Author: James Callan

Short Fiction Sword and Sorcery

Once is Never Enough

Aisling held what remained of Blightheart by his horn, throwing the goblin magelord’s head at the boots of her liege lord, Árdghal, who had commanded his fighters to cleanse his lands of the vile bastard’s black magic. “You have done well, Aisling.” He leaned forward in his throne, examining the grotesque grimace gazing upward from the straw and cobbles. Aisling did not kneel. She did not bow her head. Tough as leather, she crossed her sinewy arms and smirked. She met her liege lord’s eyes as if she were his equal, as if she were his better. “The deed is…

Dark Fantasy Editor's Pick Short Fiction

Sky Over Mountain

Under the mountain, known to the trolls who lived in her caverns as Cairn, winter was held at bay. In the cavernous network worming through Cairn’s rocky heart, the temperature remained constant, no matter the season. For trolls, with hides as thick as an ox’s, the near-freezing atmosphere was favorable to their hardy constitution. Not unlike the caves within Cairn, Hakon, the clan’s chieftain, was neither warm nor cold. He was stern, but fair, and his mood, like the innards of the mountain, seemed held at a constant. Such was his stoicism when he approached Noma, an elderly troll who…

Absurdist Fantasy Short Fiction

The Value of Horns

When it comes to trolls, horns are paramount to one’s identity. More than a badge of status, they transcend mere ornamentation. For trolls, size matters—the bigger the better—especially when it comes to their horns. Although, the shape, curve, twist, and hue are no less important than the length and girth. Troll horns are versatile, multifaceted in their purpose. They are used for combat, for attracting mates, for intimidation and glamour. Horns are at the center of troll fashion and, in some tribes, even of great spiritual significance. For trolls, be they of the cave or forest or mountain clans, horns…

Absurdist Fantasy Short Fiction

Red Town

I dreamed of a crimson river. In my mind, I willingly drowned in its sanguine flow. I meditated on deep vermilion, lingering on ripe apples and plump cherries. Oh, how I longed to pluck them, to hold them up to the sun, to study their skin, their flesh, to savor their scarlet, blush, and rose. I closed my eyes, conjuring visions of boiled lobsters on a bed of rhubarb. I turned my head to the sky and hoped for rain, miraculous and strange, blood-red droplets of Merlot. I dwelled on these things: searing hues in the belly of a smith’s…

Dark Fantasy Short Fiction

Demons

When I was young, no older than eight or nine, I would covertly enter my stepfather’s basement workshop to marvel at the miniature kingdom he had built. The display was set up over the pool table my real father had used, now little more than a platform to support stream-fed caverns and mountain chambers, the subterranean strongholds within. Gothic towers linked by arched bridges rose up and stretched under the domes of hollowed rock, which may have been plaster or papier-mâché, but had been expertly painted to look like natural stone. My stepfather was a talented hobbyist, there is no…

Absurdist Fantasy Short Fiction

Old Sorcery

In the days of yore, when the old, strong sorcery was more than myth, spells required blood, their potency strengthened by the lives put into them, their power amplified by the offering of souls. Magic made heroes of men, and many men, heroic or otherwise, met their deaths at the wrong end of magic. There were those born with the gift of wizardry, natural enchanters blessed with inherent talents. There were those, too, who passively benefited from trinkets imbued by the sorcery of others. It cannot be overlooked: there is a great divide between the man who launches fire from…