Fantasy Western Novels & Stories

I muttered, pulling away to look out the porthole. Outside the Great Western Woods loomed. These trees were huge and ancient. Their roots were thick like dragon scales weaving through the mud. The air here was heavy with the smell of soil damp moss and a strange vibrating hum. Helios and the Sea-Singer had already gone ahead. As Celestials they couldn't stay on a mortal ship. They moved through the ley lines two pillars of gold and sapphire light tracing the tremors that had begun to split the Western continent. The Western Province was ruled by the Stone-Fist Pack. They were an isolated clan of mountain-dwellers. They didn't use skiffs or magic; they used muscle and heavy iron mined from th

And faster than anything she’d ever seen. She’d buried friends. Elders. Cousins. She’d watched warriors—real warriors—die screaming. And no one could tell her why. So she left. She crossed borders and mountains. Lived off the land. Spoke to seers and trackers. She rode as Solana, the golden buckskin, silent and fast, swift as windfire across the continent. Still the pull led her further. West. Always west. Her dreams were growing stronger now—always the same: The white wolf standing on a ledge of stone. The sky burning behind her. A crown of thorns and stars over her head. And five glowing pillars of colored light shooting into the heavens—each pulsing with raw power.

#MMWard W. Farnsworth W. Farnsworth lives and writes in Arizona. Over two hundred fifty of his short stories were published at a variety of venues from London to Hong Kong in the period 2014 through 2018.Published in 2015 were his collected Arizona westerns Desert Sun, Red Blood, his thriller about cryptocurrency crimes Bitcoin Fandango, his John Fulghum Mysteries, Volume I, and Engaging Rachel, an Anderson romance/thriller, the latter two by Zimbell House Publishing.Published by Zimbell House in 2016 and 2017 were Farnsworth’s Pirate Tales, John Fulghum Mysteries, Volumes II, III, IV and V, Baro Xaimos: A Novel of the Gypsy Holocaust, The Black Marble Griffon and Other Disturbing Tales, Amo

"There's also an eighty year old guy in Vermont who can tweak people's unconscious actions a bit. He uses it to get girls to bend over in front of him, or sit with their legs open so he can see their panties. He's in a wheelchair, practically immobile; it's the only way he gets any thrills at all. You, on the other hand, took over my mind, forced me to do something I didn't want to do, and even made me enjoy it." "I'm sorry, I..." "Shut up!" she snapped. "The point is, no one with your experience can do what you did. The last time this kind of thing was possible was back in the Dark Ages." "Huh?" "Back then people used to believe in magic more. They would believe that sorcerers could control

Sure, it annoyed some of the other pedestrians, but out here, there wasn’t a car in sight. Fairfax was one of those small towns, with a really small town but a huge zip code. Houses were scattered all over the place, making my closest neighbor the old man living two miles down the road. Surrounded by mountains and forest, it sometimes reminded me a little of the town in the Twilight movie. Or you know--- just any horror movie! I almost grinned at that, since that used to be Grace’s go-to line. She had a thing for horror-flicks, but was terrified after watching them…

Got it, he answered, already lunging into another skirmish. I sprinted toward the western border, weaving through the chaos as fast as my paws could carry me. The scent of blood and fear hung thick in the air, mixing with the acrid tang of dark magic. My wolf pushed harder, adrenaline surging through my veins as the cries of pack mates grew louder. When I reached the western line, the scene was worse than I’d anticipated. The rogues were more organized here, their movements precise and methodical. Minions stood at the edges, directing their attacks with eerie precision.

* Regina * In a month of staying in the Western pack, I found new friends, or rather just a friend. His name is Brent. He is a young warrior of the West. Although I am not interested in making more friends, I accepted him because he is nice to me almost every time, so I couldn't help but be his friend, too.

As I glanced around the library, my fingers traced the spine of each book my hands touched. "Help me, Teresa," "With what? What book?" "A book about the West," "Well if it's about the West. What better way to know about it other than from a person who lives there? I'm a Westerner," I shook my head. "No, you don't understand," "What do I don't understand? You're being difficult, Amethyst," I came to a sudden halt, causing Teresa to nearly bump into me from behind. "I'm discussing a narrative from a distinct viewpoint—a perspective recounting tales from the West, not your own," I clarified.

I’m like a Marlboro man so I kick on back Wish I could roll on back to that old town road I wanna ride till I can’t no more This song perfectly complements Cassius in massive proportions. Picture this: several miles from our pack, nestled in the majestic mountains, lies our sprawling ranch and a magnificent lodge. The air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and the distant sounds of laughter from humans enjoying their year-round vacations. From Monday to Friday, we all tirelessly manage the ranch and lodge. But when the weekend arrives, we immerse ourselves in exhilarating rodeos, leaving the care of the ranch and lodge to ranch hands and omegas.

Brynn Hollis' POV The message came from a wolf I'd never seen. He collapsed at the gate, half-dead, his fur matted with blood and salt. His eyes were wild, his words slurred, but one phrase cut through the fever: "The Western Wastes are rising." We carried him to the infirmary. Solara worked her magic while I waited, pacing. "The Western Wastes?" Dax asked. "A territory beyond the mountains. Nothing lives there. Or so we thought."