Tag: Free Fantasy

Dark Fantasy Serial Fiction

SOIL — Part Two

TWO Why must the wind blow when Earth does not know that the Mourning Sun shines, as my light slowly declines? How many years must I wait for you, so belated, to arrive? For how long must I hate, curdling mine blood that turns to shit like soured butter lodged in the devil’s churn? How many moons must I fester brining within bitter salt? Must I scream my soul’s lament, cast mine curse upon the gods for all they have wrought? Or shall I sing a sweet refrain awake tomorrow and do it all again? Ithica (b. 413). Journaled Year…

Short Fiction Steampunk

I Was Once Yours

Blood: a pearl droplet on the meat of his thumb. Glass: a sliver, imperceptible aside from subtle pressure between two layers of skin. Teeth: parallel to the wound, sucking at the shard. It is no use. Artavan swears amid the percussion of the glass grinder crashing to the floor. A pocket watch in his leather apron chirps: two hours. The blood brings relief that it exists at all. It is him, small red pieces of him, free to bead and run. He checks his reflection in the polished lighthouse lens. A russet smear on his front teeth. He moves his…

Short Fiction Sword and Sorcery

Once is Never Enough

Aisling held what remained of Blightheart by his horn, throwing the goblin magelord’s head at the boots of her liege lord, Árdghal, who had commanded his fighters to cleanse his lands of the vile bastard’s black magic. “You have done well, Aisling.” He leaned forward in his throne, examining the grotesque grimace gazing upward from the straw and cobbles. Aisling did not kneel. She did not bow her head. Tough as leather, she crossed her sinewy arms and smirked. She met her liege lord’s eyes as if she were his equal, as if she were his better. “The deed is…

Dark Fantasy Serial Fiction

SOIL — Part One

ONE In the dead of night I pray for your arrival and dream of your smile yearning for your scent. By the light of day I am left alone beside myself and entirely distraught. To know your father is to know your potential to hear Bridget’s plans and to see them in action with hopes they soon come to pass. Ithica (b. 413). Journaled Year 433. I Year 442 Loathsome winds howled their bitter protests as I shouldered my way up the slope, still slick with ice and hard-packed snow. Last storm was days past, but the early Winter freeze…

Dark Fantasy Editor's Pick Short Fiction

The King of Kings

The shroud was pale, it hurt the eyes. Kohl over the eyelids shielded just enough, but a single overt glance sent a surge of piercing thunder straight back into the skull. Selikkar had warned the sun was deadly, but it barely stood a dissuasion. She had spoken of prophecies and gods unrecorded, decried that Neliesen’s journey was not sufficient to appease nature’s forces, yet It departed, and It walked into a storm It could not see to test the legitimacy of Its order’s teachings. The sand burned wherever it hit the skin, like bee stings of flaming magma which overstayed…

Heroic Fantasy Short Fiction

The Dragon and the Deep Kingdom

In those days, the Kingdom of First Knuckle still stood at the heart of a deep-lake, where the mists were a perfume of spores and the wind smelled like velvet shank. There was no reaching the castle at its center without taking a gonleden up the locks to the channels. To set upon the lake itself was to die in the jaws of the leviathan; to take the channels without the King’s blessing was to die by her arrow. King Thornblade surveyed her kingdom from the highest chamber, reminding herself of legacy. It was Mikteshfis gold studding the walls, Mikteshfis…

Dark Fantasy Serial Fiction

Thoughts of the Drowned — Prologue to SOIL

“I ain’t ever had a friend like you,” said Snorri Morn, his meaty arms slung over my neck. Snorri was a great bloody ox of a man, back when he was alive, full of drink, piss, and rage. Twice as mean as a mother bear defending her cubs, and half as loving. I bloody loathed the man and I don’t regret what I’ve done. “In all my years,” he went on, seeming to burp between every word, “I ain’t ever—I mean ever—had a friend like you.” We’d been deep in the cups that night. My head was a swill of…

Fairy Tale Short Fiction

Acorn, Honey, Fat, and Foxglove

There was a girl named Angela. She lived on the fourth floor of a building that only went up to three. One day, she came downstairs. – The book of Dan and Angela, March, 1991 * * * I’ve not seen the old building for, probably, thirty years. But here it is, almost exactly as it was the morning that my mom stood right there packing our car, with her puffy eyes and cracking voice trying her best, and failing miserably, to keep a lid on the pure fucking rage that she felt towards Dad. Trying to make me feel…

Dark Fantasy Serial Fiction

Ashen Rider — Part Five

FIVE Today, I have found my god. She had strayed from me once, “Follow me!” she commanded, Then left me bleeding On cold, slick tiles. I had asked my family, All that they knew. “Love,” one said. “Accountability,” nodded another. Grace in all things, forgiveness in others. Who is this god we seek? And why Hasn’t she been revealed to me? I asked my lord of his god. And he said, “I have none.” For in his realm, There is only blood. I’ve lived long and hungry, Awaiting the day, I’d again know peace. Today, I have found my god.…

Dark Fantasy Editor's Pick Short Fiction

Sky Over Mountain

Under the mountain, known to the trolls who lived in her caverns as Cairn, winter was held at bay. In the cavernous network worming through Cairn’s rocky heart, the temperature remained constant, no matter the season. For trolls, with hides as thick as an ox’s, the near-freezing atmosphere was favorable to their hardy constitution. Not unlike the caves within Cairn, Hakon, the clan’s chieftain, was neither warm nor cold. He was stern, but fair, and his mood, like the innards of the mountain, seemed held at a constant. Such was his stoicism when he approached Noma, an elderly troll who…