We have pried open the jaws of our submissions portal once again and it’s hungry for more of your fantastic stories! If you’ve got a fantasy short story you’d like us to read, please take a look at our guidelines then visit our submissions portal to submit. We accept both original fiction and reprints under 6,000 words.
We’re looking forward to reading your work. Happy Submitting!
Best,
Graeme Dunlop and Jen R. Albert, PodCastle Co-Editors
and the editorial team
Rated PG
Being near Ingrid was the only good thing about living in a God-neglected frozen wasteland. Her face was round as the moon—a soft, pleasant face that suggested her cooking encouraged second helpings. Her face didn’t lie: light rye breads, sweet poached fruit, elk and wild onion stew that made my beard grow. Well, the bit of a beard I had. Ingrid always laughed and teased when she caught me finger-combing the handful of hairs sticking from my face. Her laugh—that was pure silver. For too long, she’d slaved away under Arbiter Elof’s guardianship. The day I signed a contract with Elof and became Ingrid’s betrothed was the happiest day of my life.
The next day was the worst.
Rated R for violence and hearts suddenly appearing where they shouldn’t be.
Friday was the last good day. On Saturday the hunters came and by Tuesday Mira was gone, swallowed in the maw of the crowd fleeing Chandipur.
Mira my older sister, the normal one. I look up at the stars glittering in the sky and pray that she is safe.
Why did they come? Chandipur is as far as it gets from the heart of the New World. Perhaps the capital wants to stamp out the border communities, make sure that the taint of the old blood never spreads. The taint I’ve lived with all my life.
Rated PG-13
After my attempt to escape the circus fleet fails, the clowns imprison me in the hold of the asylum ship, along with the other performers who believe they aren’t real.
My legs are shackled, and I sit next to a slug juggler and a fortune caller. The slug juggler’s hands move in an unceasing blur as he keeps half a dozen painted sea slugs spinning in a swirl of impossible reds and midnight sea blues.
Rated PG-13
It was the last caravan of the giant season. Though the United Company had already started to build the railroad toward the End of the World, the path of iron and wood reached only as far as Halvington. Unlike the other drivers, I realized that the era of salt wagons was coming to an end.