Years had passed since he first entered this trance, and now all he could remember was the battles. They were all that was left to him, all he knew. One by one, the lords of this realm had come here to challenge him, and, one by one, they had died by his hand. So many men. So many faces.
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They sit us down on plain wooden chairs and tie our hands behind our backs. Thick rope cuts into my ankles as they fasten them to the legs of the chair. I look around. A wooden cabin in the middle of nowhere. Basic furniture. An old sofa that has seen better days. Dust everywhere.
“Tell me again, Taylenel,” Clarrisa whispered in her lover’s ear. “How deep is your love for me?”
“Lady Adir, Department of Safety and Health,” she said. “My father is the Duke.” She glanced back at the sloping, stony path. “It’s a long climb up here.”
If Fume hadn’t burnt off his eyebrows long ago, he would have raised one now. “I do live on a mountain.”
Her husband was sleeping–sleeping, but not snoring. She watched the steady rise and fall of his narrow chest, waiting. Something gnawed away in the back of her mind, like a weasel pulling on the tail of a half-dead gecko. She didn’t want to wake him, but she could wait no longer.
Silver Blade is proud to present five excellent poets for your continued enjoyment of cutting edge speculative poetry: F.J. Bergmann, Bruce Boston (Featured Poet), William Doreski, James Hutchings, and Clyde Kessler.
“To my sister, gentlemen. My sister, who could spin gold from straw!”
I am pleased to treat you with some of the best speculative poetry in the world.
His words were scalding yet his voice was a tepid. “There is no similarity. There is no studied. There is no paranormal.”
Fire burned in stabs of light, quickly spreading over the wizard’s hands, growing in heat and radiance until he understood the demon had escaped.