Gerald Warfield’s short story, “The Poly Islands,” won second prize in the first quarter of the 2011 Writers of the Future contest. The same year, his humorous story “The Origin of Third Person in Paleolithic Epic Poetry” took first place in the nationally syndicated Grammar Girl short story contest. “Spores of the Volcano” appeared in NewMyths and the Campbellian 2014 Anthology. “Return of the Mayflower” is scheduled to appear in Perihelion. Several of his flash pieces have previously appeared in Every Day Fiction. Gerald published music textbooks and how-to books in investing before turning to fiction. He is a graduate of the Odyssey Writers Workshop (2010) and a member of SFWA.
Our winter cave is on the mountainside. Mam is there. My brother Dar and I abandon her when we move to the river lodge. We cannot leave her, I say. Dar cuffs my ears. But I see water in his… Continue Reading
Sharon thumped down the carpeted stairs, each step weighted so that she wouldn’t appear to be sneaking up on Margaret. “No need to tiptoe,” her wife had admonished more than once, but these days Sharon couldn’t tell if Margaret were… Continue Reading
Jason, a bronze sickle in one hand, glimpsed movement at the edge of the woods and straightened to peer above the golden stalks of barley. At the far end of the field, Dame Stilwell, his teacher, had emerged from the… Continue Reading
When I got home from the quarry that night, Nanna had wandered off again. I could see the cottage from a ways down the path. She’d left the door open. It started before Christmas, her forgetting stuff, but she could… Continue Reading
I circled the castle twice before beginning my descent. Soldiers rushed onto the parapets, and people in the village nearby pointed and followed my progress. The cobblestones within the bailey made for a clean landing without the usual dust storm,… Continue Reading
Frieda reached down and grasped another stalk of white yarrow. She broke the stem and, with a sidelong glance at Erik, placed it with the others in the wicker basket. “You don’t have to pretend,” she said. “I know why… Continue Reading
Through a window of the mill Kayla saw a figure approaching on the path by the river. Dried blood caked one side of his face and streaked his homespun shirt. Looking down, he stepped hesitantly as if unsure of his… Continue Reading
“Your mother was a whore!” The shout echoed from the mouth of the temple as if the stones themselves hurled insults at the small figure darting through the doorway. Bartholomew’s tormentors also burst from the entry, pursuing him across the… Continue Reading
A knight emerges on horseback from fog at the edge of the woods. The chain links of his hauberk ripple in the sunlight. His helm gleams. He does not follow the road but crosses a field covered with green shoots… Continue Reading
The brass cannon squatted on the balcony above my front porch. The previous day my nephews had dragged it in from the garden and lugged it up the inside stairwell with only minor damage to the door facings. At that… Continue Reading