Elle Lewis

King of the Ghouls by Elle Lewis Miguel Santiago gripped the clipboard. There were three names on his list. Three names belonging to three bodies. His Majesty would be arriving soon. Miguel wiped the fine sheen of sweat that had appeared on his brow. Everything must be in order . His eyes flicked nervously to the clock that hung on the wall. The transport service was running late. The funeral home was pristine, although the smell of chemicals had long faded. Bodies were no longer embalmed or buried. After a particularly horrendous virus in 2045, the government had forbidden traditional burials, mandating that all dead bodies were to be cremated. Miguel’s father had simply changed the name of the family business and invested in a better cremation chamber. What once had been known as Sunset Funeral Home & Cremations was now Sunset Cremations . That had been nearly fifty years ago. The year 3000 was quickly approaching, which shocked Miguel. He had always assumed the...

Ayala by Elle Lewis “Line up!” growled Corbyn. Ayala got in line beside the other women. Some of them were already trembling. Ayala could hear soft whimpers, breath catching in fearful hiccups. Ayala squared her shoulders and raised her chin. She recently turned seventeen, which now qualified her as a potential Spring offering.           “Shut your mouths and stay quiet,” Corbyn snapped. “The Scouts will be arriving soon.” Corbyn—the reagent of the town of Larkfall—was a massive man. Tall and burly, the lines of his muscles sang a song of battles once fought. His eyes were the color of an angry ocean. A scar arched over his left eyebrow, and his right arm was missing, replaced by an artificial one. It was constructed with gold titanium, the gears inside constantly buzzing and whirring. Ayala didn’t know what had claimed his arm, whether it was man or beast, and she didn’t care. Corbyn was a cruel man. He governed Larkfall ...

SOUL EATER by Elle Lewis Warrick's boots punched through the snow. He was used to the cold, but this was nearly intolerable. The wind felt like a promiscuous woman, reaching past his furs and leather vest, touching his skin with icy fingers. Frost clung to his long blonde hair and beard. His hair was elaborately braided, in the traditional way of his people. He frowned, sure icicles were forming along the strands. He trudged on, tightening the strap on his shield. It hung from his left arm, a circular mass of thick wood and steel. Warrick also carried a large double-sided axe, strapped to his back. The combination of the two were a comforting weight, something familiar in an unfamiliar country. The incline of the land began to elevate. He and his party carefully trekked uphill, forging through the thick snow. The surrounding forest was unnervingly silent. No birds. No rustle of creatures within the brush. Warrick wondered what kind of place had no living creatures...