Dark Fantasy
Date Published: 2/22/20
Publisher: Acorn Publishing
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The Wingless Angel
Ex-Army Medic, Silton, has had a rough go of late. Soon after being discharged from the military his wife suffered a tragic accident, then slipped into a coma and died. Now alone, drinking fills his days, and restless sleep plagues his nights.
He feels that God is finished with him, that he has no purpose in life, so he ends it all.
He falls. Naked and confused, he falls.
Silton awakens on a taught expanse of warm Skin Land. Acrid air stings his lungs, tiny hairs jut up like grass under his feet, and the pale blue eye of Heaven stares down on him.
In the distance he hears a scream, and as he bounds towards it, finds a fetid swamp of others who have fallen, sinking into the soupy flesh. Quick to his training Silton pulls a woman out of the mess, only to find her legs ravaged with breaks. Using his medical skills and the flesh around him, he binds her injuries, easing her pain.
Far off in the distance, on their huge moving home called the Sled, a group of demons set off on a journey out into the Skin Land to harvest those lucky enough to survive the fall. Those like Silton.
Silton drags his newfound friend to a distant shelter of bone as they share the reflections of life that have brought them here. With each step the mystery of this place unfolds revealing its true beauty, and its terrifying reality.
As the demons draw near, and the pale blue eye of Heaven watches above, it becomes clear that God is not finished with Silton. God has a new purpose for him, a purpose for him in Hell.
“Sin follows the sinner, it does not lead them.”
About the Author

Fabrice Wilfong has been writing fiction since he was 15 years old. His works have consistently leaned towards the dark side of human experience, where he uses characters and philosophy to challenge our shared interpretations of life.  
For most of his professional career Fabrice has been in the Healthcare Industry where he’s learned to love human anatomy and the systems of the body. He feels the body remains a frontier that we are all forced to explore with little understanding of how things will unfold.
His works consistently push the reader to a deeper knowledge of themselves both mentally and physically, while daring into the fantastical and bizarre.     


The Wingless Angel: Excerpt

The bone -carved dining table stretched across the narrow hall. It was thick like a butcher block, the bone warm to the touch from fresh, hot marrow that flowed into the structure through legs molded to the floor. It stood, sharp and silent, a massive, pristine sculpture that looked finer than the cleanest white marble.

The chef hurriedly set the warm table with food: spongy blood cakes accented with beads of bright green bile, a massive hindquarter muscle steak, heaps of tangled capillary pasta, and hot, fat- gravy spiced to perfection with sweat salt. For dessert he’d constructed a delicate confection: tiny lollipops of caramelized brain set atop thin bone stilts.

The chef wiped up a few red droplets from the stark bone table. Like all good chefs, he obsessed over the parts of his work that no one else would ever notice.

“That should do it.” He motioned to his Sapien. “Bring the centerpiece!”

The Sapien walked to the kitchen robotically and brought back a hairless human head, immaculate and smooth. Glazed lightly with fat, every facet of the head’s mouth, ears, and nose glistened. A masterful patchwork of skin covered the centerpiece, all the way down to the stubby neck. Only the most discerning eye could see that some of the skin- sections were stitched from different tones.

The chef instructed the Sapien to put the head down in the center of the table.

“Ahhhhhh . . . beau-tee-ful . . .” the Sapien said in monotone.

“Yes, yes, I know. But you have yet to see its true beauty, my stupid friend,” the chef said excitedly. He pulled two tools from his jacket: a pair of thin, bone pliers hinged with springy tendons, and a bone scalpel so sharp its blade could barely be seen when held to the side.

The chef set to work, attaching veins and arteries to a tender quarter-heart he’d assembled, sealing everything up with gummy, sinew putty. The heart consisted of just one ventricle, and was only strong enough to pump a small reservoir of blood into the head, giving it the strength needed for its performance.

“It took me three weeks to procure this tiny quarter-heart. Did you know that?” “Three weeks,” the Sapien responded. “Hearts . . . not . . . find . . . easy . . .”

“Not find easy at all,” said the chef as he wiped flecks of dried skin from his centerpiece. “A true masterpiece worthy of a great hero.”

And the feast was set.

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