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Shards of lives, shards of a broken heart, shards of broken pottery or glass, shards of myth and memory… each author in this exciting collection of fantasy has interpreted the theme in a different way. Focused on noblebright fantasy, this anthology includes stories that edge toward grimbright and nobledark, exploring themes of despair tempered by hope and brokenness tempered by redemption.
This anthology features stories from:
B. Morris Allen, J.E. Bates, Jade Black, Gustavo Bondoni, Bokerah Brumley, Stephen Case, R. K. Duncan, M.C. Dwyer, Chloe Garner, Kelly A. Harmon, Pete Alex Harris, Ben Howels, Tom Jolly, Brandon M. Lindsay, Alice Loweecey, Jason J. McCuiston, Alex McGilvery, Ville Meriläinen, Jennifer R. Povey, Holly Lyn Walrath, Pat Woods, and Richard Zwicker.
Edited by Robert McCowen and C. J. Brightley.
Both ebooks and paperbacks are now available. Order it today!
Here’s a sneak peek of one of the stories in the anthology, “Bright Carver” by Pete Alex Harris:
This broken scrap, this splintered, imperfect chunk of pine log would do. Simone knew it would do, though she did not yet know what it would do for.
She held it up in front of her face and turned it about. She could hardly lift it, but in a few days she’d have whittled away most of its bulk, leaving something elegant she could lift with one hand. She would begin just as soon as she saw what must remain.
It was her first time entering the great contest. She had spent years in study, her fingers a lacework of tiny scars and splinters in the rough skin. Her hands smelled of smoke and sweat and greasy, cheap food, and always the sap and resin of her life’s work. She couldn’t read books, but she could read wood. Usually.
This time it was a struggle to find the core of the piece: the overlap between what was inside the wood and what was inside her. Perhaps she was trying to make it do too much, matter too much. Maybe for her first attempt at the contest she should make something simple, like a curled fox or a comical goose. She wouldn’t win anyway.
Simone carried the log out of her father’s hut, out from the looming shadow of the castle walls, carried it away some distance to see it in sunlight. Forget the contest. Let the piece be its own thing. She set it down on its widest end and walked around it. Then she upturned it, balanced it on the other end with care and sat cross-legged, her hands hanging loose over her knees, staring into it.
Yes.
