Ned the Necromancer and his otherworldly friends live in splendid isolation in the derelict Mortlake House. Unfortunately, they need a new tenant to pay the bills.
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Tag: fantasy fiction
I Will Gift My Dragon by LC Gutierrez
Other people’s dragons? Maybe you find your rooftop scorched and have to change your weekend plans. But when you say “MY dragon”, that’s a different story. My world was all fucked and I could no longer ignore it. Two choices: 1- Keep stumbling along, half-assing a mediocre existence, or 2 – Take control.
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The Lighthouse Keeper by Loredano Cafaro
Today Leonardo comes home crying. When his father and mother hear what his school friend has told him, they understand that the day they have feared for a long time has come— the moment when they will have to start crushing his dreams. They speak to him, say that his friend is right; tell him I do not exist. But they are wrong.
I dream, therefore I am.
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Voice of Feathers by Dominic Walker
The night is nearly empty. Even the rodents and insects have gone. All that remains is a girl walking alone along a pitch black path. She is wearing a red dress. A streetlamp flicks off as she passes underneath. A moment later she stops outside a small house. This is where she vanished.
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Shut Your Hellhole by Gabriel Munro
The Thing at the Border:
But erecting a building on consecrated ground presents its own challenges. Wailing banshee? Use stone-wool insulation for soundproofing. Vengeful demonic presence? Mix a dash of salt into the foundation concrete. Ghosts? Use the phrase “historic charm” in the branding. Carlos is ready for anything.
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Relics by Michael Helvaty
When I stirred from my slumber, one of my arms felt like it had been trapped beneath my body for several months, and I shook it back to usefulness as the door opened. The last three heroes to visit had been males of their respective races, so a thrill ran through me as a young woman appeared on the threshold to my chamber. Her need had summoned my room, connecting it to her world through an otherwise ordinary door and calling me to action as the angel of lost relics.
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Week 317 – ‘Manners Maketh The Man’ Is Just A Saying And Not A Singularity, Opening A Door Is Just Manners And Emily Dinova’s Saturday Special.
Well here we are at Week 317.
This week is like the old saying about buses. (For all the kids reading this – A bus is not your mum or dad giving you a lift somewhere, it is a big long vehicle that takes loads of you as long as you pay. Paying is when you give your own money to someone in exchange for items or services that you need / want)
I like to teach the youth of today – From a distance that is. I’d hate to do something radical like talk to the wee mutants. To be fair, I don’t think they can hold a conversation without typing it badly. I like to teach the youth of today – From a distance that is. I’d hate to do something radical like talk to the wee mutants. To be fair, I don’t think they can hold a conversation without typing it badly.
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One Last Act by Gail Boling
The execution notice tacked to a wooden fencepost flapped in the wind as early morning light crept through the tree branches. Soraya tried not to slow her pace or even to glance at it. She already knew the details and her heart grieved for her only son. Pulling the faded cotton scarf tighter around her head, she walked in a hunched-over manner befitting her age, taking a circuitous path to make sure she was not being followed. The Janissaries had posted notices of the execution for today. They intended a very public message that rebellion and insurrection would not be tolerated. The Sultan of the Ottoman empire had spoken.
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June’s Miniature Mart Off Highway 101 by Sage Tyrtle
Her box on the shelf at June’s Miniature Mart is getting dusty. She watches through her plastic window on the world as her aisle is put on sale. “50% off! Get ’em before they’re gone!”
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The Grim Morass by David Samuels
They say you’re a paladin, but all I see is a fool.
Look at you: armored like a crawdad with the brains to match. One wrong move on that poleboat and you’ll sink to the base of the swamp.
Gimme your hand. Let’s get you back on solid ground—if you can call this pier solid. The stilts wobble in the sludge, so watch your step.
Not a talker, clearly. Don’t bother unrolling that scroll. I know all about your oath of silence. Word travels fast among us Marshmen. As the village shaman, I was among the first to learn about your little quest. You seek redemption, yes?
Then go home. Adopt a war orphan and get on with your life. Truth be told, you’d have better luck floating in that platemail than slaying the Bogroth.
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