Genres: Fantasy, Modern Fantasy
Huìhuì Gāo’s homeroom teacher squinted at his roll call. He wore a slight smile that conveyed no joy. After a few seconds, he said, “Ms…?”
Her hand hovered over her desk, hesitant, ready to catch her name. Her teacher squinted and furrowed his brow and looked about the classroom, finally settling his gaze on her. “Here,” she said, her voice cracking a little. (Continue Reading…)
Genres: Fantasy, Modern Fantasy
I hunched my shoulders and leaned closer to the automatic ticket machine. I punched in the date and time with tense fingers, chose the train I wanted, and stuffed some crumpled Euros into the slot. At any moment a carabiniere would take one look at me, know I was somewhere I shouldn’t be, and march me right onto the train back to Assisi. But I wasn’t running away, not really. I was going to Paris to find Maman and bring her home. We needed her home. Her and her magic words.
The ticket machine thought, then spat out my ticket. I seized it.
“Do you know where to go, signorina?” a station guard asked at my shoulder. I jumped, but I reminded myself she was only trying to be helpful. As long as I didn’t give myself away, I would be fine.
Genres: Fantasy
You saw the Empress once, when you were still a pillow-cheeked and blossom-mouthed child. She was tall and severe, and the train of her yellow dress flowed behind her for miles and miles, a river of pure gold. You stood behind your mother and wanted to bathe yourself in that river, and the Empress turned, her crown twinkling like a cosmos of cold stars, and she looked at you. You told everyone in your village afterwards that the Empress looked at you.
It was only for a moment. Her head was briefly inclined in your direction, and then it wasn’t. She kept walking. The river of gold frothed sumptuously past for hours, until at midday a woman interrupted it. She wore a black dress that spilled from her shoulders like ink. She held a brush in one hand, and in her other she held aloft the yellow fabric, on which she wrote in decisive strokes. In her wake, the river was no longer pure, muddied by dense black columns of characters.
Genres: Fantasy
Every year in January, Cast of Wonders takes the month off to recharge, plan the year ahead and highlight some of our favorite episodes. Throughout the month, different members of the Cast of Wonders crew will present their favorite story of 2017.
This week’s episode is hosted by assistant editor Katherine Inskip.
“It turns out,” said the High Ecclesiarch of the Writ, “that when the prophecy says ‘the hero’s body shall stand resilient against the flame,’ a more accurate translation would be ‘resistant against the flame.’” He gave a pained grimace. “Ancient Nearnoxian can be… ambiguous, at times.”
Phillip Stalford, Hero of Nearnox, Chosen One of the Golden Age, Bastion of Chastity and Valor, Banisher of the Dark Torch, V’lthaern d’Sng’ssn, and Paladin of the Holy Writ blinked back from within the mass of bandages that healer Ziva was carefully tending to. “Oh.” He said. “Well, I suppose that’s better than finding out I hadn’t been ‘pure of heart’ enough. Or that the Great Scriptor had taken a dislike to me.”
“The Great Scriptor does not ‘take a dislike.’” Ziva murmured, mixing up a salve. “His Word is Writ. It is eternal. He favors who he favors and disfavors who he disfavors. There is no changing with him.”
Aethlinn, standing just to the left of the Ecclesiarch, snorted and rolled his milky-white eyes. The others pointedly ignored the elf mage.
“Okay.” Phillip looked chastised. “But it… doesn’t quite make sense. I thought the Flames of Az-ranath were meant to keep all but the Chosen One out of the Shrine of Light. How’re they supposed to do that if the Chosen One’s not fireproof?”
Genres: Fantasy
Theme music “Appeal to Heavens” by Alexye Nov, available from Promo DJ or his Facebook page.
“It turns out,” said the High Ecclesiarch of the Writ, “that when the prophecy says ‘the hero’s body shall stand resilient against the flame,’ a more accurate translation would be ‘resistant against the flame.’” He gave a pained grimace. “Ancient Nearnoxian can be… ambiguous, at times.”
Phillip Stalford, Hero of Nearnox, Chosen One of the Golden Age, Bastion of Chastity and Valor, Banisher of the Dark Torch, V’lthaern d’Sng’ssn, and Paladin of the Holy Writ blinked back from within the mass of bandages that healer Ziva was carefully tending to. “Oh.” He said. “Well, I suppose that’s better than finding out I hadn’t been ‘pure of heart’ enough. Or that the Great Scriptor had taken a dislike to me.”
“The Great Scriptor does not ‘take a dislike.’” Ziva murmured, mixing up a salve. “His Word is Writ. It is eternal. He favors who he favors and disfavors who he disfavors. There is no changing with him.”
Aethlinn, standing just to the left of the Ecclesiarch, snorted and rolled his milky-white eyes. The others pointedly ignored the elf mage.
“Okay.” Phillip looked chastised. “But it… doesn’t quite make sense. I thought the Flames of Az-ranath were meant to keep all but the Chosen One out of the Shrine of Light. How’re they supposed to do that if the Chosen One’s not fireproof?”
Genres: Science Fiction
Our tribe didn’t have a word for the huge, winged race of reptiles who shared the cliff-faces with us. They were just “The Clasp.” Same as us. One tribe. One name. One shared livelihood as old as the great butte.
When I was young boy, before I knew better, I asked my grandmother if we were pretending to be like the big, scaly tribesmen or if they were pretending to be like us. After all, we didn’t look anything alike. When I finally made her understand my question, I hated the way she looked at me, like she’d tasted something bitter.
“There’s no ‘they’ or ‘us,’” she said. “We eat the same plants and insects, don’t we? We drink the same water, don’t we? All The Clasp warms our blood on the southern face and shelters from storms in the red caverns, eh?”
As we spoke, I remember a big male, in the gray raggedness of his shed, ambled along the ceiling of the cave where we sat. A curled sheet of semi-translucent skin fell between us, but I knew better than to mention the difference. I had learned. We would all be the same through sheer will and stubbornness.
(Continue Reading…)