A Small God
A small god once lived far out among the hidden objects that plied the stardust between galaxies. They were not a handsome god, nor an ugly god; not an intelligent god, nor an ignorant god.
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Fantasy Fiction
Immortality Soup, Or, An Excerpt from the Cookbook of the Gods
Hello, there. If you are reading this, then I assume you are either a mortal who somehow stumbled upon this text or a young demigod seeking to ascend closer to Eledumare’s throne. If you are the latter, I welcome you.
Four Self-Care Secrets for a Long and Happy Life
Welcome to my seminar, Self-Care Secrets for Immortals! Few foxes make it to over nine hundred years old in this day and age, but you’ll be one of them with four of my time-tested, battle-honed secrets.
His Thing
The house was on the same street as a bakery whose only offering was penis-shaped waffles. Rufaro didn’t like American houses very much. They looked paper thin like doll houses that would lift off into the clouds if a strong wind came by.
Remains
When it happens, you’re unprepared. Everyone is. You were never as safe as you believed. Normal ends here, in this moment. But you don’t know it at first. At first, you run. Run. Don’t look down, don’t look up.
Simmered in Their Wealth Like the Richest of Sauces
Listen, my vicious darlings, for this world is strange and full of promise, and when you awake, there is much you’ll need to know. Long ages after humans last encountered a real, waking dragon, there was a man called Dennis Knight.
Instructions for the Broken Hearted
You Will Need: – a Heart in a jar; – a Knife (sharp); – a Tarp. Prep: Lay down tarp on clean surface. Place prybar and knife within reach. Place self on tarp. Instructions: Think of your most recent ex. Now, take the knife in your dominant hand.
You Will Not Live to See M/M Horrors Beyond Your Comprehension
SETTING: The adyton at the Temple of Delphi. Smoke rises from a vent in the floor, partially obscuring PYTHIA, who is sitting on a high stool carefully positioned behind the smoke. ACHILLES stands, supplicant. Behind him, the CHORUS looks at their phones.
The Boy Who Ran from His Faerie Heart
Here is a boy, barely thirteen, broken, lying in the road, twisted metal around him, twisted metal in him. Here is his heart, pierced by the shrapnel of the truck, a truck no longer, now a confusion of tangled wire and torn steel and glass pebbles.
All the Colours of the Death Knell
What is the colour of pain? In the growing carmine tide that creeps in her heart-mind, Mathilde would swear all that hurts is red, like her scratched hand, her wounded wrists, her slashed ankles. It’s the blood trickling from her fingers.
