Fantasy

WINTERGLOOM: HOLLOWSGROVE COVEN
The rusting iron gears of the town square clock tower ground together, striking fifteen minutes to four. In Wallowshill, four o'clock wasn’t just for tea time; it signaled the start of twilight in the mainland—a warning Lindsay Newell had never once seen enacted before this year. In fact, it was a tradition she had mostly done in private, in the walls of her own home. Casting spells over fault-lines so witches could more easily traverse the Witching Worlds between Covens and veiled cities—cloaking cities, like this one.
By K.H. Obergfollabout a month ago in Fiction
WINTERGLOOM
Christmas lights hung on the porch as most houses did in December—but, it was late August. The thick black wires were tacked gently onto my copper gutters. I didn’t mind the slight intrusion, they went well with the wind chimes and glass bottle suncatchers. Of course, other houses on the block look pristine with their manicured lawns and freshly painted siding, but they were empty shells. Cold, sterile frames made from generic wood and drywall. I was different. I breathed. I felt. I saw. I knew.
By K.H. Obergfollabout a month ago in Fiction
The Glow That Fooled Me
They weren't criminals hiding in the shadows like the people my father admired. That was what made them different. That was what made them shine.
By Mark Lim about a month ago in Fiction
The Vow to the Mirror
A promise. It wasn’t spoken aloud. There was no one there to hear it, no witness to validate its weight, no notary to stamp it with official sanction. It was whispered into the cold air of the car, swallowed by the hum of the engine and the rhythmic slap of the wipers against the windshield. But it was real. More real than any NDA I had ever signed. More binding than any relationship contract I had ever broken.
By Mark Lim about a month ago in Fiction
Don’t Let the Light Burn Out Before December
The concrete on my porch was already hot at seven. I went out for the mail in my socks and almost stepped on Santa. He was plastic, the cheap blow mold kind with a lantern glued to one hand.
By Annam M Gordonabout a month ago in Fiction
Hypochondria
It all began somewhere in Metepec, a place whose name I shall not remember. Not long ago, there lived there a brave and gallant young man, old-fashioned in his ways, with a skinny nag and a swift greyhound—and quite a greyhound he was, too. Now that I think about it, he was actually very skinny himself, despite eating like a caveman.
By iASuarezVabout a month ago in Fiction
FALLEN GUARD
They say power is a gift. That it descends like grace from the heavens bestowed upon the chosen ones, destined to stand above the rest, to shield the weak, to stand against the dark. That those who carry it are born noble. Born brave. Born to be worshipped. That strength naturally serves goodness, and that the strongest among us will always choose to protect.
By Mark Lim about a month ago in Fiction
Silence Between the Words
Not in the stories people told. In the stories, heroes are archetypes. They are flat, two-dimensional figures drawn in bold lines and primary colors. They have clear motives: to save, to protect, to avenge. They have clear endings: victory, sacrifice, or glory. The stories are tidy. They wrap the chaos of violence in a narrative bow, giving it meaning, giving it purpose, giving it a moral.
By Mark Lim about a month ago in Fiction
Collapse of the Icon
Before that day, heroes were just images. They were static. Two-dimensional. Flat. They lived in the glossy pages of comic books, where the ink never ran and the colors never faded. They lived on the television screen, where the resolution was low enough to hide the pores and the editing was tight enough to hide the exhaustion. They were symbols, not beings. They were ideas, not people.
By Mark Lim about a month ago in Fiction
Grain of Reality
Not in a magazine. In magazines, heroes are frozen in perfection. They are captured at the apex of their power, mid-flight or mid-punch, their expressions locked in a rictus of noble determination. The lighting is flawless, erasing every blemish, every pore, every sign of exhaustion. The captions tell you what to feel: Brave. Selfless. Invincible. You turn the page, and they are gone, replaced by an advertisement for watches or perfume. They are consumable. They are safe. They are dead ink on glossy paper.
By Mark Lim about a month ago in Fiction
Stitch: The Flash-Freeze of '96
While the rest of the riders at the Orlando regional track were choking on dust and chasing brackets, Bane was trying to drown out the oppressive, ninety-two-degree Florida heat. It was late October of 1996, and the air behind the staging lanes smelled heavily of sunbaked asphalt, race fuel, and hot metal. He leaned his shoulder against the rusted frame of a tool trailer, spinning a pedal with the toe of his skate shoe. To everyone else, he was just another local kid killing time before the next moto. In reality, he was completely detached, exhaustion pulling at his eyes.
By Syl De'Vilabout a month ago in Fiction
Smell of Ozone and Sweat
Not on television. On television, heroes are clean. They are edited. The camera angles are chosen to hide the strain in their necks. The sound design drowns out the ragged gasps for air. The blood is bright red, almost cartoonish, and it vanishes before the next scene. On television, a hero landing is a triumph. It is accompanied by a swelling orchestral score and the awe-struck silence of a grateful populace.
By Mark Lim about a month ago in Fiction