Far Fetched Fables

"“Princess Lily's Wedding” by Robert J. Santa (Originally published in Blood, Blade & Thruster.) "I love him, Daddy!" King Frederick breathed deeply. It had been a very long conversation with his youngest child, punctuated by much pouting and exasperated sighing and stomping of pretty feet. Frederick stood over her while she held her face in her hands and cried. He wanted to do nothing more than pout and sigh and stomp his feet. Of course, he couldn't, even in his daughter's bedroom with no one else to see. Kings had to uphold higher standards, especially with sixteen year-old daughters. Robert J. Santa has been writing speculative fiction for more than thirty years. His works have appeared in numerous online and print markets. Robert lives in Rhode Island, USA, with his beautiful wife and two, equally beautiful daughters, one of whom is named Lily. And while she is nothing like the Lily of this tale, she could be without stretching the imagination too much. “Shoe Man” by Tonya Liburd (Originally

"“By Appointment to the Throne” by Alter S. Reiss (Originally published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies #155.) Getting up early enough to open a kitchen hurts. Leaving a warm bed before second watch makes your head ache, and you can feel the chill going from the cobbles through your feet and into your soul. When it's wet on top of the cold, it's the nearest thing to hell. But once I'm there and I'm in the rhythm, it just moves. I check the carcasses as they come in, kick up a fuss if they try to give us short weight or diseased animals, and then I lift them up, bring them in, and take them apart. Hook and cleaver work for two, sometimes three hours. A lot of the Xac refugees working at the Mountain Pine are Sisori, so the hour before dawn, they'll do their prayers out in the garden. I don't mind, even though it slows us down when we need to speed up; I'd rather work with people who stop for prayers and stagger through fast days than with children glittering on juice, or gangs, or spirit. Just after the Sisori

"“Phoenix for the Amateur Chef” by Scott Huggins (Originally published in Sword and Sorceress 30.) The phoenix fell. Its sobbing death cry silenced by a coat of ravening flame, it corkscrewed to earth, bleeding dirty white fire across the dusk. What struck the cliff face above our heads was a ball of charred meat. We ducked the searing gobbet of flesh. Only a little pile of ash and bone was left, rapidly whitening, like charcoal. I looked at Tywin, who stood sucking his teeth and polishing his great stonebow. He dropped the remaining stones to the earth, unanointed by Trelesta’s unguent. “Well, shit,” I said finally. Scott Huggins grew up in the American Midwest and has lived there all his life, except for interludes in the European Midwest (Germany) and East (Russia). He is currently responsible for securing America’s future by teaching its past to high school students, many of whom learn things before going to college. His preferred method of teaching and examination is strategic warfare. He loves to

"“The Sickness” by Valjeanne Jeffers (Originally published in Griots: Sisters of the Spear.) The Bini warriors crouched in the high grass of the savanna. They'd passed the Fula borders a mile back, and now were a hundred yards from the Adobe mud city. At the forefront they were armed with sword and shield, behind them the archers readied their bows. General Chinua led the army. To his right was Nandi, a tall woman with braided hair, high cheekbones and full lips and her ebony-skinned husband, Sula, his head shaved in the traditional Bini custom. To Chinua's left was Nandi's older brother, Tomi. A wide gateway led into the Fula kingdom. It was deserted. Valjeanne Jeffers is a graduate of Spelman College, a member of the Carolina African American Writer’s Collective (CAAWC) and the author of ten books: Including her Immortal series, and her most recent Mona Livelong: Paranormal Detective series. Her first novel, Immortal, is featured on the Invisible Universe Documentary time-line, and her novella, The Swi

"“The Centaur's Daughter” by Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam (Originally published in A cappella Zoo.) As a little girl I never understood my father’s night self. It’s hard to be a kid whose father is two people. He changed every day with the sky. I cried at sunrise. I had trouble sleeping. Still do, and I’ve had seventeen years to process my father’s differences. When I was small enough that my hands didn’t fit around a soda bottle, I couldn’t be left alone. The babysitter would coax me from the safety of my closet with chocolate granola surprise shakes and a broom guitar upon which she sang classic Elvis. Despite myself I always laughed. I loved that babysitter, but babysitters don’t follow you into high school. Now when I think of her, I see the woman who, once I was old enough to understand, told me that my father was a monster, warned me that I had his blood, that even though I would never look half-horse like him, I could still develop the night terrors, The Confusion. “You better be careful, Ruby. It runs...

"“Spirit Dance” by Douglas Smith (Originally published in Tesseracts 6, this work is the prequel story to Douglas's novel The Wolf at the End of the World.) In the beginning of things, men were as animals and animals as men. -- Cree legend Vera made a warding sign as I entered the store, my hound Gelert trailing behind me. She pretended to wipe her hands on her faded blue apron, but I caught the dance of her fingers. “Hello, Vera. It’s been a while,” I said. “Yes, yes it has, Mr. Blaidd,” she said too quickly, not returning my smile. Turning from where she’d been refilling a food bin, she addressed her husband. “I gotta check something in the back, Ed.” Almost running, she slipped behind the long wooden counter and into the storeroom at the rear of the store. Edward Two Rivers leaned on the counter beside the cash register, a newspaper spread in front of him, his long gray hair spilling onto the pages. He watched her leave then smiled at me. “Ouch,” I said. “You still spook her,” he...  See

"“Bones of a Righteous Man” by Michael Ezell (Originally published in Fantasy for Good.) -- Has the life of a righteous man been taken? -- We find that it has, Excellency. -- And what shall become of the killer? -- He shall carry the bones of the righteous man until their weight does cause his death. The setting sun reflected in a million rose-hued sparkles across the surface of the Glass Desert. The slit in Traveler’s eyeshades cut everything down to a thin panorama. A glittering expanse of heat glass, marked only by the crushed tracks of the Apostates’ road. In those tracks traveled the wagon he’d been following for days. Weeks, really. With a start, he realized it was more like months. Wasn’t it? Through the shimmer to his right, he saw either a town, or a mirage that would lead him astray, wasting precious time. Michael Ezell is a former US Marine who now works as a project coordinator for an Emmy-winning makeup effects shop in Southern California. Michael's story "The Good Food", from Beyond... &

"Flash Fiction: “Never Leave Me” by Michelle Ann King (Originally published at Daily Science Fiction.) Katrine grew up with the stories, she knew them as well as her own name. First there was true love's kiss, then the fair maiden became the radiant bride, and she lived happily ever after. But the stories all stopped there, and Katrine hadn't realized just how much ever after there would be. Michelle Ann King was born in East London and now lives in Essex. Her stories have appeared in over seventy different venues, including Interzone, Strange Horizons, and Black Static. Her favourite author is Stephen King (sadly, no relation), and she also loves zombies, Las Vegas, and good Scotch whisky. Her first short story collection, Transient Tales, is available in ebook and paperback from Amazon and other online retailers. Main Story: “The Prototype” by Judith Field (Originally published in Stupefying Stories, August 2012.) When they let me out of hospital, I decided to rent somewhere with space to write....

"Flash Fiction: “Mysterious Ways” by David Steffen (Originally published in Uncle John's Flush Fiction Anthology.) The afterlife was arbitrary, Sam Fichtner decided. There was no Heaven or Hell, only one place. He'd had plenty of time to ponder since he crossed over. The Hereafter was filled with endless rows of clear domes like the one he occupied, a space of infinite size covered with a grid of cake platters. When people died, they were each partitioned into one of these domes, to spend the rest of eternity. David Steffen is a writer, editor, and software engineer. He edits Diabolical Plots, which began publishing original fiction in 2015. He runs the Submission Grinder, a tool for writers to find markets for their work. He recently published The Long List Anthology, which is a collection of 21 stories from the longer Hugo Award nomination list last year. His own stories have been published in many nice places, including Escape Pod, Podcastle, Daily Science Fiction, and StarShipSofa. Main Story:... &#

"“Vendemiaire” by L.S. Johnson (Originally published in B is for Broken.) There was a time when Arianne could not see over the rows of her father’s grapevines. At the height of the summer the vineyard became a vast maze and she would follow her mother, watching her taste the grapes, her skirts swaying as she walked, a fine haze of dirt collecting on their hems. The world then was black soil and green life and her mother striding ahead, head held high, lips and fingers stained crimson from the juices. All of that was years ago. Yet there are days when Arianne goes far into the rows, searching for anyplace where the leaves are green and dense still, where the fruit grows plump, not mildewed and shriveled. When at last she finds a patch she goes down on her knees in the dirt until she can see nothing but blushing fruit and green leaves and the blue sky above. L.S. Johnson was born in New York and now lives in Northern California, where she feeds her cats by writing book indexes. Her stories have appeared...

"“Inundated” by Jonathan Laidlow (Originally published in Ecotones.) Yuri woke up to the sound of waves breaking at the end of the street, and knew that the undines had breached the final defences. Even his house, one of the furthest from the harbour, would be theirs once again, like the rest of the city. Jonathan Laidlow grew up in the North West of England, near the Sellafield Nuclear Power plant, which regularly leaked. He has one good leg, one good eye, and one good ear… His stories have appeared at Daily Science Fiction ("Hyrmnal") and Liminal Stories ("Obtrusion Rate" on May 1st). His next story will be at Strange Horizons. He lives in Birmingham, UK, and run the Ultan's Library website about Gene Wolfe, available at ultan.org.uk. He tweets as @burtkenobi and blogs occasionally at jonlaidlow.com. About the Narrator: Ron Jon is a writer, narrator, and singer. He has written and published children’s books, scripts and screenplays for animation and live action, and musical lyrics and libretti. He...

“Another Beginning” by Michael McGlade (Originally published in Shimmer #29.) The Real Beginning Ógán loses Niamh to his best friend Malachy. Ógán and Niamh had been high school sweethearts, and the three of them had been inseparable -- the Three Blind Mice. Ógán stumbled onto this scene: the affair in full swing, the pair of them at it like otters in his best friend's bed (he'd seen a documentary about how otters held hands when they slept -- but this right now was absolutely not cute). Ógán had been let inside by a still-stoned flatmate, the squawking pair growing louder as he raced down the long, cement hallway toward that familiar sound -- knowing it was Niamh behind the locked bedroom door, his teeth zinging like when foil shorts out your fillings. Some things can never be un-seen. Michael McGlade is a freelance writer living in Belfast, Northern Ireland. He has more than 80 short stories published in such journals as the Saturday Evening Post, Hennessy New Irish Writing, Shimmer, Ares Magazine,...

"Main Story: “What the Blood Bog Takes” by Barbara A. BarnettOriginally published in Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show #47.)On the Day of Sacrifice, my sister Asthore and I wait at the blood bog's edge, our feet sinking into the muddy shore. Asthore gawks with unbridled curiosity as the ceremonial procession emerges from the fog-shrouded forest; I watch with trepidation. Our clan-chief Fallon leads the procession, a sheepskin mantle draped across his sinewy shoulders and a wary look on his furrowed face. It has been many generations since the gods last demanded the sacrifice of a clan-chief, but the harvest has been meager this year, and many of our kinsmen have died raiding neighboring clans. And so Fallon walks with slow steps, leaden with the possibility that today the gods will call for his death.Barbara A. Barnett is a writer, musician, orchestra librarian, coffee addict, wine lover, and all-around geek. Her short fiction...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out in

"“The Ministry of Sacred Affairs” by Claude Lalumière (Originally published in Here Be Monsters #7: Tongues and Teeth.) Lost in music, it takes some time for Leo to register that Rosa is calling his name, that her hand is trembling on his shoulder. He lays down his violin and clasps her wrinkled hands between his. "Something terrible's happened next door. At the Bergens'. Pounding on the wall. A shriek. Things thrown about." Rosa speech is terse, choppy, nervous. Leo stands up and enfolds his small and fragile wife in his bony old arms. She continues: "I phoned, but there was no answer." Leo and Rosa look away from each other. Leo knows which memory haunts his wife. It haunts him, too, but they never speak of it. Of him. Claude Lalumière is the author of Objects of Worship, The Door to Lost Pages, Nocturnes and Other Nocturnes, and the forthcoming in 2017 Venera Dreams. His work has been translated into French, Italian, Polish, Spanish, Hungarian, and Serbian and adapted for stage, screen, audio...

"Main Story: “Wallamelon” by Nisi Shawl (Originally published in Aeon #3.) The boys ran ahead of her as she walked, and circled back again like little dogs. Kevin urged her onto the path that cut across the vacant lot beside his house. Mercy was standing on a pile of rubble half the way through, her straight hair shining in the noonday sun like a long, black mirror. She was pointing down at something Oneida couldn’t see from the path, something small, something so wonderful it made sad Mercy smile. “Wallamelons,” Kevin explained as they left the path. “Grown all by they selves; ain’t nobody coulda put em there.” “Watermelons,” Oneida corrected him automatically. The plant grew out from under a concrete slab. At first all she could see was its broad leaves, like green hearts with scalloped edges. Mercy pushed these aside to reveal the real treasure: four fat globes, dark and light stripes swelling in their middles and vanishing into one another at either end. They were watermelons, all right. Each one...

“The Sorcerer's Aprpentice” by Robert Silverberg Originally published in Flights: Extreme Visions of Fantasy.) Gannin Thidrich was nearing the age of thirty and had come to Triggoin to study the art of sorcery, a profession for which he thought he had some aptitude, after failing at several for which he had none. He was a native of the Free City of Stee, that splendid metropolis on the slopes of Castle Mount, and at the suggestion of his father, a wealthy merchant of that great city, he had gone first into meat-jobbing, and then, through the good offices of an uncle from Dundilmir, he had become a dealer in used leather. In neither of these occupations had he distinguished himself, nor in the desultory projects he had undertaken afterward. But from childhood on he had pursued sorcery in an amateur way, first as a boyish hobby, and then as a young man's consolation for shortcomings in most of the other aspects of his life -- helping out friends even unluckier than he with an uplifting spell or two... &n

"“The Adventurer's Wife” by Premee Mohamad (Originally published in She Walks In Shadows.) It was not till after the adventurer had been interred that we learned that the man had been married. My editor, Cheltenwick, did not even let the graveyard mud dry decently on his boots before he dispatched me to the widow’s house with instructions for a full interview, which I had no doubt he would embellish even more than his wont. “Delicate sighs, Greene,” he said, hurrying me into a cab and pushing a fresh notebook into my hands. “A crystal-like droplet that rolls down her wan face. I want that, and a most particular description of the house, and don’t botch it up!” “Do it your precious self, Wick-Dick!” I wished to shout, but it was too late and my career would be worth less than an apple-fed horsefart if I did botch this article. Henley Dorsett Penhallick had been a living legend for 50 years; any description of a life-imperiling venture or terrifying journey was known as a ‘Dorsett tale’ in these parts.... &

"“The Blind Queen's Daughter” by Scott Huggins (Originally published in Hides the Dark Tower.) The heavy mauls swung inward, the only thunder in the soft morning rain. The priests watched, trembling. The small man from Arabia stared hungrily at the widening hole. The bricks sealing the cell shivered, and Amren watched his father’s jaw tremble under the blow. Tremble as it never had in two desperate battles. Not even when the men of his auxilia fell about him in desperate retreat had Amren seen Sir Bedwyr’s face show fear. Until now. And the Roman Legate looked on, sneering. The brick fell inward under the final blow, and only gelid, tomb-like darkness crouched within. Perhaps she is dead. How long had she dwelt in this three-windowed cell, sealed up in brick, lest her anchoress’s vows of solitude prove, like her wedding vows, too weak? Since before my birth, nearly twenty years ago. How could she but die, if she had not gone mad? But from within the cell, a scraping of feet echoed, and a shape emerged...

"This Week: “The Inn of the Seven Blessings” by Matthew Hughes (Originally published in Rogues.) The thief Raffalon was sleeping away the noon-day heat behind some bracken a short distance from the forest road when the noise of the struggle awakened him. He rolled over onto his stomach, quietly drawing his knife in case of need. Then he lay still and tried to see through the inter-layered branches. Figures scuffled, voices spoke indistinctly, the syllables both sibilant and guttural. A muffled cry, as of a man with a hand over his mouth, was followed by the sharp crack of hard wood meeting a human cranium. Raffalon had no intention of offering assistance. The voices he had heard were those of the Vandaayo, whose border was not far away. Vandaayo warriors left their land only for ritual purposes, and then always in groups of six, and never without their hooks and nets and cudgels. Their seasonal festivals centered on the consumption of manflesh, and if Raffalon had attempted to intervene in the... &nb

“The Temple of Thirteen Pleasures” by Laurence Raphael Brothers (Originally published in The Sockdolager #3.) "I'm sorry to summon you like this, Countess" said Marcus apologetically. We were sitting together on a divan in his townhouse drawing room. Lord Cyprian's heir was dressed in a deep crimson suit so dark it was almost black, with a ruffled white cravat held in place with a ruby stickpin. A black memorial armband for his late father was prominent on his sleeve. I was in my temple whites. "Please," I said, "call me Harriet. Anyway I'm here in my capacity as a novice, and it's quite an honor to assist in your rite of investiture. I had to fight off a dozen other priestesses to get the job." Laurence Raphael Brothers is a technologist with R&D experience at such firms as Bell Communications Research and Google. He has recently sold short fiction to the New Haven Review, to The Sockdolager, and to the SciFutures City of the Future anthology. Follow him on twitter via @lbrothers. “Dante's...