Fantasy Western Novels & Stories

The fantasy took over completely—Father Chris’s voice in my ear, his breath hot against my neck, his fingers replacing mine, thicker, surer, pressing that spot that made stars explode behind my eyes. I pictured him saying “louder” again while he fingered me in that candlelit room. I pictured him watching me come apart on his hand and still not giving me his cock. Not yet. The thought of being denied again pushed me over the edge. My thighs clamped around my wrist. My whole body seized, shaking so hard the water churned like a storm. I came with his name on my lips—Chris, not Father—muffled against my own arm so the neighbors wouldn’t hear.

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

Isabella POV “Red cup or blue cup?” Marv was asking, leaning into me so I could hear him above the music. I knew what he was trying to do. And it wasn’t working. I tried to like Westside Eden. The town was great. But I couldn’t help but remember that the minute this all ended, I would be back home with a father I hated. I would rather go home with a smile on my face and not fear that just an appearance was going to ruin it.

"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…

Each was a florid fantasy, not viewed as a tale, but lived in him. He was always the main character, distinguished and adventurous, an illusion of splendor he supposed. Cavin likes them that way, it is much better than ordinary life. So if the thoughts of an insane journey still come, how was he to say he was cured? When even in a precarious voyage of the supernatural, here he was risking his life again. A true fantasy is a fixed mistaken notion that gains traction, like a wheel of a wagon on the road, it propels a person in different paths, often unpredictable and toward catastrophe.

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.

* Alpha Archer * They came at dawn like a bruise spreading across the land of the West, just like a dark line on the horizon the wolves of the South. I watched them from the ridge above the western clearing, cloak pulled tight against the coldness of the weather, and counted breaths until the shape of their column resolved, banners I had seen once before in nightmares, horses with hooves like thunder, warrior wolves moving with the slow, heavy certainty of those who have taken too many things and never been asked to give any back.

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.