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Cursed by a Gypsy: Catherine Cheek

My short stories tend to be dark and twisted, but they don’t even resemble each other, so I can’t compare them to a short story author. My novels are most similar to Charlaine Harris and Kim Harrison. As much as I guiltily enjoyed sighing over Edward and Bella, I’d rather not be compared to Stephenie Meyer (though it would be great to be in her tax bracket.)


Voice Like a Cello

Mama had believed enough to sacrifice her savings and emigrate here, all for the sake of her poor, insane, eight-year-old daughter. Mama had found a place on a map, a city that wouldn’t exist without air conditioning and irrigation. A place with no history.


Can You Fantasize in Ten Sentences or Less?

May Madness Micro-Short and Graphic Contest Guidelines

Submission Window: Monday, May 4- Friday, May 22nd, midnight.

Choose a graphic image as a prompt then start writing! Story content should relate directly to the graphic of choice and should also follow the content guidelines as posted on our Fantasy Magazine guidelines page.

Each submission should accompany . . .


Come From A Nameless Island: Samantha Henderson

I enter the chamber of the Thing Without a Face; I am given a small plain wood box, the size of a Bible; I wince away from the sight of the preternaturally long fingers; I nod in acknowledgment and make my way back — right, two passages over, left, right. Perhaps all who go there have a different path to take, perhaps it makes no difference. I’ve never dared to ask.



At least it looked like good timber, but everything was deceiving in this hellhole he’d made his home. Winter was dry and hot while summer was wet and gave lie to the promise of rich farms ringing Victoria Settlement like a ring of pearls; crops were planted with the summer rains in mind and winter killed them with its omnipresent, near-windless heat. Trees that grew straight and strong-looking, forged by God for first-rates’ masts and roof beams, splintered at the kiss of the ax. Fish, hooked at risk from a river infested with a bull crocodile and his harem, looked fat and full of flesh, but proved oily, rank, and so full of little bones as to be all but inedible. But they ate them, by damn, they ate all they could, and boiled the fish for its rancid broth.


The Most Dangerous Profession

The man interlaced his fingers as if he were going to pray. “Can you describe your voices?” I asked him. “Are they malicious or aggressive?” There was a slight abnormality in the man’s look, in his words, gestures, a touch of affectation seen through his otherwise gentle and open manner. It wasn’t mental disorder yet, […]


Miss Cubbidge and the Dragon of Romance

He suddenly lifted his head, a blaze of gold, over the balcony; he did not appear a yellow dragon then, for his glistening scales reflected the beauty that London puts upon her only at evening and night. She screamed, but to no knight, nor knew what knight to call on…



Later on she told you her favorite story, one you were sure you’d either read or had read to you in childhood. It was the one about the man who wanted to bring a red rose to his lover, but had only white roses in his garden; and when his friend the nightingale heard him lamenting, she crushed her breast against the thorn of a white rose, dyeing the petals with the last of her blood.



The road stretches east. The ancient ruts are filled with dust. Tufts of yellowish grass rise up through the pebbles. The village remains out of sight for almost the entire walk, but the man counts his steps, just as he measures everything, and he knows exactly when he’ll arrive. The insects leave him be, while the lizards watch him from afar.


White Stone

That first night the snow-maiden looked like a pillar of salt, like a statue half-toppled from a blast, like a stranger; as much as I loved her, that much I never forgot.