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.
What’s a vampire to do when he falls head-over-heels for a girl from a garlic farm?
Brace himself to attend a home-cooked Italian dinner at her family’s, of course.
“We’ve got five minutes. Are you sure you want to go through with this, Vlad?” Sarah’s fingers tap the steering wheel in time with the car’s left blinker.
I wake, head pounding and hands bound behind my back, both surprised and angry to recognize the room. Metallic walls, striped with black and red, are so shiny I can see my reflection, and the exit door boasts a dagger-and-skull insignia. The interrogation room.
Not him. Anyone but him.
The last thing I remember is leaving the Lotus Bar,
It was a blustery day in October of 1880 when Sherlock Holmes was summoned to a student tenement near the University of London. The telegram requested my presence as well, which was unusual. I went willingly since I had no other appointments that morning.
Lestrade met us outside in the street, visibly shaken and white as a sheet.
I’d always been an oddity with my ivory skin, ebony hair, and blood-red lips, but when my father chose a vampyyri—a female descant of the vampires—as his second wife, my appearance became a curse. I wasn’t of the bloodsuckers, but to the outsiders who only knew them through scary tales, I looked like it.
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Emirate of Transjordan
November 1941
The Underground Cathedral was cool and damp, a relief after the long drive through the desert. Julien Arnault wiped sweat from his brown curls with a dirty sleeve. He held a flickering torch in his left hand
I’ve always been a people person. But back on July 4, 1976, I became a “We the people” person. The entire country, but especially Philadelphia, had been filled with Bicentennial fever for months, and it reached its peak that day.
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