Diwrnach is Dead
Diwrnarch is dead. The great blue slabs of his limbs lie spread-eagled across his table. His fists are heavy clenched stones. His corpse is headless. His head lies in a bloody pool on the…
Category: Original Short Stories
Death Shall Have No Dominion
Author’s Note: This story is based upon the Scottish folksong “Three Sisters on the Banks of the Rye”, along with various Gothic fairytales in the spirit of the Brothers Grimm. As such, please be aware the…
The Battle of Turs
THE BATTLE OF TURS By Amanda Pizzolatto (Aurora Mandeville), August 11, 2015 (1199 words) Summary: A fantasy re-imagining of Joan of Arc. Jeanne di Arch was the daughter of the mayor of Turs and was…
A Day at Grandma’s
Mom dropped Max and Lorelei off at a little white house with lacy corner brackets on either side of the front porch posts. The lawn was overgrown, grass reaching almost up to the Max's knees,…
Pilate and Claudia
Author's Note: This story is a work of historical fiction, based on the Four Canonical Gospels of Holy Scripture, as well as additional information provided by historians such as Josephus, and legendary materials collected from…
Portrait of an Invisible Girl
~ by Elizabeth Fust It’s like I’m part of the background. Their eyes just gloss over me. It’s like they can’t differentiate between me and the wallpaper. Is this what it is like to be…
Give Me the Words: A Bardic Rhapsody of Winter Feasts
Give me the words, let them form. The stories that course through my mind, weaving like star-light knotted into pitchers, pouring out the Milky Way across the onyx sky. Give me the words that…
Letters from Bidbid
When Colleen first opened her son’s latest letter, she had been ecstatic. It had been six months since he’d been writing from his outpost in Oman. Most of them came from Bidbid. It surprised…
Snow Globes
The pine trees stand tall and firm on the hillside, silent sentries to the children’s fun. Their needles shake in the wind as the children’s laughter echoes off the hills. The children rush towards…
The Window of St. Mary’s
September shouldn’t be this hot, Harris Sine thought to himself, mopping his brow with a wrinkled and rather poorly treated handkerchief which he pulled out of the left pocket of his coat. That garment…