Kenny Soward

is creating Short Stories
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per 2 Flash Fiction Pieces and Readings
  • Access to my Patreon only stream.
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  • My sincere and heartfelt thanks!
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  • Everything at the TINKERER Level.
  • Your name in the monthly digital download credits.
  • Your choice of one eBook : Rough Magick, The Dead West Omnibus One, or Galefire One.

per 2 Flash Fiction Pieces and Readings
  • Everything in the BRAWLER Level.
  • Access to a Page-By-Page video  break down of each month's stories  (think of a DVD talk track). Here's an example .




per 2 Flash Fiction Pieces and Readings

About Kenny Soward

THE SHORT VERSION - Pledge $1/month and receive two short stories in the format of your choice. A video reading, a Soundcloud link, text, or (new) a link to download the stories to your ereader! The short stories are of various genres and might even include some fan fiction based on my favorite movies or shows.

THE LONG VERSION - I’m Kenny Soward, author and drinker of fancy beverages. Have you ever wanted to step into someone else’s shoes for a minute and DISCOVER a world where anything could, and usually does, happen? But you don’t have time for a movie or book and you just want something that can be tied up in under ten minutes. Something you can experience at lunch or waiting for an appointment or a meeting to start.

THAT'S WHERE I COME IN. I create fully complete stories that take just a few minutes of your time. Not only that, but I read them back to you so all you need are your ear phones and a comfortable place to listen. Or, you can download them to your ereader for later.

For $1 a month you’ll have access to all my stories—science fiction, horror, mystery, tales of the strange. For $5 a month, you get a bonus video where I explain how I put the stories together. It’s that simple.

Check out a FREE story called Lucky Pennies.

Become a Patron TODAY!

FREE Story : Lucky Pennies

Or listen to LUCKY PENNIES on SoundCloud and read along!

Lucky Pennies

The man in the black duster stepped into my wagon, bringing with him the stench of horses and blood. His boots thudded on the old, squeaky pine planks, leaving clumps of mud as he approached my table. The velvet curtains rattled on their rods. A cloud of incense smoke coalesced around his barrel-chested form.

Leaning over me, he rapped his knuckles with brutish swagger on the curse-rubbed wood. I wanted to chuckle.

He’d already killed 27 men. What was one more?

I cleared my throat, pressed my hands together, hiding the gnarled fingers of my left hand. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I want the Lucky Pennies.”

The Lucky Pennies. The cost of chance.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t remember you. Have I forgotten your face?”

“No. No prior arrangement, ‘cept this one. Now hand ‘em over.”

I shook my head in bewilderment. “Without prior arrangement and proper payment, I’m afraid you can’t have them.”

That’s when I found myself staring down the barrel of a Colt Dragoon. I imagined a flash, smoke, and a quick, painless moment before I exited this world—if I didn’t produce the coins. I smiled. My three-fingered left hand felt beneath the table for the special pouch. Raised it and dumped a few coins under his nose; the faces of tormented men howled up at us. Men whose luck had run out. But therein lay the secret of the coins—their misfortune became your fortune, mostly.

I dropped the pouch with a clank.

The man reached with dirt-caked fingers for the pure, shiny silver. He stopped. A cruel smile curled his lips. Killer gray eyes lifted from the money and stared me down. “There's more to it than that. I need more than just the coins.”

I gave an exaggerated nod, my expression falling. “Yes,” I said in mock defeat, holding back a grin. “You’ve done the legwork, sir. You win. You have my permission to take the coins.” Truth was the man had probably learned to read somewhere along the line, discovered a few of our dark secrets, and thought he could get the upper hand on me.

He flashed me a wicked grin, stuffed his gun into his holster, swiped the loose coins into the pouch, and deposited it into a breast pocket.

He turned and strode toward the door followed by the cloud of incense smoke, which congealed into a tendril, trailing behind him, an arm of stretching gossamer. Ghost fingers caressed the leather vest, reaching, sliding over his shoulder and around his neck with smooth purpose.

The index finger of my left hand experienced a cold stab and a growing ache.

The tendril squeezed, jerking the man upright. He stumbled and spun, grunting and choking. The smoke wrapped tighter and tighter, its leading end rising in an open hand like a cobra's head. The man’s fingers dug beneath the constriction. His eyes fixed on me, bulging with hatred.

It was a familiar look, the gypsy grimace, the expression of people who misunderstood us. At least until they needed something so desperately not even the threat of a curse kept them from seeking our mystic services.
Man and smoke cavorted together in the center of my trailer. A macabre dance, partner dipped in death. The pine boards squealed with laughter. The satin curtains shook beneath a gale of foetid wind kicking through the windows.

Someone was sawing at my index finger with a blade made of ice.

The tendril hand slapped at the flailing man, leaving blisters and burns on his skin. To his credit, the brute fought hard, wielding his free arm like a club. The hand dove beneath his defenses, not a strike, but… plucking the man’s gun from its holster. It raised the weapon and tried to draw a bead.

“No,” the man said, alternately grabbing for the gun and putting his palm up as if flesh could stop bullets. The gun wavered, dipped and bobbed, narrowly avoiding being caught several times. A smaller tendril branched off, wrapping around the trigger, squeezing.

My index finger was a gnarled root now, cold and black and dying.

“No!” Cried the man. “I give ‘em back… I give ‘em back!”




Excruciating, the pain in my hand, but I reveled in it, giggling at the sound of spraying coins when flying lead ruptured the pouch. There was a thud, and one less brutish bully in the world.

I'd have to make a new pouch.

No matter how frail and undefended we might appear—even if you think you've got the upper hand—never steal from a gypsy. We embrace dark ambiguities, painful as they may be. We understand the cost of protection.

Content yourself with frequenting our tarot booths, pay your coin, laugh or cry at your fortune, then take your leave. If you’re the humble type and forthright with your payments, you might request a love potion or lucky charm. Maybe even something more nefarious than that.

But never, ever steal from us.

I snuffed out the incense stick of negation that had been burning beneath the table—reptile musk, I think—stood on my gnarled feet, then went to retrieve my coins.

$7 of $500 per 2 Flash Fiction Pieces and Readings
Impressive! If this campaign reaches $500, I will add a third story and reading to the monthly story set for all my Patreon supporters.
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By becoming a patron, you'll instantly unlock access to 19 exclusive posts
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