There’s 3 books of these stories available on Amazon. Put your e-mail address in the box below and I’ll send you the first one for free, as a PDF.
Not only that, you’ll get new stories as I write them. That’s about one a week, at the moment.
And they’re more fun to find in your in-box than more ‘BUY MORE STUFF!’ messages too.
I saw two flesh-like boys on the other side of a strange portal. They were different from my pinkish-monochoric tones. I touched the glassine window and my fingertips pixelated.
One boy cried, “Awesome, interactive anime!”
The other hissed, “That’s messed up — as if Mika Takuro can see us!”
I was shocked that they knew my name!
I heard a click and the glass became noisy static. I began to wonder about my own painted universe made up of cellophane and coloured-in lines. Streams of watercolours ran down my cheeks.
I sobbed, “Was that world real or did I imagine it?”
—–
Kim’s other stories are:
“There’s… an awful lot of them,” Private Hagell said.
Sergeant Jolfrak nodded.
General Drax’iat had swept from the West like a plague. The Fortress of Mordoth had guarded the pass into Erebia for centuries… but now the garrison was dead, the castle taken.
“Only one option now, lad.”
As they walked out, the General himself approached. A huge man, some said half-troll. “Do you surrender, eastscum?”
“Yessir.” Jolfrak clutched his shako, then threw it high.
As Drax’iat looked up, Hagell buried a knife in his throat.
The army fell silent as the two adopted a fighting stance.
“Just not yet.”
—–
I was asked to write an epic fantasy in 100 words. It’s trickier than you might imagine. This story is a mixture of that, and the fact that today is the feast day of St. Jude – the patron saint of lost causes.
Jenny left corporate America to go run with wolves.
In Manhattan, this means just one thing: instant celebrity status.
Her story got the prime slot on the evening news. She made the front page of the New York Times. Psychologists lined up to give their talking-head assessments, while her parents cried on Oprah.
People asked: was it art? Was it politics? Was she trying to make a statement about the materialism of modern society? Books were written. Analyses were made, explaining how she tried to change the world.
Jenny, meanwhile, has never been happier. Leaf-litter underfoot, howling at the moon.
I searched for a virgin bloom to pluck
And a fair maid caught my eye
From the harvest field she smiled at me
The Lady of the Rye
She said “Sir, you never will catch me,”
“M’girl, be sure I’ll try.”
And she vanished amongst the cornstalks
The Lady of the Rye
I chased her into the golden corn
Felt coldness pass me by
And she laughed at my confusion
The Lady of the Rye
They found me frozen in those cornstalks
Gazing at the noonday sky
But my soul still seeks in harvest fields
My Lady of the Rye
—–
This story is about the Roggenmuhme – which I think literally translates to ‘Lady of the Rye’ – a spirit who steals away children who search for flowers amongst the tall grains. Flower-picking, as I suspect you’ve guessed, was only metaphorically what my narrator was after.
People think of sunsets as fiery things, over in minutes. The day snuffed out.
Here, they happen once a year, and take 38 hours. For weeks, we’ve been bathed in pink and gold light, and I cast a shadow that seemed to stretch miles.
Few people have ever seen it. I probably won’t see it again.
Without thinking, I touch my chest. It feels normal through all my layers, but I have a passenger. Hard, growing. Colder somehow than the ice I stand on.
As I watch, the sun finally slips away. I give a little smile, and wave goodbye.
—–
I read about sunset at the South Pole, then wrote this.
There’s pictures of this year’s one on this blog.
I knew Mr Amersham for just one day, and in that day, he changed my life.
He wasn’t particularly witty or charming.
He didn’t sweep me off my feet, introduce me to new exotic locales.
Nor was he especially cruel. He was perfectly polite and courteous.
In fact, I’m having trouble recalling precisely why I killed him.
But I did. Slit him from groin to chin like I was opening a letter, in the middle of Emilia’s spring ball.
Now I believe someone has called the constabulary. My life is so exciting, Mr Amersham, and it’s all thanks to you.
Queen Rita sits upon her throne. Her gut twinges in agony as she bids the evil inside her come out. It has tortured her long enough.
The demon wishes for a fight, though. It pulls horribly at her insides as she wrestles it.
Groans, along with other sounds, escape her as she writhes in pain, in hopes that this fight will end soon.
With one last effort from the queen, the devil flees her innards.
Spying the fiend floating, Queen Rita rids herself of the wretched thing by flushing its ugly, brown form away and steps from her throne, triumphant!
—–
This is the second guest story from Faith. You can find the other one here: Legacy
It’s fascinating how one thing can appear much like another.
Mimicry, of course, is common in nature.
And apparently, a large crowd of dignitaries singing wedding hymns, when filtered through the acoustics of St Paul’s Cathedral, is remarkably similar to an ancient Sumerian summoning ritual for Nyarlahotep.
The more you know.
After that fateful day, it’s remarkable how much the sky resembles the sickly green of an alien sun, simple shadows appear as ghoulish faces staring at us from behind ruins, London town the corpse of a city long dead… even though everything is normal.
I swear. Nothing. Has. Changed.
—–
This story was from the prompt ‘The traditionally British sounds of ululating women at the Royal Wedding at St. Paul’s cathedral’.
Dave was expecting another dull board presentation, until Angela Tisbury walked in with a small dragon snoozing on one shoulder.
He raised a hand, but couldn’t get the question out. Muttered something about her projections.
Afterwards, he finally managed to ask if anyone else had noticed anything odd.
“Odd? No, numbers seemed fine.”
“I mean… on her shoulder…”
“Oh! Well, I’m told they need time to bond with new owners.”
“But… it was a dragon…”
“Yes, they’re all the rage now. Hadn’t you noticed? Really, David, you can’t work 24/7. It’s important to pay attention to the real world too.”
—–
This story is from the prompt ‘Dragons. Are. Real.’
In case you’ve forgotten what happened last time, Arfa just got pushed off a cliff.
—–
Tristan screamed. Arfa screamed louder.
She fell off the edge of the world, with nothing below but sharpslate and salt-water…
Merlyn’s hand grabbed her shoulder, and held her facing death.
“Scared now?”
She nodded: frantic, desperate, makethehighgoaway.
“Merlyn…” Tristan edged closer. “Pull her back now.”
“No. You want to be king, Arfa? Then understand me, child. You will be scared. You will not be ashamed to be scared, and you will not be ashamed to run. But sometimes, you must look death in the eye despite your fear. That is courage, girl, not fearlessness. That is how you become king.”