When her fiancé’s spell goes devastatingly wrong, the Earth mage Jana must find a way to use her own magic to restore him to the man she loves. [17 min]

Excerpt:

Her pulse racing and her mind scarcely daring to think, Jana pounded on the heavy oak door of her fiancé’s workroom. “Tomek! Tomek, let me in!”

From within came the sound of breaking glass, and then a bestial cry. “No! Stay out!” From under the door came a flash of blue light, a moan, words that Jana could hardly hear. “Wrong…all wrong…” The words were oddly twisted, as if Tomek underwent a great agony simply to shape them. Another cry rang out.

Whatever had happened in the chamber, it sounded like it was killing Tomek.

“I shall enter whether you will it or not.” No reply from within save more breaking glass and a sound like the tearing of a thousand garments. Jana forced herself to ignore the sounds, forced herself to forget what might be happening to Tomek, how his working might have gone wrong. She concentrated on the feel of the stone floor of the keep under her slippered feet. Then she reached down, down past the floor, past the bedrock it rested on, down to the Source she touched when working her own craft. She felt power well within. With a prayer of thanks and a plea for mercy to Créa All-mother, Jana released a burst of fire toward the door.

“Outwitted” first appeared online at www.QuantumKiss.com.

Donald Jacob Uitvlugt grew up in Western Michigan and now lives in Central Arkansas with his wife and dog. In addition to his previous appearance in Wily Writers, his short fiction has appeared in a number of print and online venues, including ChiZine, www.SpaceWesterns.com, and Renard’s Menagerie, as well as the anthologies Cinema Spec, New Dawn Fades, and WolfSongs 2.

His goal as a fiction writer is to write intimate stories with a big impact.

• Let us read you his Wily fantasy story entitled “Outwitted”.
• Listen to his short story “I’m My Own Kryptonite”.
• Find out more at his blog.

Mr. Representative, as you might already know, planet Vertilla has witnessed the birth of several infamous outlaws. [18 min]

Excerpt:

The name’s Mim, but I didn’t ‘spect that I’d ever live to tell it once the Enforcers blew the door off its hinges. Seems now, though, that I’m ‘posed to send a testament of events to my, that is to say, the Terra, Representative on the Galactic Council. Seeing as the message ain’t likely to survive the decade long trip to the core planets, guess I don’t have to be too worried about implicatin’ myself.

I’m reportin’ from the planet known as Vertilla, but she’s called a good many other names. Just three sentient races, though, have taken advantage of her hospitable climate regions over the past three hundred rotations. Vertilla’s greener than blue and more dessert than forest, as you probably already know, Mr. Representative. The place where the sands touch the plantlife is known as Last Stop. There was a simple reason for the namin’. When the Outcasts were sent from their homes like walkin’ abortions, that dry strip of scattered grass was the only land they could claim as their own. Unless, ‘course, they were to let the desert take ‘em. Most did just that.

It stood to reason, then, the long building sitting with its back to the sands was called Outcast’s Last. Didn’t need no sign.

I was a patron there, despite that I would have only been tall enough to reach my daddy’s elbow, and I had a few friends ‘bout my age who liked the sweets the owner, an Ol’ Tomkins, gave us. One of them was Cara. We called her Cara Red, because she was a part Vertin, native, and it showed in that stiff crimson hair and those gold-yellow eyes of hers.

Now, Mr. Representative, I realize, you ain’t very knowledgeable in the ways of the people here on Vertilla, so you might not be aware of the hostile nature of the ruling class, but suffice it to say, my friend Cara kept her head low, just like her Terra momma told her to, and tried to stay as far from those Eremiel jackwads as possible.

It just happened to be her misfortune that she was pickin’ up supplies the day three Enforcers were assigned a sweep over Ol’ Tomkins’ establishment. And it happened to be my misfortune that I was giggling at her side when they landed.

A.D. Spencer lives in northern Alabama with her Chihuahua side-kick, Yoda, who inspires her on a daily basis. Her speculative short stories have appeared in anthologies such as The Big Book of Bizarro by Burning Bulb Publishing, Fear of the Dark by Horror Bound Magazine, and Dagan Books’ FISH (chumming the waters February 2012).

• Let us read you her wily story, entitled “On the Unlawful Events Taking Place at Outcast’s Last”.
• For more information on her upcoming works, visit her blog.

Folly Blaine lives in Seattle, Washington, and is an affiliate member of the Horror Writers Association. Her work has appeared online at Every Day Fiction, InfectiveINk.com, 10Flash Quarterly, and Flashes in the Dark.

Her horror story, “British Guiana, 1853″ is available in the print anthology, Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations. The story follows a scientist from the British Museum who travels along the Essequibo River in search of a mysterious and valuable creature he suspects might be a living dinosaur.

• Visit her writing blog.
• Read her published stories.
• Friend her on Facebook.
• Follow @follyblaine on Twitter.

“As a boy, some of my favorite stories were those of lost lands and civilizations, made popular by such writers as H. Rider Haggard, A. Merritt, and Talbot Mundy. I daydreamed of falling through some hidden cave entrance into a lost and forgotten world (sans injury of course) and if asked about my career ambitions I would have answered that I wanted to be one of those specially lucky explorers.

“As I gradually became aware that such civilizations weren’t terribly likely in our closely-examined world, that fantasy became a bit bruised. But now Eric J. Guignard brings back a bit of that magic with Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations, an anthology mixing the values of pulp fiction (returning us to a milieu where such stories seem more possible) with contemporary standards of fresh description.

“Here we have lost islands, civilizations on the brink, and uncharted lands imaginatively described with new mythologies. David Tallerman, Mark Lee Pearson, Jamie Lackey, Folly Blaine, Jonathan Vos Post, and JC Hemphill—to mention just a few—all shine, and the new Joe Lansdale piece with a unique slant on a western railroad story is a special treat.” —Steve Rasnic Tem, Bram Stoker and World Fantasy Award-winning author of novels (including his latest, Deadfall Hotel) and numerous collections of short fiction.

The last free Comet Express rider is oath-bound to deliver her mysterious cargo to Triton, and not even the long arm of the law can stop her. [25 min]

Excerpt:

“C’mon, baby, stay with me. We’re almost there.”

Alice gripped the reins like a lifeline. Beauty was shuddering beneath her, lurching like a drunk and pulling to the right. Running two days straight without fuel could do that to a girl. The old beast needed parts and a good grooming, but her rider could only afford one or the other, and time was not on their side. They needed to cross into the outer territory before they could be confident that they were out of reach of the long arm of the law.

Through her limited field of vision, Alice could see the looming eggshell curve of a moldy yellow planet. From here, Io looked like a rotting orange compared to its three sister moons. She wiped her sleeve across Beauty’s digital display for a better look, and as she did so, a feathered plume erupted from the moon’s surface. She gave Beauty a pat just below the blinking heads-up display. “Never seen a more hideous world in my life. But beggars can’t be choosers, can they, ol’ girl?”

An emergency landing on Io was something Alice had hoped would never happen to her. It was on a long list of things that started with contracting avian pox, and ended with losing all power and drifting forever through the galaxy. But Beauty had begun to flicker and shiver as they’d approached Jovian space, her HUD fuel meter blinking CRITICALLY LOW, and Alice knew she’d put off landing for far too long. Morgan craft were meant for speed, not long distance sprinting.

Ray Whitter is an avid storyteller and world-builder. She wrote her first short story at age five and has been making things up ever since. Her current hobby is taking two seemingly unrelated genres, stuffing them in a jar, and shaking them up until they fight. When not writing, she is either drawing, drinking tea, or gaming.

Originally native to the Pacific Northwest, Ray is currently adjusting to a new phase of life in West Virginia, where she lives with her sister and tends to her English major.

• Let us read you her short story, entitled “The Comet Rider.”
• Visit her blog on WordPress

Amanda Fitzwater lives in Shakytown, that is, Christchurch, New Zealand, and has become adept at skipping cracks. An author of science fiction and fantasy, her work can be found at such venues as The Future Fire, Expanded Horizons, and the recently released Crossed Genres anthology Fat Girl in a Strange Land.

A voice artist and copywriter by day, her evenings at writing are watched over by a squawk of dragons and a slightly senile solar-powered calico cat.

• Visit Amanda at her blog: pickledthink.blogspot.com.

Cyndal, Eric, and Lukas struggle for survival after the devastating Scourge virus sweeps across the country. In this post-apocalyptic world, the biggest threat to Cyndal and her family could be the loss of hope. [33 min]

Excerpt:

Mom pulled us out of school the day before the attack. She told us to get our handhelds, favorite holo discs, bedding, clothes, books even. She took us down to The Cave. That’s what we called it back when Dad was building it, when I was little. Down under the house, through tunnels, a vertical ladder and a two-door airlock. We hadn’t been down there since it was finished.

“Maybe we’ll never have to use it,” I remember Dad saying. But he and Mom had looked at each other in a way that said, Maybe. Maybe not.

Eric waited for us on his plush bed in the corner. He watched Mom show us our bunks. For the rest of the day she explained every part of The Cave and how it worked. Shelves and bins of dry pack food, bags of water. How to hook in to the power reserves from the solar panels on the roof of the house above. How to use the old-fashioned burner stove with actual flame to cook something reconstituted.

“Why can’t we just use a replicator?” asked Lukas.

“There might not be power,” said Mom.

“Why wouldn’t there be power?” asked Lukas.

“We’ll talk about that later,” said Mom. “For now just pay attention.”

Eric followed us around, watched the way Mom did everything. She explained the combination door mechanism, the microbe airlocks, the filtered air, the chemical toilet, the water-recycling system, the incinerator, the bio-suits. Medicine, batteries for our handhelds, solar cell hookups, old-fashioned flashlights, candles, backpacks filled with supplies, camping gear. The crate with heirloom family albums, old photos, journals.

Lukas finally asked, “How long are we going to be down here?”

“For a while,” said Mom.

Eric was originally printed in the Spring 2011 issue (9.2) of Warp & Weave, Utah Valley University’s speculative fiction anthology.

Alicia VanNoy Call is a professional artist, but her first love is the written word. When she is not painting, you can find her treading words toward a new story. She has been published in Utah Valley University’s creative writing anthologies: Touchstones and Warp & Weave.

Her favorite genres include science fiction/fantasy and literary young adult fiction. She maintains an ever-growing book collection in the small Provo, Utah home she shares with her husband, dog, cat and occasionally, her four children.

• Let us read you her wily story, entitled “Eric”.
• You can follow her at her blog.