this short story.
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Well done! Your characterization of Edwin is finely drawn, and I like how both his father and his mother support him in their different ways.