Fable
Rumpelstiltskin: Child Eater
Edgar told nothing to King Lancer. He would first find out the truth for himself. So, when the message came that the girl had arrived, he met with her in secret. The moment his eyes fell on her, he knew at least one thing the miller had said to be true. She was a like a glimmer of sunlight come to the palace that had so long been shrouded in shadow. Despite his suspicions, he found himself hoping she was more than she appeared.
By J.C. Winter5 years ago in Fiction
The Troll Bridge
In a different time, in a different place, two young trolls were one day approaching a bridge from opposite ends. One, called Aegar, was seventeen years old and had the visage of what you might call a fairly traditional troll. He was ten feet tall and broad, with tree trunk-like arms and legs, a great round belly and mostly elephant grey skin. He was bald, with green eyes, a big, wide nose and only a few teeth, save for two large fangs protruding from the bottom of his jaw, like a sabre-toothed tiger's canine teeth, only in reverse.
By Jamie Smurthwaite5 years ago in Fiction
The Monster in the Maze
The monster has surfaced. Its guttural growl and scream echoes through the cavernous stone forest that is my home. I have been told by those who found their way into this realm that a vicious creature exists in the dark corridors, only now have I heard its hunting cry. Throughout my harsh and unfriendly life, I have never felt terror until this day.
By David Angell5 years ago in Fiction
Dissun and Dudderun
The irritated woman opened the door with a force that ruffled hairs of the corpulent pomp’s mustache. She checked to see that his officious, ring-fingered fist hadn’t knocked loose the talisman made of dog and horse hair wrapped around a piece of chalk. The last thing she wanted was to have to go back to the old crone who’d made it for her and get another one. Goblin repellant was expensive, and the crone had bad breath and talked a lot.
By Sorcha Monk 5 years ago in Fiction
Humilitia
On a field within a stadium covered in patches of fur walked Humilitia the bull. Humilitia was the last bull standing amongst creatures of many lands and many phenotypes. His massive horns rolled into his heavy, veiny exterior, which was tightly hugged by his spotty, long, and torn fur. Humilitia’s eyes were wide, and his head bobbed calmly up and down as his heavy feet gently walked amongst air that hosted the cheers of a crowd.
By Mikael Holcombe-Scali5 years ago in Fiction
Rabbit Stew
Rabbit Stew Locals and weathermen all said that this year was the coldest on record for Cleveland and the surrounding area. Teresa had no trouble believing that as she carefully maneuvered through fresh snow, knee deep in places, as she followed rabbit tracks, hoping to capture the cottontail as it flailed in the soft snow. She had read somewhere that rabbits lost most of their maneuverability in fresh snow over six inches deep, and the forested snowscape in front of her certainly qualified. If successful at capturing it by hand, Teresa planned to surprise her invalid grandmother with rabbit stew.
By Cleve Taylor 5 years ago in Fiction
Never Whistle at the Northern Lights
It was a cool, crisp October evening and I just spent the last 2 hours studying for my physics exam tomorrow. I need a break, I'm tired and my eyes are sore. I'm already anxious because I'm not quite understanding physics and I always panic before a test. "I just need to stay calm and focused. Maybe a walk will help," I thought to myself. I grabbed my jacket and phone. "I'm just going for a walk, I'll be back soon!" I shouted to my mom as I opened the front door.
By Alison McLaughlin5 years ago in Fiction
The Mythology of Beasts
It was the third sunny night in a row. The Spring Equinox had come and the entire arctic circle was to stay bathed in weak sunlight until early October. They called this area of the world 'Land of the Midnight Sun', a title way too glamorous in the eyes of Sophia, who thought of it more as an expansive, white shithole.
By Jamie Jackson5 years ago in Fiction
Nature of The Beast
The old man’s gaze was fixed on the fire, his profile glowing against the black of night. The skin on the side of his face stretched taut over his high cheekbone, the eye that I could see like an onyx marble reflecting the orange and yellow flames, his chin strong and reverent. His hair wasn’t long and thick in the way Native Americans look in National Geographic. It was modern and military cut, neon white in the contrast of darkness. The clothing he wore was indistinct, dark pants and a leather jacket. He wasn’t even sitting “Indian style”, but rather like a man who’s frame is large enough to cradle the universe- the stump beneath him a humble throne, callous-covered bare feet planted solidly on the ground, elbows on his knees. In his hands, he held a cup that offered steam to the smoke of the fire.
By Christa Leigh5 years ago in Fiction
