Happy Autumn/Fall! This quarter’s Short Story contest has come to a close and the winners are ready to be announced.

For this quarter, participants were asked to follow the theme of Wishing Well. I got a lot of great submissions, some conventional and some creatively obscure.

So, without further pause, it’s time to announce our winners!

Taking this quarter’s 1st Place prize of $100 Amazon Gift Card is a creatively disturbing writer who doesn’t shy away from discomfort. I’m pleased to announce Shayne Hargrove! Check out his Wishing Well short story submission below.

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Thud.  The high-pitched screeching came to an abrupt halt. Staring at the splash of vibrant, green blood that painted the row of stones beneath the one in his hand, Gringo felt a wave of guilt wash over him. “Why do they have to be alive?” he asked, turning to his colleague.

Just about to crush another pixie as it screamed in terror, the other man looked back at Gringo in confusion. “Eh? What’s it matter?” His focus shifted back to the diminutive, helpless creature. With a malicious grin etched onto his cheeks, Bardt lifted the next stone again and slammed it down. The silence that followed was replaced by his obnoxious laughter. “Ya see? Nothin’ to it.”

Gringo swallowed hard, watching the tiny lifeless hand that stuck out from between the cracks of the layered stones continue to twitch. His stomach was in knots from knowing the wrongfulness of the acts they were committing. But he needed this job. His farm’s crops had never taken root and his family would never survive the winter. When first he had heard of this task, Gringo nearly cried in relief. A thousand coins to build a simple well. How could he turn it down?

But as he held the squirming creature trapped in his hands, biting at him with teeth too small to puncture, fighting with fists that lacked the strength to warrant notice, the simple farmer couldn’t help but wonder if it was worth it.

Bardt slapped his companion on the back of the head. “Hey now, get back to work. I ain’t puttin’ this thing all together by me lonesome!” The ever-present smile on his face as he crushed another pixie seemed a heavy contradiction to his words.

Resigning himself to his fate, Gringo slathered a thick glob of tar onto the next spot before pushing the magical creature in place. He shied away his gaze, unable to bear the desperate longing of those four large, black eyes staring up at him. Holding a stone in the air, the man shuddered as the sound of bones crunching came with its descent. Slowly, he peeked a glance and saw that he had missed his mark, leaving only the top half of the pixie’s body crushed.

Noticing the gap, Bardt slapped the man again. “Idiot! Ya ever seen a wall with holes in it?! Fix it, or the king’ll have our heads!”

A part of Gringo wanted to just turn and run away. Looking down at the pair of legs that were exposed, laying in a pool of the creature’s blood beneath the stone, he could hardly contain the bile that rose in his throat. But he needed the money. His family needed it. If his family’s survival meant the cost of a few pixies, how could he stop?

Looking at the pile of rocks to his right, Gringo hoped to find one small enough to plant in the gap. He searched anxiously, knowing what the alternative was. After turning over every stone, none were found that would be suitable. A heavy sigh passed through his lips as he turned back to the half-built well. His hands shook as they reached toward the last stone he had placed, knowing it was all his fault. If only he had the courage to look on the first strike.

Groaning in disgust as he pried the small boulder away, the horrific sounds of the pixie’s body being pulled apart filling his ears. He gagged at the sight but managed to quickly push the stone back down, wedging it in place so that no gap was left. Coughing harshly, he stepped away as images of the acts he had committed replayed over and over in his mind.

“I swear to Ota himself, if ya don’t finish this, it’ll be you I smash next!” Bardt’s angry grunt followed, halting the screeches of another pixie. “Ya hear me?! Now get back here!”

With labored breaths, Gringo turned back to his colleague. He couldn’t believe how the man could just reach into the cage of terrified creatures, ripping it from it’s loved ones and plastering it to the stone as if it were no more of an obstacle than the tar. Slowly, he stepped back toward the well, eyeing the cage.

Bardt grew even more frustrated. So much so that he stopped his seemingly endless massacre of pixies to turn and face Gringo. “Pick up a pixie,” he said with lethal calmness.

When Gringo continued to hesitate, Bardt’s eyes flashed with anger and he raised the stone in his hand as if to maul the man. Under the threat of pain, Gringo cried out in fear and pulled one of the small, winged creatures from the cage.

“Put it on the well.”

Gringo did as he was told, hands shaking all the while as he slathered another glob of tar onto the next stone. This time, he looked directly into the pixie’s eyes as he raised the stone.

Seeing the man hesitate, Bardt stomped a foot against the ground. “Do it!”

The stone came down, this time with near perfect accuracy, crushing the creature’s body entirely. Still, Gringo held his gaze. He remained silent for the endeavor, but inside he screamed in outrage.

Content, Bardt turned his attention back to the cage and continued lining the wall. His wicked grin returned to his face as he saw Gringo slowly reach down to retrieve another pixie from the corner of his eye.

After another few dozen stones—and pixies—were placed, the pair leaned against the constructed well with sweat beading down their faces. Gringo faced the other man. “So why did they have to be alive?”

Bardt scoffed as if the answer should have been obvious. “Magic won’t work if they aren’t killed in the process.”

“Magic?”

Raising an eyebrow in confusion, Bardt scoffed again. “Yes, magic. Didn’t they tell you this was a wishing well?” Based on Gringo’s widened eyes, the man assumed the response. “Yeah, I was shocked too. Thought the damned things were just a myth. But, apparently, they’re real. And we just built one. Why do ya think they had us build it out here, deep in the forest where no one would find it?”

Gringo eyed the well in new light. “So… this actually grants wishes?” A hundred desires began to form in his mind. Base lusts, greedy prizes, and more.

“Supposedly.”

Rising to his feet, Gringo’s green-eyed gaze bore down on the well with eagerness. He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a small piece of copper—the last he had to his name.

“What’re ya doin’?” Bardt asked before seeing Gringo’s arm extend out over the rim. Struggling to his feet, Bardt managed to catch his colleague’s arm before the copper was dropped. “Wait!”

Growling in retaliation, Gringo eyed the man with hate. “No! I’m going to use the well!” He managed to pull his hand free and threw the copper down the hole.

For a moment, both men listened for the small splash as the piece hit the water. When it came, Bardt launched a punch into Gringo’s jaw. “Idiot! The well ain’t finished yet!”

Gringo blinked in complete puzzlement.

“Stupid man, we ain’t done yet. Ya just wasted your copper.”

Struck with confusion and regret, Gringo looked down over the edge of the well as if expecting a bright light to erupt from the depths and grant his wish. “Wha— I don’t understand? What’s left?”

“Should’ve waited. Stupid man,” Bardt repeated before turning toward the dense bushes lining the edge of the clearing. After a while, he returned, dragging a bound woman by her hair as she wriggled in desperation.

No, not a woman. Gringo’s eyes burst open as he saw the mystical creature’s long, pointed ears. “An elf?!” he asked in amazement as Bardt pulled her closer. “But I thought the plague had wiped them out a hundred years ago!”

“Aye, so did everyone else. King’s had this one locked up since the days of his father’s father.” After reaching the well in the center of the clearing, Bardt released his hold on her hair. “Too bad, she’s a beauty.” The elf stared up at them with malice.

Gringo stepped forward to get a better look. His companion’s words rang true, the creature was enchanting beyond measure. Even after being dragged through the muck, he couldn’t deny that she put to shame every human he had ever seen. Regaining his focus, Gringo turned toward Bardt. “So, what’s left with the well?”

Bardt chuckled. “Just her. Her blood, that is.”

Eyeing the well and the dreams it could fulfill, Gringo pulled the elf to her feet and leaned her over the layered stones. Without even a moment’s hesitation, he took a crude knife from his belt and sliced open her throat. Bardt’s chuckling amplified as they watched the beautiful creature’s blood spill to the depths below. As it met the water, a bright purple light began to glow.

Gringo’s eyes were fixated on the enticing light, shimmering off the walls that were still dripping with pixie blood. His fingers wrapped tightly in the elf’s hair, he pulled back on her head to open her throat more, making sure to get every drop as if it mattered.

Once the blood no longer flowed from the elf’s neck, Gringo released his hold. He didn’t even bother paying attention to where her spent corpse fell. All that mattered was the well and its power. All his dreams would come true—riches, glory, whatever he desired. His heart pounded with excitement, knowing his fate in life had finally turned for the better.

Ignoring Bardt’s ceaseless laughter, Gringo started fumbling blindly through his pockets once more. That laughter echoed louder and louder as the farmer searched desperately. He was hardly paying any attention, just watching the light below. Finally, the man regained his senses and began to focus exclusively on the contents of his pockets, fuming with frustration. After countless searches through his leggings, Gringo realized that he had completely forgotten the copper he had thrown in prematurely was the last he had.

Crying out in dismay, Gringo leaned over the rim to the water below. As if taunting him, the single piece of copper could be seen deep below the water’s surface as a single obscured shadow. And Bardt’s laughter continued to play in his ears.

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Whew, I found that one riveting. Thank you for your submission, Shayne. I hope you enjoyed taking part (and continue to do so in the future).

Now, onto our runner-up and winner of the $25 Amazon Gift Card, we have a writer who wished to remain Anonymous.

Their short story, while low in Fantasy elements, had no shortage of creativity. Through its obscure relation to the theme, I particularly enjoyed the way they took the concept and approached it tangentially, rather than head-on. Check it out!

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Maybe I’m wrong? I thought, as the smile spread across his cheeks. How could he be so spirited if it really did happen?

“Thamus!” he beckoned, holding up a pair of pints in greeting, that joyous expression not wavering in the slightest upon the sight of me.

I returned the smile as I strode across the pub, pushing through the bustling crowd of patrons that, too, sought to celebrate the end of the war. After closing the distance, my hand extended toward him, my dearest friend, taking the ale. My gaze bore into him with scrutiny, suspicion lining my vision. But all I saw was Volin’s genuine happiness.

Raising our mugs together with a clash that spilled the slog over the edge and staining the ground below, we chugged our drinks as a cheer erupted around us. My cup slammed to the table in tandem with Volin’s as he demanded another round.

With each drink, my suspicion faded. I was left with only the comfort of my friend’s company–the man who had become bonded to me during our service to the king. As our lips loosened, they told the cherished memories that had been seared into us forever. Tales of victory, recollections of near deaths. The last chapter of our lives had finally reached its end and we were still here to share its adventure.

“And you remember that wiry old man that tried to stab you with a boot?” Volin asked with a boisterous laugh.

“Hah! He said he had spent the better part of a week ‘sharpening’ it against a stone!”

“Right, right! The poor sap didn’t realize he had ground it too far. You could see his fingers poking through the hole!” What remained in our mugs nearly poured to the floor as we hunched over in our hilarity.

I placed my hand on Volin’s shoulder, truly grateful to have such a man as he at my side. A man I called my brother, though not by blood. I realized, then and there, that with all the times we had saved the other’s life through the war, there was no way he was capable of what I feared.

His hand fell upon my head and his inebriated smile widened. “Thamus, I don–” he paused, holding back a hiccup or worse. After he steadied himself from the bile that nearly rose in his throat–thankfully not spewing in my face–his cheeks slackened. “Thamus. I don’ know wha’ I did t’ deserve a friend like you…” The slurring words made him nearly incomprehensible, but his meaning was clear. “Y-you… you saved me, brother. And I’ve always got your back.”

With his final statement, I could feel his hand slide to the back of my neck and grip it tightly in affirmation of his sentiment. Whether from the burning stink of the alcohol on his breath that now breathed into my face or the profound sense of vulnerability I felt, tears began to line my eyes. All I could offer was a meager response, fearful of letting any more weakness show. “And I yours, Volin.”

We embraced each other tightly. Ignoring the confused look of the other patrons, we pressed our gratitude to the other with an intensity that seemed incapable of expressing the long-overdue respects that was owed the other. For many moments we simply squeezed, knowing that our lives were owed to the other.

As we finally pulled apart, I could see his face lined with the wet streaks that I refused to show–for reasons that seemed trivial in that moment. He couldn’t have done it.

After slapping an uncounted handful of coins onto the bar, together we stumbled to the door, nearly tripping over our own feet with each step. Stepping out of the cozy abode, I realized we had been drinking for much longer than I thought. The moon shined high above, illuminating the path toward our homes.

Looking up as I did, Volin sighed. “I’ll never forget the nights we used to just stare at the moon during the marches.”

My lips cracked with a grin. “No, I don’t think we ever will.” Sliding my arm under his in support, we began down the path. It was clear he had consumed more drinks than I by the sway of his gait as he hardly held his own weight. I told my wife I wouldn’t drink that night, but she knew the lie for what it was. After all, how could a soldier not celebrate the ending of the war he had fought in for the last two years?

Two years… Is that really how long it had been? It seemed both an eternity and a blip. For each moment I had missed my wife, the days had seemed to string together as fear of death drove us to near madness. We had only been home for a fortnight and our commander informed us of the king’s treaty only that morning.

I recalled the meeting with a bitterness that left me uneasy. For when the commander told us the good news, rather than leaping into my arms with joy, my wife simply smiled at Volin. It was naught but a flicker. As if it held a thousand secrets that begged to be let out. When her gaze caught me staring at them, my eyes narrowed with malice, she quickly shifted her look elsewhere. Every instinct in me demanded to launch a barrage of insinuations, but Volin broke my distraction by showing the happiness that my wife had not.

Immediately after, he had departed our home in eagerness for the celebrations that were sure to come, leaving me to the awkward distance that was being placed between me and my wife. I, too, had wished to celebrate. I had wished that my wife would cry out in thankfulness that her husband would no longer leave her to sleep alone as he fought desperately for a cause he cared little for. Yet, instead she rose to her feet and closed herself in our bedroom without a word.

No matter my suspicions, I had loved my wife more than life itself. The prospect of destroying what we had directly seemed a task I was not prepared to undertake. Instead, I elected to investigate my dearest friend, whom I had believed would never betray me.

After trudging along the beaten path with Volin growing heavier and heavier, I saw the well we used to throw coins into as children. Slowly, I slid him to the ground at the base of the well, groaning with exhaustion.

“Wha–? What’re we doin’?” he asked, realizing he was no longer on his feet. “Oh hey! This is that well we used to play at!” Volin’s smile returned as he rubbed the side of the layered stone with fondness. “I remember dropping half my father’s coin stash down this hole, hoping to meet the love of my life someday…”

I raised an eyebrow. “And did it ever payoff?”

My friend’s smile turned to a perplexed frown. “Eh… once.” Volin’s heavy eyelids began to close. “Just once…”

It has to be true. The previous certainty I felt dispelled, leaving me with the horrid doubt that had twisted my gut all day. “Volin,” I began. As he groggily opened his eyes at me, barely conscious, I mustered the courage to ask what I had been waiting to ask. “Did you bed my wife?”

Silence ensued. My heart pounded in anticipation, driven by fear and anger. What would I do if the answer was yes? This was the man I owed my life to. The one I called my dearest brother. Could I forgive him? Would I forgive him?

For many moments I waited for my answer. But Volin’s eyes just looked forward as if drawn elsewhere. The same look we used to get after waking up in cold sweats after dreaming of the terrors we endured in combat.

“Volin,” I repeated more forcefully. He never looked at me. He just stared ahead. Out of curiousity, I followed his gaze to the grass beyond, expecting to see some sort of bewitching demon that had entranced him in some way. But there was nothing. Growing frustrated, I kicked his leg hard. “VOLIN!”

Finally, his attention turned to me, though still the deadness remained in his eyes.

It has to be true. I know it! Why else would he refuse to answer? A part of me had expected this to be the answer. But I at least wished for the decency to admit it to me. Whether out of fear of his own betrayal or shame, Volin held his tongue and my anger grew.

I bent down and grabbed the folds of his tunic, pulling him to his feet to look into his eyes. “Is it true?! Did you?!”

Being met with the vacant expression was a thousand times worse than the truth. How could this man call me his brother but not show me respect? I growled in fury, wrapping my hands around his neck tightly. At first, his emotionless face didn’t change. It was as if Volin had locked himself away, refusing to experience reality. But I didn’t care. I would get the truth, one way or the other. Squeezing his throat with all my might, Volin’s eyes flickered in recognition as the pain woke him from his stupor.

He tried to form words that would match his confusion, but they couldn’t squirm through his enclosed throat. Furrowing his brow, Volin’s hands reached up to mine and tried to pray away my fingers desperately.

I could feel the bulging of his artery beneath my hand, pumping relentlessly as it tried to reach its destination. The building pressure in my friend’s head had started to turn his face purple. His bloodshot eyes stared up at me, flashing between anger, confusion, and horror as I pressed him against the lip of the stone well.

No longer did I care for the truth. All I wished for, in that moment, was vengeance. With rage coursing through my veins, I crushed Volin’s throat without pause. His feet kicked out, knocking against my shins and throwing dirt into the air. The desperate prying of his fingers began to lose their strength and pawed at me without merit. More and more, Volin’s eyes turned blood red, seeming as if they’d burst at any moment.

Crying out in anger, I pressed the last of life from him. After his arms fell limp and his legs no longer kicked, I stepped away and stared at his body, sprawled over the edge of the well we used to toy with as youths.

My body still pumped with hatred, but it quickly began to fade as the realization of what I had done set in. Seeing my friend’s body littered across that well, knowing he died a dishonorable death at my hand, sobered me immediately. As the rage subsided, I was left with only an immense grief and regret.

I had killed my dearest friend, and for what? I was no closer to the truth, locked in a permanent cycle of suspicion and doubt. This feeling would imprison me forever, I knew. Every time I would look upon my wife’s face, I would see Volin’s. The vision of beauty that drove me would become twisted with the bloodshot eyes of the friend I had murdered. And the worst of it was not knowing if such a fate was even deserved.

My fingers dug into my arms as my horrific actions took root, cutting deep into my skin as I began to hyperventilate. I had killed dozens of men in the war, but an enemy combatant was objectified as nothing more than an obstacle or beast. This was my friend, my brother. Beneath me, my legs gave out and I collapsed to the hard ground. Huddled over in denial, my mind repeatedly raged within itself in the struggle to both deny and fathom what I had done.

Ages seemed to pass as my gaze kept finding its way back to Volin, as if I felt I needed to punish myself for the sin. I sobbed profusely, this time showing no care for the state of vulnerability. Slowly, I began to crawl toward my friend at the well, feeling the tears roll down my face and dripping from my chin to wet the dirt below.

Gripping his leg tightly, I pulled myself to my feet. Hesitation tugged at my limps as I reached for Volin’s tunic. But I needed to see it. It was what I deserved. As I pulled on his shirt, his head rolled back limply in disturbing lifelessness. Shying away my gaze, I let out my muffled cries into my shoulder. Even while looking away, I could feel Volin’s slack and heavy head pulling him away from me.

Finally, I brought myself to face him. I cradled his neck–as he had done to me in the tavern, holding me as his brother–and looked into his eyes. A gasp of profound horror passed through my lips as the result of my rage stared back at me. His eyes had rolled back up to his skull, leaving naught but blood-filled spheres to greet me. I couldn’t bear it any longer.

“I-I’m so sorry, Volin.” The grief I felt outweighed the temporary blind rage that had driven me to madness a hundred times over. “I wish I could take it back…”

After one last look at my dearest friend, committing the atrocity to memory as my own form of punishment, I relinquished my hold on his shirt. At dreadful, taunting pace, Volin’s body fell backward before toppling over the layered stone of the well and falling deep down the pit. I could hear the sound of him scraping along the walls long before the inevitable splash.

Unable to bear looking over the edge, I turned away and returned on the path home.

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There’s our two winners this quarter. I hope everyone who submitted enjoyed writing their pieces and am looking forward to seeing some return visitors next quarter!

The next contest will be taking place January 1st – 31st!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: Keep your response obscure while still fulfilling the prompt.

“We were once elves, though a hundred generations have since passed.”

Fangdarr looked to the satyr with an eyebrow raised in skepticism. “Elves?”

Thrax’ul nodded. “A fact those who were unchanged often use as proof of their superiority.” A chuckle rumbled in his throat. “If only they knew the truth.”

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Greetings! I’ll be hosting a contest for Fantasy-themed Short Stories with PRIZES available to the 1st and 2nd place submissions. The details are below:

Submission Deadline: October 31st, 2019 (11:59 p.m. EST)
Winner Announcements: November 16th, 2019

1st Place will be awarded a $100 Amazon Gift Card!
2nd Place will be awarded a $25 Amazon Gift Card

Theme/Prompt: All submissions must adhere to a specific prompt or theme. This quarter, the theme is “Wishing Well”. Your submission must portray or utilize the prompt in some meaningful way. Entries that do not will not be eligible for prizes.

Content Guidelines: Failure to meet any item below may result in immediate disqualification.
– Must be Fantasy (any sub-genre is acceptable)
– Must be under 5,000 words
– Must be your own Fantasy world
– There is no Maturity restriction – anything goes!
– You may only submit one entry per contest

Contests will be held every three months, so be sure to subscribe to receive updates for the next!

Please send all submissions to bernard@bernardbertram.com. The submission must include one of the following:
– A .doc file attachment
– A .pdf file attachment
– A Google Docs link (be sure that View/Edit access is included)

Winners will be announced on November 16th on this Blog. Please be sure to use an active e-mail address, as Prizes will be delivered electronically. Winners of the contest will be contacted via e-mail. If no response is received within one week, the prize will be forfeited and given to the runner-up.

Grading Guide: Submissions will be reviewed and winners will be determined by the following:
– Creativity
– Effective usage of the Theme/Prompt
– Grammar
– Format
– Intrigue / Interest

And, most of all, GOOD LUCK AND HAVE FUN!

Disclosure Details: 
All work that you submit is your own. It will not be copied, claimed, or distributed in any way except in the case of the 1st and 2nd place works. Both winners will have their submissions shared via this website, my Facebook, and Goodreads (due to an automated RSS Blog feed from my website). To restate, this sharing of work will only apply to the winners of the contest. 
I reserve the right to review and rate all submitted works based on personal opinion.

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: Use Dialogue

“Listen, lad. Sometimes ye gotta just pull up yer slacks and join the fray,” Hagan explained as he donned the thick leather gloves that had been caked in coal dust.
Terrified, his friend couldn’t stop shaking his head. “Aye, but sometimes the fray’s too big to stand a chance.”

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

This week is a poem and I failed to keep it under 50 words. Oopsies.

Charred carcasses remain,
Alas, the settled score.
Carried by disdain,
For the children are no more.

Eradicated once and for all,
Removed the festering sore.
None will see the Fall,
For the children are no more.

A nation swept away,
Lost to a section of lore.
A culture made gray,
Pray, the children are no more.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: None

The whistle of three arrows screeching through the air came from all around Fangdarr. The first two embedded deep into his raised arm, shielding his face. To his relief, he looked down to see the last sticking out of  the wall just below his groin.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: This time you must use the word ‘Veteran‘!

Viktor looked around at his fellow soldiers, their inexperience evident from their fearlessness. The man to his left slapped him happily on the back.

“What’s wrong, man? You look like you’ve seen a dragon!”

Looking the man dead in the face, the Viktor stated flatly, “We’re all going to die.”

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: None

“Why bother?”

The sailor leaned back in his chair. “What d’ya mean?”

“What’s the point of sailing if you know your ship will be overtaken by pirates?”Placing his hand beneath his chin and rubbing it quizzically, the man shrugged. “I’m a sailor, friend. What else is there?”

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: Put yourself in a character’s shoes.

Chakal stared into the sweetened wine, his despondent expression eyeing him back. 

A slap hit his back. “What’s wrong, pretty boy?” the patron to his left asked with a wild cackle.

Lost in the crimson swill, the lamenting elf remained silent as he rolled the glass orb between his fingers.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: None this week.

Elethain stared down at his brothers, mutilated beyond recognition—all in the hopes of earning his admiration. Bones and blood were painted around each of their corpses in a gory display. Without a thought, the elf stepped over his fallen kin toward the golden beast, his prize finally within reach.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Hello everyone! July marked the first Fantasy Short Story Contest and it’s finally the date to announce the winners.

To recall, 1st Place will be awarded a $100 Amazon Gift Card and 2nd Place receives a $25 Amazon Gift Card!

There were quite a few submissions – more than I expected to get, which is great! I hope everyone who participated enjoyed writing. If you didn’t catch it in time, the next contest will be taking place in October!

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Our 1st Place Winner is titled ‘Breathe‘ by Joanna Kinsley.

It’s dark… Why is it so dark? Oh, god, my head. 

My head felt fuzzy as I tried to wiggle my fingers. Both arms were tight against my sides and I could feel an odd sort of cloth under my skin. It was thick and coarse with an odd sense of familiarity, but I couldn’t place it in memory. Perhaps it was due to the unbearable throbbing in my skull or just a touch of forgetfulness, who could know? 

I rolled slightly to the left, lifting the opposite hip enough to shift my right arm up. Rolling to the right, I freed my left arm as well. But when both reached up, they were met with a ceiling before they could fully extend. The unexpected impact caused me to jam a few fingers, though, luckily, I was too shocked to feel the pain. I would have preferred the pain. For fear came in its stead. Fear upon the realization that the darkness was due to being trapped within a tight enclosure, of sorts. 

I tried to scream, but as I inhaled I found the air was sparse and the words were molded into harsh coughs before they could make their exit. I can’t breathe! My horror rose exponentially in that moment as I understood that whatever air had been trapped with me was dwindling quickly. I need to get out!

All thoughts went frantic as my fingers ran along my prison, searching for any vulnerability. With every movement I grew more terrified. This can’t be it! No, please! Why me?!

It seemed hopeless. I scratched to the point that my fingernails broke and bled, blinding me with agony. Every instinct in me begged to scream. Perhaps someone will hear me? But what if there is no one around? I’m wasting air! My head continued to pound as the conflict between rationality and desperation crashed against one another rapidly. It was as if molten steel was being poured into my skull. God, the pain! Each time I thought I was starting to calm, the tempest raged once more. 

I halted my fidgeting and planted my hands against my face. For some reason, that seemed to make me feel better. As if the world beyond my fingers—that horrible state of captivity—ceased to exist. The digits pressed against my cheeks and I focused on the familiar feel of myself, shutting out all else. For many moments, I still battled with the fear. But, eventually, it began to pass.

I tried to take a small inhale. But even that small breath was enough to remind me of the lack of air, as I began coughing again, restoring my panic. Even after bringing my hands up to cover my face it took a long while to settle back down—a fact that only irritated my already fragile state more. Reluctantly, my hands retracted. They crept down my cheeks, then to my chin, before slipping away entirely. I thought I would go into a fit again. Yet, I didn’t. It seemed so outrageous, to be ecstatic about something so trivial. But it meant I was alive, and I had a chance.

But time was running out. I needed to keep my wits about me or this darkened prison would become my tomb.

With my mind at peace—as much as could be had—I cautiously scanned my memories. They remained muddled beneath a haze, but the pain was subsiding. Scene by scene, I played my last recollections sequentially. 

I remember the tavern.

I remember the first ale.

I remember the second.

The third.

The fourth…

From there, the illusory scenes were faded almost entirely. I started to panic, realizing I may never remember how I ended up here. My fingers dug into my sides as the fear began to seep into me. No! I must remember!  I tried to alter my perspective and look at the peripherals of my memories. 

I remember the tavern, it was not my usual spot. Why did I go somewhere new? OH! I remember! I was meeting a friend. God, what was her name? Ugh! I can’t remember! Calm down, Alis. You can do this. Keep trying. 

I slid my hands back over my face.

Alright, so I was meeting a friend—whatever her name was—at a tavern I had never been to before. Then… I scoured deeper, trying to recall the events that had occurred as we drank with neither care nor caution. It wasn’t crowded, which seemed odd. Taverns were nearly bursting at the seams within the city. Perhaps… we weren’t in the city? No, we had to be. The next town is twenty leagues to the south. I remember smelling the sweetness of berries as they were roasting. None of the bakers in the north side use berries—I should know, I’m there more often than I’d care to admit… Stay focused, Alis!

A brief wave of panic washed over me as I recognized the time I was wasting, even if only a few precious moments. On instinct, I tried to take in a large breath but was met with only more rasping. My body began to ache all over and the mental clarity I had regained was faltering. 

Hurry! I scolded. Okay, so: tavern, friend, too many drinks, berries, southside. Wait, southside? Why would I ever go to the south side? Everyone knows that’s where the gutter rats and vagabonds reside. Hardly a place for someone like me. No, something must not be right. I would never go to the south side.

The fog in my mind started to drift in with each passing moment. What am I doing?! Why does it matter how I got here? I need to get out! 

I began to claw at the ceiling once more with little progress. Tears dripped down my cheeks as self-doubt and shame plagued me. I couldn’t believe I had wasted so much time just thinking instead of acting. Always the over-analyzer, Alis, never the one to take action. You’re so thick-headed.

‘Thick-headed’, I mocked. I was arguing with myself—perhaps even losing my mind! Out of spite for my own insult, I slammed my head forward into the low ceiling with rage. A part of me was hoping the blow would knock me unconscious so that I could pass without pain. Instead, in a cruel irony, the ceiling groaned as a crack appeared. 

Hah! Thick-headed indeed! The bickering between my consciousnesses seemed to finally have a use. I rubbed my forehead with a finger. It was obvious a bruise was already starting to form. But I couldn’t stop, I had to break free.

Failing to remember the lack of air, I tried to suck in breath to brace myself for the next impact. God, you’re so stupid! I snapped to myself, mentally screaming over my grating coughs. 

Just go! I bashed my head into the wall above me again. As before, the shock, thankfully, muted the pain. I reared my head back and headbutted the ceiling another three times in rapid succession. By the time the last landed, I was clutching my throat, choking on what little air remained. I knew my eyes had to be bloodshot by then but I couldn’t afford to care of such things. I struggled to raise my head.

No! I didn’t have the strength in my neck to slam into the boards any longer. I looked up to see that my bashes had widened the crack to nearly the point of breaking. With the last of the strength in my suffocated muscles, I raised my hand slowly and dug my fingertips around the edge of the crack. Desperately, I pulled. My eyes were nearly blank and I could hardly even form thoughts, but I pulled. 

Just… a bit… more…

My eyes closed and all that I could feel was the coarse board against my fingers. In that moment, I knew that my god hated me. For all the memories that had been stifled came flooding back.

I remembered the friend I met—Felice—and the southside bakery, steaming with berry-filled pastries. I saw the tavern—the Hulking Boar—and the few patrons within, eyeing us with lust from the corners of the room. My recollections returned with pure clarity—including the peripheral spectacle of the man that had followed us as we departed the tavern. The scenes were recreated perfectly, even as his dagger sliced through Felice’s throat in a single slash, leaving her in a pool of blood. I could remember the feel of the man’s hand over my mouth, holding a damp cloth that reeked of an odd smell yet had a sweet taste. 

And last was the feel of hitting the ground, seeing him smile as he stood over me.

At least I can die knowing, I suppose. But, as my life had always proven, my god’s cruelty knew no bounds. The board above me broke, bringing a surge of air and dirt into my small enclosure. I tried to shield my face but could not stop the dirt from pouring into my mouth. I gagged and tried to spit out the foul-tasting soil, but the taste clung to my tongue and I conceded to ignore it as best I could—salvation was in sight!

The hole above my chest was too small to even fit a hand through, but it was enough for air—enough for hope. 

My chest started to seize, but I paid little attention. All I saw was the light piercing through the darkness that I thought would be the last of me. I lifted my arms slowly. They were still weak but rose nonetheless. Tugging at the boards, I was met with even more dirt. I didn’t care. I didn’t consider the risk of suffocating beneath a thick layer of soil. Nothing else mattered except getting out.

As time went by, my muscles seemed to regain their function and I could pull harder. My eyes could still barely stay open, leaving only a small crack to keep sight of the light. It didn’t matter; I didn’t need to see. I only needed to pull.

That singular task blocked out all other thoughts. It washed away the horrific memories of my friend’s murder and that man’s sinister face, grinning wide. Gone were the thoughts of the past, leaving only the future. That hole, tantalizing and taunting. 

I ripped and I grabbed. I tugged and I wiggled. And little by little, the boards began to widen. I kept my eyes closed tightly as the dirt continued to pour in. Blocking out the sinking feeling of my prison growing smaller, I spent all efforts on breaking free. 

I felt one of the boards snap beneath my grip. Excitedly, I felt around to determine how wide the hole had become—still small, but large enough for an arm. I’m almost there! I thought as I pushed a limb through and waved it wildly, feeling a chill wind breeze by.

My attempts to stay calm were pointless, yet it was not fear or panic I felt, but excitement. Eager to escape and with the end in sight, I shook the boards roughly. 

Another snapped.

ALMOST! At that point, I was nearly laughing in joy. Soon, I would be free. And nothing could stop me. 

My entire body was buried beneath the soil by then. Holding my breath, I desperately tried to hurry. Both of my arms breached the surface, but still my body could not slip through.

Since the first board had cracked, everything seemed to happen so fast. I don’t know how long I must’ve been holding my breath for. I couldn’t afford to think about it. My arms worked perilously to break the last plank.

Come on, Alis… Come on!

Finally, it snapped. Yes! I did it! My hands found the sharp edges of the hole and I struggled to pull myself up. The dirt weighing me down slowly started to slip beneath me. With every passing moment I could feel myself growing lighter and rising closer to the surface. Finally, I broke free! I could feel the wind tickle my neck as I shook away most of the dirt in my ears, eyes, and nose.

That disgusting taste stayed in my mouth, but I didn’t mind. I was out. Despite shaking away the dirt, my eyes and ears were still glued with a thick layer, preventing me from hearing or seeing. First, I wiped my eyes. The layer of soil on my hands made it nearly fruitless, but eventually I could open each half-way. 

What the hell?! In every direction around me, as far as the eye could see, were gravestones. And at each plot, hands, arms, or entire persons were reaching through the dirt. Some looked nearly normal while others were decayed beyond recognition, with only bone and dried sinew holding them together. 

I tried to scream, but no words came out. As I looked down for the first time since coming into the light, I could see that I too had been withered. My skin was gray and stretched, as if left in the sun for many days. I tried to take a steadying breath but found myself coughing once more.

I-I don’t understand… I’m outside, why can’t I breathe still? With each attempt to inhale, I broke into a deep, grating cough. What is going on?! I neither speak, nor breathe. My head was still pounding like mad; none of it made any sense. 

Frustrated, I pressed my thin fingers into my ears to scrape out the dirt. As I pulled each clump out, sound filled my ears once more. Singing? 

I looked around for the source. Scanning every direction, I could finally pinpoint the origin. My eyes narrowed to try to focus and I could see a cloaked figure in the distance. He waved his arms, gripping a large staff adorned with a dozen skulls, and a dim, green light whisked around him. No, chanting, I realized. The figure stepped to each gravestone, one by one, and the light disappeared beneath the ground before springing back to the surface and moving on to the next in line.

With unmistakable command, a voice in my head resounded as I looked upon the cloaked figure. It repeated itself a thousand times in varying degree: Master.

(End)

---

Next, we have the 2nd Place Winner! This piece is called ‘Brightsteel‘ by Tyamo Okosun!

King Beric Nugard sat in the too-comfortable chair behind his oak wood desk, wishing his guards hadn’t allowed the messenger to enter his study. It had been a good morning otherwise—might have continued to be a good morning, had Beric been allowed to forget his mistake.

“After the expedition failed to make their scheduled rendezvous,” the messenger said, rambling on in his thin, reedy voice as he’d been for the past minute or two, “the border scouts went ranging in the hopes of making contact. They were unsuccessful.”

Beric finally cut him off. “Get to the point, man.”

“The expedition is more than a fortnight overdue.” The messenger paused, looking like he’d rather not continue at all. “Sire, with no word, it must be said… your son is missing.”

There it was. The fear that had been lurking in his dreams for days now. My son is missing.

He realized after a few moments that he’d been sitting there and staring blankly at nothing in particular for some time, and the messenger was still standing by the doorway, watching him.

“Out. Now,” Beric said with only the briefest glance at the man.

“As you say, my liege.” There was a shuffling of feet and the soft thud of the study door closing as the messenger departed.

Beric took a single, slow breath. Then his clenched fist slammed into the table, seemingly of its own accord. He’d pushed away the concern when the date of the expedition’s first expected missive came and went, pushed away the doubts he’d had upon giving Nezar his blessing to join the expedition in the first place. His son was well trained, he’d told himself. No longer a boy, Nezar could handle what came. The platitudes rang hollow now. Empty words to assuage a guilty conscience. Even Beric’s wife, Siena—aloof as she often was—had put voice to her worry. And he’d told her she was being emotional.

Eternal, preserve me, he thought. My son is missing.

Despair threatened to consume Beric, that clawing, clutching terror in his gut, scrabbling at his insides, searching for a way out. He sought strength in the sight of the glass case sitting atop a marble pedestal across his study. Inside was an unfurled scroll, a thin silk ribbon hanging from the curling half-roll of parchment at the bottom. The Commandments of the Eternal, transcribed by holy hands, directly from the original ancient tablet. He took a deep breath, calming himself. He was not alone. The Eternal had never abandoned him before.

Nezar is alive, Beric thought, the words hardening in his mind. He gripped them tightly, as if his reality depended upon their truth. Help he may need, but he remains alive.

He stood and strode from the room, ignoring the mid-morning bustle of servants in the palace. Leaving the privacy of his living wing, he made his way first towards and then through the cavernous public central hall. Queues sometimes blocked him, but never for long. A path would open almost immediately as his subjects deferred to their ruler. He barely noticed.

His footsteps echoed against the marble floors as he headed for the west tower and climbed the stairs leading to General Juno’s office. As he labored, he found himself cursing whomever decided it was a good idea to place the office of the head of military operations atop a ten-floor spiral staircase. Of course, his irritation only grew upon recalling that it had in fact been his decision. He finally arrived, winded and red-faced, only to be greeted by a locked door. He knocked, banging his fist against the wood a good deal harder than was likely necessary.

“Juno! Are you in there?”

The door swung open from the inside to reveal the commander of Beric’s armies, and one of his closest friends, General Lasan Juno. He was a short man, with a brawler’s stature and a clean-shaven face which displayed the scars of many battles, including a distinctive, particularly intimidating one that stretched from his cheek down the side of his neck. The room behind him was spartan, containing a simple desk, several document-covered tables, and a modest ash-filled fireplace.

“I didn’t realize the door was locked,” Juno said. He stood aside, ushered the king into the room, then shut the door behind him. “I heard the news about Nezar.”

It was a familiar greeting, perhaps, but if there was one person who Beric would allow such a lapse, it was Juno. “Then you already know why I’ve come. They must be found. He must be found.”

“I began making arrangements as soon as I heard. Fifty of my finest will be riding west by week’s end.”

“And I will be riding with them.”

Juno seemed taken aback. And why would he not be? The king, riding off to go search for his missing—his only—heir. A recipe for disaster is what that was. But Beric had no other choice. What else could he do?

 “My liege,” Juno began, his tone far more careful now, “I doubt that is entirely necessary. My riders are capable men. They will find your son and return him to us safely. I would stake my life on it.”

“I would not question their competence,” Beric said, waving a hand dismissively. “That is not the point. I simply cannot entrust this to anyone else.”

There was a long pause before Juno spoke again. “Have you thought this through? It is wise to go yourself, to leave your people when they may need you most?”

“Enough, Juno. Now is not the time,” Beric snapped. He paused for a moment, calming himself. Juno was merely being protective, as it was indeed his duty. “I need to do this. Do you understand? This is my son.”

Juno met Beric’s gaze, continued to stare long after anyone else would have averted their eyes. “I understand. But if this is your intention, we must take precautions. Time is limited, or I would send an entire regiment with you, and I would hear no argument. As it is, I will be giving orders for my men to ensure your safety at any cost, even if that means going against your wishes.”

Beric stared back in silence for a few seconds, then nodded.

“Members of your honor guard will need to accompany you as well.”

Beric snorted. “Come now. You and I both know the honor guard mostly comprises nothing more than spoiled sons of spoiled sons. The armories can lay as much gold leaf on their guns as they like, it will make them shoot no truer than a standard-issue musket. Your troops would be forced to spend more time protecting them than me.”

A grin spread across the general’s face. “Be that as it may, I must insist. If not for your own sake, then for mine. I would rather not answer to your lords when they come calling after their sons have been left idle. You’ll take at least a token force. It will save us both a great deal of trouble in the long run.”

“Very well. Do your best to find some that won’t slow the pace,” Beric said, conceding the point and deciding to change tack. “How soon can you have the search party assembled?”

“I can have the men prepared to leave by the day after tomorrow.”

“Two days? Can we not leave sooner?”

The general leaned against the table. “Perhaps midday tomorrow could be managed, but it would be a rush.”

“Then it will be a rush. Make haste, Juno. This is urgent beyond anything else. I will expect your men to assemble in the courtyard.”

General Juno clasped his hand to his breast in a taut salute. “Very well. It will be done.” Then he reached out and put a hand on Beric’s shoulder. “Find him, Beric. And bring him home.”

Beric nodded, then turned and left Juno’s office, his mind already racing as he started back down the stairs. He needed to talk to Siena. She would have to serve as regent while he was away. Then there was the matter of his obligations over the next few months. Appearances and meetings would need to be rescheduled, ceremonies cancelled, hearings postponed. But his responsibilities paled in comparison to the thought that kept running through his mind. My son is missing.

The expeditionary force was Beric’s greatest achievement—the first steps out from beneath his father’s shadow. A great campaign to seek out remnants of the Old World and the Eternal’s grace. Beric had led the first of the expeditions himself. The day Nezar announced his intent to join the seventh expedition, Beric could not have been prouder. Now, his pride had turned to ash and only guilt remained.

I was a fool to let him go.

Beric emerged from the palace hall late the following morning into the din of a crowd in the grand courtyard. Word of his departure had spread, and like clockwork, the well-wishers had come. The smell of lilac and honeysuckle filled the air, spreading from the carefully maintained gardens on the periphery of the square. The sounds of conversation died out as he strode into view, and a hush fell over the crowd. Beric rested his hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip, drawing assurance from the holy relic.

Riders stood at attention in the center of the courtyard next to their horses, resplendent in the embroidered uniforms of the Cartulian military and the king’s honor guard. Beric recognized some, good men from good families. He approached the clearing and mounted his horse, a fine black stallion with an immaculate coat and a mane that shimmered in the sunlight. It snorted and shook its head as he nudged the stirrups, turning toward his soldiers.

He looked out over their earnest, expectant faces and stopped short. They’re so young, he thought. Just like Nezar.

He took a deep breath and gripped the hilt of his sword tighter as he fought through a wave of anxiety, refusing to allow his veneer to falter. It would not do for his people to see him distraught. He scanned the crowd with a hard gaze. He needed to be strong.

“Men!” Beric called out to the assembled riders. “You have been chosen to accompany me on a mission of the greatest importance. The Seventh Consecrated Expedition is overdue for their return. Eternal willing, this means they have discovered something wondrous. We set out today for uncharted lands to lend aid to our valiant explorers, that their sacred work may continue. We may face hardships on the way, but we will do so gladly, with strength of will and courage of heart. And when I look upon all of you, see your faces, I am proud. For I know that you do this not for yourselves, nor for your king, nor even for your country. You ride for the glory of the Eternal!”

The crowd burst into cheers as Beric finished, and he couldn’t help but share their smiles. His people believed in him. Just as they believed in his father. Just as they would believe in his son. He nudged his horse towards the road, leading his men toward the palace gate. He wondered if this was how it had felt to be a part of the holy crusades, travelling west to unify warring tribes and spread the Commandments of the Eternal. His goals were more selfish, to be sure, but he would pray to the Eternal each night all the same.

After two days of riding, Beric led his men on a short detour to the Brightsteel Cathedral, the heart of the Eternal’s grace. It stood in the midst of a quiet meadow, surrounded by carefully tended groves of trees and newly constructed housing and gardens. It was hard to imagine that this place too had once been a ruin. Marble columns and arches marked the entryways, and towers and walls that had once laid in disrepair were once again standing tall. It was still clearly a relic of the Old World—at once beautiful and poignant—but the damage time had wrought upon the structure had largely been repaired.

As the riders took their midday rest, Beric used the opportunity to visit the holy chamber at the cathedral’s center. He wished he could have done so alone, but he could not ask the other worshippers to clear the hall merely to cater to his own whims. Their eyes followed him as he approached the ring of small brightsteel disks set into the floor. Shining brightly in the sunlight that poured in through the windows, the holy metal—the Eternal’s gift to humanity—seemed to shift and roil as if it were still liquid, yet its surface remained stationary as solid glass. Kneeling, Beric drew his blade from its scabbard and laid it before him, atop one of the circles of holy metal. The sword’s gold-plated hilt was exquisite, but it was outshone by the brightsteel core that stretched up the center of the blade. Remembering when his father had passed the sword down to him, a small smile touched Beric’s lips.

“This relic is your birthright,” his father had told him. “the marker of kings stretching back for generations. It was my father’s, and his father’s before him. It was a gift, crafted by the most devout of the ancients from the very essence of the Eternal, and it was bestowed as a reminder of our unwavering devotion to the light. Wear it proudly, and through it, the Eternal will give you strength in even the darkest of times.”

Beric’s smile faded. This blade was the legacy of kings. A legacy that had been left to him to protect—to safeguard until he one day passed it on to his own son. That day had always felt distant, but now he was beginning to worry that it might never come.

You have to come home, Nezar, Beric thought, gripping the blade tighter as he willed himself toward oneness with the Eternal.He prayed each night, but here there was something more earnest to it all. This hall was a gateway to divine power. It had stood untouched by the ravages of time, even as the rest of the temple crumbled around it. It was here, in this holy place, that Beric’s father had presided over the prayers that ended the great drought. It was here that Beric’s ancestor Prophet-King Ilsan Nugard had been gifted visions of a unified Cartulia. Here, the Eternal would listen.

Eternal, I cannot lose him. He is all I have left. I beg you to bestow your blessings upon us as we search for those who have pledged themselves to your service. Guide us so we might find them quickly, and guard them from danger so they might find their way home. Help us to help ourselves when we can, and protect us when we cannot.

They set out across the Heartland the following day. Their path was clear, and they made excellent time, taking little more than a week to reach the Marron Forest, border of the untamed. The Heartland roads had been dotted with towns and travelled by friendly faces, but the farther west they rode, the more alone they grew. By day, they rode under the canopy along an old half-overgrown road. All around them, the world was alive. Leaves rustled as the wind blew from the south, birds sang in their varied tongues, and bramble crunched under their horses’ hooves. The air was filled with the earthy scents of forest underbrush. It might have been pleasant under different circumstances. Instead, Beric drove the party forward, fixed only on the miles they could cover in a day without wearing down their mounts.

At night, he stayed in his tent, occupying himself by cleaning his musket, studying his few crude maps of ruins in the wild lands, or attending to whatever other menial tasks he could find to divert his attention. He slept fitfully, often waking from disquieting dreams, only to lay on his back for hours and worry. He could tell that his men were watching him as the days dragged on. He couldn’t blame them—anxiety had begun to wear on his confidence. Some appeared concerned for his well-being, while others sat in silent judgement. But despite what any of them may have been thinking, they said nothing, a fact for which Beric was grateful.

It took another nine days before they reached the West Gate. The road had disappeared some time ago, and the only sign that they were on the right track had been a wide path of cleared brush which had begun to regrow since the expedition’s passing. The gate itself was a crumbling mess of hewn marble in the rough shape of an arch, with overgrown stone walls that disappeared into the forest in either direction. Rich, green moss had grown over the fallen sections. As it was with most remnants of the Old World, nature had begun to reclaim what was taken from her.

Beyond, the forest thinned away and was replaced by a bed of long, wispy grass, waving in the gentle summer breeze. The lonely trees that dotted the landscape in the distance were like islands of leaves in the midst of the otherwise monotonous grassy sea. The Julian Mountain Range was visible in the distance, its snowcapped peaks stretched upwards into the clouds, as if the earth itself longed to touch the sky.

One of the scouts the party had sent ahead was waiting for them near the gate. “My liege, we have a trail.”

“The expedition?” Beric asked.

“Likely, your highness.”

“That is excellent news. Lead us.”

Beric found his spirits rising as they followed what appeared to indeed be the expedition’s trail. Worry still crept into his mind every so often, but the work of tracking gave him something into which he could channel his nervous energy. To his men’s surprise—and his own—Beric joined them around the fire when the party made camp later that evening. He found himself smiling as he listened to colorful stories, only watered down a little due to his presence. When he fell asleep that night, it was with hope in his heart. His son was close. He could feel it.

The party tracked the expedition’s path through uncharted territory, toward the mountains. Grassy plains transitioned into rolling foothills, and by dawn on the sixth day, the mountain slopes had gone from white smears in the distance to a wall that marked the edge of the world, looming high above them. Their snow-covered peaks seemed tauntingly cool as the sun beat down on Beric’s back. Fortunately, the trail became easier to follow with each hour, winding back and forth along rises that offered stunning views of the surrounding terrain.

Shortly after midday, the search party arrived at a campsite near the mouth of a pass that wound into the heart of the mountain range. Clustered around the remains of several weeks-old campfires, they found the expedition’s cargo wagons and a number of half-pitched tents which looked like animals had rooted through them. Nezar and the expedition had been here, but not recently. The trail continued on, however, winding into the pass.

Beric turned to his soldiers as he finished surveying the area. “They are close now. They must be. I ask all of you for your courage, for the will to press on. It is through us the Eternal’s will is done.”

One of the king’s honor guard, a lanky man that Beric didn’t recognize, stepped forward. He brought his fist to his chest in a salute. “You have it, my liege. We follow—no matter what comes. In the name of the Eternal.”

A chorus of assent followed from the rest of the men, and Beric smiled, pride swelling in his chest. Juno had chosen well. “Onward, then,” he said, then turned his horse and snapped the reins, leading his men into the pass.

Carpets of green shrubs and pine forests ran along the mountainsides, dipping down to cover the valley floor in areas. They were forced to circumnavigate the remains of an old rockfall and cross a number of streams that crossed their path, but apart from these, the terrain remained relatively clear as they pressed on. The crisp air smelled of pine sap and carried sporadic hints of briskness from higher up in the mountains. And then there was something else floating through the air. A sound, one that was not a natural part of this place. Bringing the party to a halt with a wave of his hand, Beric paused to listen. It was as clear as it was unexpected—the ringing of hammers on metal.

Beric’s heart leapt into his throat, and he spurred his horse into a gallop. The noise grew in volume as he rode, until it came to a crescendo as he approached a long, shallow rise. As Beric slowed his horse, he noted that the ringing had been joined by other noises. Occasional shouting voices. The rush of pouring liquid. The hiss of steam. He drew up to the crest of the rise, hoping to find the expedition on the other side and at the same time, readying himself for disappointment. And then he froze.

His fingers went numb and his heart raced as he stared. The ground fell away before him and at the bottom of the ridge lay a sight that could only be described as miraculous. From a gash in the mountainside poured a steady flow of liquid brightsteel, shimmering in the midday sun.

“Eternal, preserve us,” Beric whispered.

He was so taken by the sheer beauty of it that it took several moments before he made his next revelation. Monsters walked amongst buildings near the base of the falls. They walked on two legs and had two arms, but that was where the similarities ended. They were tall—too tall—with bronze skin covered in elaborate brown patterns, divided up by regions of scale-like natural armor embedded within. Strange, horn-like plates grew from their foreheads and cheekbones, following the curves of their skulls and fitting together to form a sleek mask of natural armor.  Hair of various colors grew atop their scalps emerging from below the plates. They were long-limbed and well-muscled, and their disturbing features gave them faces that were at once both inhuman and familiar. Even their eyes could have been taken from the tales of purgatory, pupils like rounded crosses set into irises of orange, silver, and gold.

But worse than any revulsion at their appearance was the bile that rose in Beric’s throat as he realized what they were doing. This was a foundry, and these things were working the brightsteel like iron—hammering and casting, carving and pouring, defiling the very essence of the Eternal’s gift with their touch.

Beric’s rage was immediate. Savages! How dare they! He fumed, his gaze sweeping over the sacrilege, even as his men joined him at the cliff’s edge. And then, having taken in the foundry, Beric’s gaze fell upon a defensive palisade. A wall manned by the monsters. A wall from which hung decomposing human corpses. Beric recognized the clothing on the one at the center.

No…

Nezar Nugard hung by his neck, rotting in the sun, flesh falling from his torso, his own sword thrust through his ribs. Beric’s breaths came in shallow spurts as anguish consumed him. Pain burned like fire through his veins, driving reason from his mind until all he had left was rage. A curtain of red descended over his vision.

They did this, he thought, looking toward the monsters. They killed my son.

He drew his musket from its holster on his saddle and charged down the rise, kicking up a plume of dust in his wake. Behind him, he heard shouts from his men, followed quickly by the reports of gunfire as they unloaded upon the foundry. Many of the monsters near the gate in their wall were struck dead, taken by surprise. By the time Beric had passed through, far fewer of the creatures remained standing. The ground was littered with their bodies. Beric could hear the thundering of hooves as the gunfire stopped—his men rushing to his side—but their cries for him to wait didn’t register. All Beric could see were the monsters. The things that took his son.

Many that were still standing held long, curved blades, and they moved to attack Beric. But the barbarians had no firearms. And they stood no chance. His musket snapped up as he took aim, sighting down the barrel. The bullet lanced through one of the creatures, and it died instantly, toppling backwards into a trough of liquid brightsteel. The sickening smell of burning flesh filled the air as Beric tossed his empty musket aside, then drew and fired each of his pistols in succession. Four more were lying dead on the ground before Beric drew his sword. Monsters they appeared, but they died like any man.

They were fleeing now, terrified of this new attacker in their midst. Good. They should be afraid. He breathed in the acrid smell of gun smoke as he spurred his horse onward and gave chase. He gave in to the rage and pain, cutting them down one after another as they ran, carving through their grotesque bodies with his ancestral sword. The sword that was now a reminder of what he had lost, of the end of his bloodline. As the monsters ran, both he and his blade tasted their blood for the first time.

It tasted like vengeance.

Beric screamed.

(END)

---

Alright, so those are the two winners for this quarter’s contest! If you submitted and did not place, this does not mean your work is bad in any way. It’s just that I felt more interested in the ones above. There is always the next contest to try again!

Thank you, Joanna Kinsley, Tyamo Okosun, and everyone else for taking the time to submit an entry for the contest. I hope you all enjoyed writing!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: None this week!

High above, the dragon spread an opaque, impenetrable smog in its wake. It twisted and turned in its path, weaving a web of shadows that blanketed the sun. With each pass, the smothered light disappeared beneath the abyss, until there was naught but unending blackness shrouding the city.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: Don’t use the word ‘Impossible’.

Koda turned toward Silas with concern. “We’re surrounded. If we can break through, the woods will provide enough cover to escape. Are you ready?”

Silas looked down at his ankle, bone splintered through his skin, then back to his friend. “Yes,” he replied, before plunging his sword into his chest.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: This week is a double-whammy. There are two concepts in the prompt and you must include both. To fit this in, we’re upping the word limit to 100!

Had his god abandoned him? Or was there ever a deity at all, he wondered? It seemed so trivial in that moment, for he was naught but a pebble in the eyes of the world. 

If his omnipotent idol was real, did it even truly care for him? Or was he no more than a blade of grass in a sea of green? As Bitrayuul’s eyes closed, he expected to witness the vision of his god, guiding him to the Mines—where his father waited for him. 

But there was only an unending void, and he faded alone. 

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: This week, try to make it HORROR.

It’s coming . . . I can feel it. 

The floorboards groaned beneath its heft, nearly masking the blood dripping from the beast’s maw. I could still hear my friend’s whimpers of agony as he was dragged along the floor like a wet cloth. 

Oh, gods, no . . . It’s here!

I could only wait.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Greetings! I’ll be hosting a contest for Fantasy-themed Short Stories with PRIZES available to the 1st and 2nd place submissions. The details are below:

Submission Deadline: July 31st, 2019 (11:59 p.m. EST)
Winner Announcements: August 15th, 2019

1st Place will be awarded a $100 Amazon Gift Card!
2nd Place will be awarded a $25 Amazon Gift Card

Submissions will be able to follow any Fantasy sub-genre. There are no required plot points – the goal is to bring writers together, have fun, and win some prizes!

Content Guidelines:
– Must be Fantasy (any sub-genre is acceptable)
– Must be under 5,000 words
– It can be in any Fantasy world [Note: MUST be your own to avoid copyright infringement!]
– There is no Maturity restriction – anything goes!
– Only one submission per person

A contest will be held every 3 months, so if you did not win keep an eye out for the next contest!

Please send all submissions to bernard@bernardbertram.com. The submission must include one of the following:
– A .doc file attachment
– A .pdf file attachment
– A Google Docs link (be sure that View/Edit access is included)

The winners will be announced on August 15th via this Blog. Please be sure to use an e-mail address that you check, as Prizes will be delivered electronically.

And, most of all, GOOD LUCK AND HAVE FUN!

Disclosure Details: 
All work that you submit is your own. It will not be copied, claimed, or distributed in any way except in the case of the 1st and 2nd place works. Both winners will have their submissions shared via this website, my Facebook, Goodreads (due to an automated RSS Blog feed from my website), and – dependent on permission – the /r/fantasywriters subreddit community. To restate, this sharing of work will only apply to the winners of the contest. 
I reserve the right to review and rate all submitted works based on personal opinion. There are only two winners chosen out of all submissions. If your work did not result in the top two positions, do not take this to mean your piece was bad, just that I considered others better. You are always welcome to submit to future contests at any time for more chances to win prizes. 
Prizes will be delivered electronically via e-mail.

Follow along each week for a 50–100-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: Double the fun – 100 word limit!

Tormag slammed the iron mug onto the table next to eight similarly drained flagons. “Another!” he shouted, wiping the froth from his thick mustache as he eyed his opponent who seemed ready to topple over.

As his ninth order of mead slid into the commander’s hand, the dwarf across from him fell to the floor with a crash. Despite the boisterous cheers erupting in his favor, Tormag remained silent as he poured the contents of the mug down his throat, silencing the confused patrons. 

Burping loudly, Tormag tossed the mug aside and slowly turned toward the barkeep. “Another.”

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Brutigarr pushed through the crude iron door and followed the steps downward into his dungeon. With each step, he could feel the air grow colder. As he stood at the end of the row of cells, he gazed at the shivering, naked prisoners, their lips blue from the chill.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: This one is about something that happened today. It’s a long story but, simplified, ignorant people can’t be reasoned with.

“Are ye dense?” Tormag grumbled. With a scoff, the dwarf stomped away in disbelief that he had just paid thirty-five gold pieces for a hunk of trash. “Son of an incestuous gnome . . .”

“Nice try, thief!” the inept merchant called to his back, lying to attempt to save face. “Nice try!”

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Fangdarr stared wide-eyed at his surroundings, nought but death expanding to every corner of the room. Beneath him was a resilient and horrifying throne, constructed from the bodies of his friends.

Met with the lifeless gaze of their impaled heads, the orc’s eyes clamped shut. Upon opening, all had faded.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: It’s been a while, if ever, that I’ve used Elethain as the subject for one of these Prompts. So, he’s today’s victim.

Cursing the tediousness of his task, Elethain pushed his way through the dense brush with a sneer as his once pristine robes collected another stain. As he stepped through the shrubbery, his eyes narrowed. “Finally, almost there,” he muttered before stepping past the foul corpses of a group of ogres.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: Let’s go for something foreboding.

It is done.
Your friends are dead. Your body is broken.
Those who remain turn in terror as reality is discovered.
It was always fated so.
There was never a chance. Yet you struggled. You resisted.
Why?
Failure was inevitable. My will, indomitable. Yet you stayed.
Was death your wish?

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: Not really a special rule, per se. This week is about using a hot topic in today’s world.

“Zaladim told you to leave Riveton, Gertrude,” the large, rugged thug whispered maliciously as he eyed the woman’s cart of wares.

Every instinct in Gerty screamed for her to run. But she had worked too hard to get here. Her brow furrowed in anger. “No man will drive me out.”

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: This one is much longer. Sorry for not keeping it under 50 words, just couldn’t stop.

“Please, my dear. I need a place to stay.”

The innkeeper eyed him with suspicion. Even the beggar’s low hood could do nothing to hide the angled jawline. She hadn’t seen an elf in years and could not deny her curiosity was piqued. He seemed ragged and in need, to say the least. “Fine,” the woman conceded, “one night.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” The elf stepped through the door on light feet to show his gratitude. His smile was as infectious as his face beautiful. As he threw his arms around the innkeeper, she couldn’t help but blush from the embrace.

With his arms around her, the woman felt glad that she did not turn the elf away. Long had it been since another had held her so, she realized. No romantics were necessary, just the warmth of another pressed against oneself. She felt herself melt as he continued to whisper his gratitude in her ear, soft with earnest.

She looked up at him, those gorgeous eyes gazing back. Only the once tender expression had turned to the sinister grin of wickedness. Pure thrill evident by the creases of the elf’s eyes as his true intentions became apparent. It was not until he had witnessed her face shift from comfort to fear that he finally pressed his blade into her spine.

The pain was so overwhelming and fierce that she could not even scream. The woman could only stand helplessly in his murderous grasp, paralyzed. Yet her eyes remained unaffected. She watched as the elf relished in her anguish. His huddled and seemingly decrepit form stretched upward in ecstasy.

“Thank you,” Chakal whispered in the same gracious voice he had emulated previously to earn her trust. He wiped the tears from her eyes with a long finger and shivered with excitement as his victim seemed to grow even more terrified at his bare contact. Nothing pleased the assassin more. He removed his dagger from her back and let her limp form crash to the floor. Smiling at her once more, Chakal wiped the blood from his blade on her cheek. “Thank you,” he repeated before leaving the inn.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! 

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Special Rule: This week, I had a strong urge to write about Chakal. I’ll be doing two posts, but neither will be limited to 50-words. Sometimes you just have to write until it’s done.

“Chakal is . . .,” Elethain began, struggling to form words he deemed adequate. He sighed. “Everyone has a scale. Some sort of voice within. Not him. There is only black. We elves believe our souls to be eternal. Some believe we become trees when we die. There is little I fear in life, but I fear Chakal’s tree, should it ever come.”

Bitrayuul scoffed. “You fear a tree?”

The necromancer did not appreciate the amusement. “Yes, half-breed. I fear that even just one poisoned, blackened tree can mute the beauty of a forest.”

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Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

The king stared at the groveling peasant with unwavering disapproval. As the royal executioner padded closer, whetstone gliding across his blade, the whimpering peon’s pleas only grew louder. When the blade came crashing down, silence came with it. Even the king’s gathered nobles were stunned.

And yet the harlequin danced.

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!

Follow along each week for a 50-word Fantasy writing prompt and comment your own responses!

Chakal stepped back to inspect his work, a wide grin spread across his cheeks. “Ah,” he began, filled with satisfaction as he ran his finger down the eviscerated torso of his victim before flicking the blood into the pool beneath his feet. “Now that is art!”

Want to take part? Leave a Comment with your own response to the Writing Prompt below! Remember: Keep it under 50 words!