Fantasy
Fierce Cub
Rishi attacked the task with the same focus she attacked everything. As her father’s only child, she had an important legacy to uphold. Her father tracked the snow cats, which would be a dangerous job no matter when or why he did it. In the late winter, the snow cats had their cubs, and that was the most dangerous time to track the snow cats, and it was the most important. Rishi’s father would track pregnant mothers for days, through the blue-grey world full of snow and ice where, in the winter, the sun never quite rose. They’d eat caribou jerky and light only the smallest fires, and grit their teeth against the scratching of Tomb Breath, the spirit of cold wind, and they’d keep as near to the pregnant snow cat mothers as they could. Every day they risked attracting the ire of the pregnant mothers. That was the trick that made Rishi’s father important: he knew how close to get without getting too close.
By Oliver Blakemore4 years ago in Fiction
The Afterlife
It was a dark and stormy night. Phillip had been driving home from work, and was now about an hour away from his house. He had made it the last few miles, but was now in the throes of a full-blown panic attack. His breaths came in short gasps and his heart was pounding so hard, it felt like it was trying to escape his chest. He pulled to the side of the road, scattering gravel, and tried to calm himself. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths before starting the car. He crept along the road, his car the only light in a wide and dark world.
By Okoro Chukwuemeka4 years ago in Fiction
Ash and Wind
Farin’s wings beat down, spreading ash in every direction. It swirled around the ruined walls of the keep and faded into the smokey air. The bleeding horizon went out of view as she landed on the broken ground in front of the boy. He didn’t look up, didn’t flinch as the ground trembled under the weight of a fully grown dragon. He just sat there, leaning against the ruined wall, ash slowly building up on his shoulders as he silently cried. His voice was already ruined from wailing for a guardian that would never return.
By Dawson Andrew4 years ago in Fiction
Edelweiss. Runner-Up in Christopher Paolini's Fantasy Fiction Challenge.
Nuristan province, Afghanistan. ------ Chapter One ------ I crane my long neck to gaze at the sky. The clouds are a wash of deep red and lavender blue. I hear birds above, but cannot make them out with my ruined eyes. Everything I see blends together; the rising sun, the clouds, and brush mixed into one, like reflections on a muddy pond. I feel the breeze against my cheek, cool and caressing. Shrubs poke at my thick hide, softly clicking as they brush from one silver scale to the next. The planes stretch long into the distance ahead, and I am walking slowly and cautiously, sweeping my tail back and forth behind me to erase my tracks. The last thing I want is to be found.
By Anna Whinnery4 years ago in Fiction
Son of The Mountain God
Aodhán hadn’t emerged from the damp coolness of his cave in far too long. Wrapping himself in the darkness of the cavernous Mournes, he refused to eat and sought sleep instead of wakefulness; yearning for an escape from his reality. Reality was not lost on him in this state, though. The brutal images of his loss followed him even into the dream realm and offered no opportunity for escape. He found no solace there, for the memories of his life past continued to haunt him.
By Haley Masenthin-Skinner4 years ago in Fiction
The Stains of Memory
Prologue The city of Aartan was silent as the full moon crested over the mountains. The tiered sea of moonlit rooftops was webbed by the darkness of the city's winding streets and alleyways, like a sheet of ice beginning to crack under the strain of a man too heavy. It was all quite serene to Henri, who enjoyed his view of the Avaran Capital from his cell in the Flumontre de Aartan.
By E.C. Weinstock4 years ago in Fiction
Not Just Fairy Tales
It’s been centuries since people believed in dragons and “fairy tale” beasts. But long ago, fairy tales weren’t just stories to entertain children, they were warnings. Cautionary tales to keep little ones from straying too far from the safe glow of the hearth and the watchful eyes of their families. Nowadays though, when their children are frightened of tales of witches and monsters their parents soothe them. “Don’t worry, it’s not real,” they say, “it’s just a story, make-believe,” they insist. Forgetting the old warnings and making simple stories of these warnings was the first big mistake modern humans made.
By Renehta Wilcox4 years ago in Fiction
Similitudes
There is only the Wyvern and the glade, and the name of God. The past is wrought of smoke, at best - though not for lack of memories. I’m almost certain I’ve my own name, but couldn’t tell you what it was. Likewise, I’m almost certain I wasn’t born here, but couldn’t describe my true home. I’ve often chased these names and these homes around my mind, but no sooner catch one than another beckons; I no sooner see the hearth-lights of a tranquil village, than the barrel-fires of a shantytown draw my sight away. What I can describe to you, however, are the things I recall with precision, of which the Wyvern’s approximate face is the very first. Consider this: where eyes or teeth or nostrils ought to have been, ephemeral smears of contrast vied for purchase, and yet I knew at once - by the occasional truce of its warring features, and the particular tilt of its head - that I was expected. The Wyvern stared through me and beyond me with an eerie, prescient indifference, until at length the average of its flickering eyes slowly shut, and most of it slept. Feeling a sudden sense of intrusion I cast my eyes about, but was quickly overwhelmed by the trees at the glade’s edge, which - more even than the Wyvern - seemed unwilling to resolve. All at once they were pines, and oaks, and kelp, and cacti, and beeches and birches, and they were lit by the phasing moon, and the wheeling sun, and the whipping aurora, and the air between them was thick with the crystals of winter, and the drifting jewels of autumn, and the whirling pollen of spring, and the lingering embers of a sated wildfire whose blackened empire flared yet with impossible heat. So I turned away to hide my sight in the beast’s heaving belly, but - being silver, gold, black, barnacled, iron-clad, jewel-encrusted, and just once, for an instant, wrought altogether of stars - it was no refuge, and I was forced to close my own eyes, and only when my ears could no longer distinguish between the wind in the leaves and the rain on the sand did I fall asleep.
By Ryan Claude4 years ago in Fiction
