It was a simple task, delivering a basket of apples to the Spanish militia. The one duty a woman could perform in Zaragoza. But hidden in her basket, Agustina transported divine Aragon apples, sourced from the local orchard believed to be blessed by saints, that offered
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I’m Frank Pepitone, from the Preternatural Hero Force, Accountability department. Everyone that works for us has superpowers of some kind, but not everyone who has superpowers works for us. The higher ups consider this an inconvenient truth. I consider it about twenty thousand
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When the inspector arrived, the body lay in Pasaje Rivarola, wedged between a municipal bio-recycler and a wall that had been generating targeted ads since 2241. Even dead, Mirta Szulman was receiving offers on refinanced neural debt.
Inspector Dante Foglino crouched over her and lit a cigarette.
He paced outside the wrought-iron fence, eyeing the bright-red brick Victorian mansion as if a monster lurked within. His first time back since…
And his first time seeing her again in many years.
A plaque by the open gate read The Big House: Home for
Ivy’s position afforded her a bird’s-eye view of the most popular path to the Metro Silver Line. It was frequented by visitors to Washington, D.C. as well as commuters from the bedroom community of Reston.
People with shiny objects begging to be reclaimed.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” A familiar voice drifted upward.
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When you’re five, your imaginary friend means the world to you. When you’re thirty-five, you wondered why they were trying to kill your spouse.
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The Whirlpool of Destiny. The ancient scrolls promised that I, Prince Quenton, would find freedom in its magical depths. Instead, as soon as I touched the water’s surface, I emerged through a flash of green light in a room smaller than a servant’s bedchamber.
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I am a prisoner. My cage is larger than my body, but not large enough for me to spread my wings. It is an indescribable pain that I cannot set myself free into the skies of Endar-hain.
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“Perfect weather, Benji,” drawled Mac.
The forest was cold, it was damp, and it was getting dark. “How so?” I said.
“Snow on its way. That’ll cover the grave.”
Mac, carrying the head end of the shrouded corpse, peered into the gathering gloom…
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Announcing the winners of the “Encore: World Tour” September 2026 flash fiction contest!
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Arthur, King of the Britons, lay dying in Merlin’s arms.
The boat creaked around them, its gentle movements a stark contrast to the hellish Camlann battlefield. Arthur’s torso bled profusely, staining his tunic through the hasty bandages Merlin had applied. Mordred’s blade pierced too deep. Even with all his power, Merlin could only
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“No way. You’re crazy,” Morse scoffed.
“It’s the truth!” O’Connor’s nasally voice insisted over the Bluetooth connection. “Don’t you think I checked? Are you that arrogant?”
Morse scowled at the grimy storefront. “And how did it end up in a pawn shop in a backwater town like this?”
“Same way anything else ends up in a pawn shop.
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