Far Fetched Fables

Flash Fiction: “An Episode Below” by Mel Staten Her bare feet lightly touch down on the bed of coals, moving forward. They should stop in heated agony, but onwards they move despite burning soles as she counts steps toward blistering burns. How oddly beautiful it is, a lake made of flames, so different from usual cool waters, so different from what she was used to but no less serene. Her feet move forward, toward the heat, not backwards away from it, and the flames lick the inky blackness all around them. Never had she imagined it would be like this, so oddly calming in all the oblivion. Mel Staten is a storyteller born and raised in Massachusetts who peddles her art for a living. This story, which first appeared at Every Day Fiction on October 22, 2015, is her first short story publication. Armed with a degree in Studio Art, she accepts freelance work through her website melstaten.com...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Flash Fiction: “The Alchemist’s Wife” by Melody Marie Sage (Originally published at Daily Science Fiction on July 17, 2015.) I remember we celebrated with the dark chocolate torte at L’oiseau D’or. Its glossy black ganache was splashed with a comet trail of 24 carat gold stars. The gilt leaf dissolved tasteless on my tongue. The idea of it was titillation enough.   Ian talked about the project, and I pretended to listen to him, enjoying the sound of his voice, the exuberant parabolas he made with his hands. I was an artist. Chemistry, nanotechnology, bionics, and their various intersects, did not interest me. Colors did: the yellow candle flame flickering on his irises, the flush at the base of his throat, the creamy ivory tablecloth beneath my fingers. I smiled into my champagne. No, that is not entirely true. I loved learning about...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Flash Fiction: “The Judges” by Andrew Kozma The judges would not leave him alone.   They followed him from home to work, watched him while he walked his dog, spied on his first dates, and checked him out while he was checking himself out in the mirror. Even while he was using the bathroom, they watched his every move.   Oh, the judges didn’t say anything. That was part of the problem. They didn’t judge him in a way that was either morally approving or disapproving. Instead of talking, they used numbers. They used giant head-size cards like he’d seen on old game shows, or in satires of the Olympics. There they’d be, sitting behind their desk, and they would hold the numbers up in front of their faces.   Andrew Kozma is from Yorktown, Virginia, and currently “lives” in Houston, Texas. He is a graduate of George Washington University, with an M.F.A. from the University of Florida and a Ph.D. from the University of Houston. He writes...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Flash Fiction: “Remembering the Dragon” by Aidan Doyle Do you remember me? I was once a great adventurer, journeying to distant lands, exploring lost ruins and chronicling momentous events. Now I’m trapped in a decaying ruin. If I show any weakness, my fellow prisoners will try to take everything from me. “You’re sitting in my chair, Henry. I reserved it because it has a view of the driveway and I want to know when my family arrives.” It was the anniversary of your mother’s death yesterday. Alice used to get annoyed when I told my stories, but now they’re all I have left. Most of my captors assume that because I’m old I must be stupid and torture me with cruel games. “Residents are reminded that bingo starts at two o’clock.” Aidan Doyle is an Australian writer and computer programmer. He has visited more than 90 countries and his experiences include teaching English in Japan, interviewing ninjas in Bolivia and going ten-pin bowling in...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out informatio

Story: “The Halfwyrd’s Burden” by Richard Ford Around early autumn the border trail west out of Valdor was windy as a nobleman’s trap and cold as a devil’s heart. It was two hundred leagues of forested inclines and boggy descents, with bears and wolves and worse lying in wait to fill their bellies before the long, hard weeks of winter set in. Sometimes there wasn’t even a path to see, and anyone who didn’t know the way would be lost quicker than a priest in a whorehouse. It was hard land, untamed by cities or farms, and it was a rare kind of man had any business making a trade in a place so remote, when the rain pissed down like it was trying to drown you, and the wind howled and roared till it frayed your wits. A rare kind of man indeed would make his business in such a place. But then Oban Halfwyrd was one of the rarest. “The Halfwyrd’s Burden” originally appeared in

Story: “A Deeper Echo” by David Jón Fuller The smoky-grey dire wolf loped between darkened hulks of wooden box-cars on the sprawling CPR train yards of Winnipeg. The early June air was already warm and the sun had yet to rise. Warehouse doors clanged open at the looming Canadian Pacific station. The wolf came to an abrupt halt, sniffing the air. The scent of human body odor grew stronger through the heady mix of diesel and tar stench. A faint smell of pines tinged with oil lingered beneath. The wolf’s stocky shoulders were as tall as the tops of the massive, grimy wheels, and he knew what would come next: a hostile shout, warning off strangers; or worse, a cry of alarm at the sight of a wolf the size of a bear. He’d been shot at enough in the war. Best to hurry, then. Thomas Greyeyes shivered his thick fur to adjust the army-issue satchel that hung beneath his torso. “

Flash Fiction: “Bless This House” by Beth Cato A pink sliver of sunrise glowed over the hills, and the cows lowed their need. Emma parted the barn doors. Her metal pail and other gear met the dirt floor with a solid thud. She began the morning routine, her joints stiff and eyes bleary. The baby had been up at all hours, and Kurt had fallen into a feverish sleep again. Not even little Grace’s wails could fully rouse Kurt anymore. Emma had sat within the candle’s glow, holding Grace at her breast and laying wet rags on Kurt’s forehead. His breaths rasped and rattled. Her husband had acted all nonchalant after that nail went through his foot, but now… now. From toe to heel, his flesh resembled a charred mass. Emma shuffled to the next cow. The tuft-ended tail swatted the back of her head. The old bay stallion whinnied in the next stall over. “I’ll feed you next,” Emma said. And after that, God help her.   Beth Cato hails from Hanford, California...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out i

Flash Fiction: “Innumerate” by Laurence Raphael Brothers The sorcerer stands in the center of a magic circle, a conservative gray business suit showing under his white ritual mantle, the traditional rod of blasting in his hand. I’m off to the side, in the triangle of summoning.“Come not in that form! I adjure thee. In the holy name of–“ Okay, so maybe the roiling nest of cobras was a bit over the top. But I hate this slow, grainy material world. These sorcerers think we’ve got nothing better to do than wait on them. “Hold on,” I say. “How’s this?” Now I’m a rotating polyhedron, Kepler’s stella octangula. I didn’t mind it when Johannes summoned me. At least he knew his geometry and orbital mechanics. “Not in that form, either,” says the sorcerer. I’d roll my eyes if I had them. Maybe if they’d tell me up front what form they wanted, I wouldn’t have to go through this every time. I try again. Laurence Raphael...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Click Here to Support Far Fetched Fables on Patreon Novel excerpt: An Apprentice to Elves by Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette Even as a grown woman of fifteen, Alfgyfa never stopped thinking about the wolves she had encountered as a child. Sometimes she tried to speak to them, stretching out into the pack-sense as far as she could. Once she thought she caught a whisper of mice-under-snow; sometimes she was sure she caught the trailing edge of the wild konigenwolf’s thoughts. But if they heard her, they never answered. And even as a grown woman of fifteen, Alfgyfa did not give over her visits to the trellwarrens. At first, Tin’s warnings and the almost-fate of the dog wolf had cowed her for a while. But Alfgyfa was not much-cowable by nature. And once discovered, the lure of those...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Support Tales To Terrify on Patreon First Story: “The Wheel of Fortune” by Steph Swainston Tuesday morning in May, bright sunshine. I came out of the shop, carrying a pole to pull the awning down. I was whistling. The shop door banged behind me and the cat fled off the step. The whole street was vibrant with the spring sun. There, sitting on the pavement and huddled against the terrace wall, was Serin. She was a pitiful sight, gin-dimmed eyes and head to foot in gutter dirt. I had last seen her Saturday, on stage at the Campion Vaudeville, and she was wearing the same dress now, a voluminous costume made of gold foil. Her reddish wings stuck out the back and bunched up against the bricks. The feathers rustled when she moved. I knelt next to her. ‘Serin? …Are you all right?’ She shook her head and looked away. She was on the spiral downwards, that much was...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Flash Fiction: “Percy’s Crossing” by Elizabeth Archer Support Tales To Terrify on Patreon Sir Percival Pettigrew saw things other men did not see until it was too late. “I should have named you Cassandra,” said Lady Pettigrew. “Pity you were male.” Only his mother understood him. Sadly, she died in a hunting accident, mistaken by Lord Pettigrew for a pheasant. “Shame about that damned hat of hers,” Lord Pettigrew lamented to Sir Percival and his siblings. He drank himself to oblivion, and left everything to Percival’s brother Thomas. Being a second son was dreadful. Sir Percival decided to affect a large turban, with an enormous pheasant feather, in honor of his Mum. He wore a jeweled silk caftan, and performed at fashionable parties as The All-Seeing Panocculi. *** “You know your name is redundant, don’t you?” said Lady...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

First Story: “Mr. Green” by Gary Budgen Rust fell on Maiden Road, falling in tiny flakes borne by the wind and covering the ground with burnt red like a carpet of autumn leaf. The rust covered the parked cars, the folds and intricacies of privet hedges, the broken concrete surfaces of the front yards. I saw this on the day I visited my mother for the first time in a year, tail between my legs — basically skint — in hope of at least a Sunday lunch. Mr Jutley had been washing his white BMW and was standing, shaking his head at the covering of rust grains that had come from the sky. It was everywhere, even on Mr Jutley’s turban. Gary Budgen grew up and lives in London, UK. He has had fiction published in many magazines and anthologies. Recent stories are in Sensorama from Eibonvale Press and We Can Improve You from Boo Books. He is a member of Clockhouse London Writers and can be found at

This month’s cover art is Plains of a Different World by Leon Tukker. For more of his work, visit www.artstation.com/artist/leontukker or tryingtofly.deviantart.com/ Novel excerpt: “King of Shards” by Matthew Kressel The demon had saved Daniel, but the fool didn’t know it yet. They fell. They fell. No matter existed in this place before places, not a single atom in this void of voids. If he had a mouth to scream, the demon would have, because he remembered this terror, remembered tumbling into the Abyss, when the Creator had ripped his world apart and tossed her screaming children into the Great Deep. Our mother, the demon thought. Our destroyer. The blind idiot tumbled beside him, a spark of unsteady light, flashing in panic as...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Story: “The Rabbit Catcher of Kingdom Come” by Kellie Wells One sudden spring, when trees and flowers, bamboozled by warmth, began budding in January, the prematurely honeyed air flatly refusing to chill again until late December, the town of Kingdom Come, Kansas, was beset by a plague of black-tailed jack rabbits that were not only many but jumbo, bigger than great danes they were, gargantuan rabbits, suspiciously well-fed, slavering over the zoysia, plump middles heaving, back feet long and brawny as a sailor’s forearm and ears you could fan a fainting princess with. And not at all timid, never darting under privet or disappearing behind fences at the last minute, but glaring tauntingly at cats and hobbled crones, whom the town feared would be dragged away to an unspeakable end in the riparian thickets whence these strapping rabbits multiplied, their numbers seeming to double each week. They licked their paws and stroked their ears and whiskers while leveling a menacing eye and...  See acast.com/p

First Story: “The King Beneath the Waves” by Peter Fugazzotto Werting could not break free. The frigid sea held the boy, his feet churning, tired arms paddling. The rocky shore, so close, taunted him with every swell. His lame foot felt heavy as a stone. Just as he was ready to give up, a wave lifted him. The water folded and he tumbled head over heels against sand and stone, grey sky replaced by a veil of bubbles and froth. His hands dug at broken shells and shiny weed and he crawled out of the embrace of the sea. The water pulled at him but it could no longer drag him back. He would not join Hreoth and the long ship in the depths. Peter Fugazzotto is a writer of fantasy and science fiction. His short stories have been published in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly and Grimdark Magazine. His gritty fantasy series The...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Story: “A Shard Glows in Brooklyn” by Alex Shvartsman One by one, I set off car alarms. I walked along the curb and methodically gave each parked car a gentle kick, just hard enough to trigger the siren. Behind me, a dozen violated vehicles already blared out of tune. The prospect hung back, sullen and quiet. He was having a tough week, and my erratic behavior wasn’t helping his mood any. With each siren adding its voice to the cacophony, the prospect got a little twitchier. To his credit, he hadn’t cut and run. Yet. “Philippine Energy Beetles are nasty critters,” I lectured him as we walked, straining to be heard over the noise. “They nest by the power lines and feed off the electricity. Those flickering lights the power company says are caused by faulty wiring are often caused by an infestation.” Having finished with the cars, I fumbled with the lock on the front door of a vacant house. “This place is lousy with...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Story: “Blood and Stardust” by Laird Barron Three years later, as I hike my skirt to urinate in a dark alley in the slums of Kolkata, my arms are grasped from behind. The Doctor whispers, “So, we meet again.” His face was ruined in the explosion — its severe, patrician mold is melted and crudely reformed as if an idiot child had gotten his or her stubby fingers on God’s modeling clay. I can’t see it from my disadvantaged perspective, but that’s not necessary. I’ve been following him and Pelt around since our original falling out. Speaking of the Devil… Pelt slips from the shadows and drives his favorite dirk, first through my belly, then, after he smirks at the blood splattering onto our shoes, my heart. He grins as he twists the blade like he’s winding a watch. “— and this time the advantage is mine.” I laugh with pure malice, and die. Laird Barron is the author of several books, including The Croning, Occultation, and...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

First Story: “The Kite of Stars” by Dean Francis Alfar The night when she thought she would finally be a star, Maria Isabella du’l Cielo struggled to calm the trembling of her hands, reached over to cut the tether that tied her to the ground, and thought of that morning many years before when she’d first caught a glimpse of Lorenzo du Vicenzio ei Salvadore: tall, thick-browed and handsome, his eyes closed, oblivious to the cacophony of the accident waiting to occur around him. Maria Isabella had just turned sixteen then, and each set of her padrinos had given her (along with the sequined brida du caballo, the dresses of rare tulle, organza, and seda, and the diadema floral du’l dama – the requisite floral circlet of young womanhood) a purse filled with coins to spend on anything she wanted.  And so she’d gone past the Calle du Leones (where sleek cats of various pedigrees sometimes allowed themselves to be purchased, though if so, only until they tired of their new...  See acast.com/privacy for pri

Flash Fiction: “Dancing with Fire” by Caroline M. Yoachim The pond where I grew up was swampy and buzzing with insects. I slept in a bed of stargrass, and Mother whispered lullabies in the gentle current. Mother grew up in the ocean, and she hated our pond. Too many memories of Father lingered beneath the surface, long after drought had stolen him away. “Why don’t we go back to the ocean?” I asked. “I’m too old,” she said. “I don’t flow as smoothly anymore, and cloud hopping is for the young. Go play.” There weren’t any other water spirits, so I did mud magic with the earthy kids. We made soldiers from dirt and water and green swamp sludge. Every night, the soldiers got soggy and fell apart, ending the war until we remade them the next morning. Caroline M. Yoachim lives in Seattle and loves cold, cloudy weather. She is the author of dozens of short stories, appearing in Lightspeed, Asimov’s, Clarkesworld...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Story: “Flesh of the City, Bones of the World” by John R. Fultz The Surgeon’s hands are his most delicate instruments. From the slim silver bones of the ten fingers to the minute arrays of gears, cogs, and springs set for agility and precision, to the pale elastic skin that stretches over the whole array, his hands are marvels of science. The rest of his body is no less amazing, no less detailed in its construction, a silver skeletal scaffold filled with organs of bronze and copper sheathed in that same supple skin without blotch or blemish. His patients take these things for granted, ignorant of the miracles of design that sustain their existence. But he is a Surgeon and he knows the secrets of human biology as intimately as he knows the body and mind of his own wife. While prepping for the operation, he recalls her silver skull laid bare and glimmering as she removed the demure porcelain mask that is her public face. The memory is from last...  See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out inform