Excerpts Science Fiction Read an Excerpt From The Franchise by Thomas Elrod This epic tale of a Hollywood-owned fantasy world where nothing is quite as it seems to the people who live and die at the studio’s whim. By Thomas Elrod | Published on April 29, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Franchise by Thomas Elrod, a science fiction novel out from Tor Books on May 12th. A land filled with magic and dragons and wizards and warriors.Thousands of people live and work within its borders, fearful of their enemies and loyal to their king.The classic fantasy world of The Malicarn has been brought to life on the big screen in a series of phenomenally successful blockbuster movies, almost entirely populated by characters in total belief that their sham fantasy lives are real.A fan-favorite actor finds himself doubting the studio’s work, but this franchise has an almost unstoppable momentum, and bringing freedom to a population that already believes itself to be free won’t be as easy as he thinks. New York City October 23 , 1962 Nobody remembers this, but the weather had been so nice the day before. A cool fall breeze, a few clouds in the sky, golden leaves still on the trees, and a darkening evening anticipating, not yet permitting, the coming of winter. It was an autumn day that suggested the possibilities of a world still becoming. So as men and women in Manhattan crossed on their daily errands—and one marveled at the looming canyons of steel, their promise of American ingenuity and greatness, the rest of the century still to come and what would it be?—the fact that the whole time men in dark suits smoked cigarettes and placed telephone calls and made plans for the end of the world, any small pleasures afforded by the weather were rendered not just insignificant but possibly dangerous. Better to forget it entirely. The world was not anticipating winter. It was anticipating death. The publishing offices of World Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine sat above the park, so when Wendell Highsman looked out his window and saw children playing that Tuesday morning, despite the now-overcast skies, he wondered why they were so damned foolish. Had they not watched the president’s speech the night before? Their parents had, at least. Here was a thought that made Wendell even more upset: that the children’s parents knew the truth—Khrushchev had planted nuclear warheads in Cuba, Kennedy was setting up a blockade, and the final, inevitable clash was now imminent—and the children themselves hadn’t been told. That the parents didn’t want to worry their little ones too much on the final day of their lives. That it was the only way to keep them safe. Wendell was not safe, either, he knew that. But at least his office building was stone, built by some titan of industry the previous century. If the blast was from downtown—and it would be, if the Soviets were smart and accurate—then in these walls Wendell might actually live, at least until the radiation took hold. But in the park you were exposed, and vulnerable, and Wendell did not want to think about children dying. He turned away from the window. Mrs. Olson sat in the next room, behind her typewriter filling out rejection notices for the afternoon mail. Wendell didn’t tell her to stop. She hadn’t said anything all morning, hadn’t men-tioned her son, even though he was in the navy and Wendell knew she had seen the speech because she watched Brinkley every night before Bridge. Preparing the mail was probably the best thing for her. It kept her focused, distracted, not thinking about her son sitting on a carrier in the Gulf watching the end begin. Let her stay busy. Wendell knew the mail would never arrive at its destination, of course, but maybe that was a good thing. It meant that H. W. Ferry or Jonathan R. Kellerman or Susanne Popovorich (she needed a pen name for sure) would never find out that their stories about sex-crazed astronauts and delusional dragonslayers and genius scientist-politicians had been rejected. They would die believing that publishing glory was just around the corner. That their ticket had come up and the October skies were harbingers of a big, bright American tomorrow. The typesetters hadn’t even shown up for work today. “That man is here,” Mrs. Olson said, not bothering to stop typing, when Wendell wandered out of his office. He thought he might head down to Kelvin’s for lunch. Kelvin’s was safe enough from the bombs. Safer, probably, if they had to hide in that basement. But Wendell had forgotten that there was an appointment, one Mrs. Olson had scheduled some days ago, before the end of the world. Well, before they knew about it. “He still came?” Wendell asked. “Why wouldn’t he have come?” Mrs. Olson typed a letter informing Mary Jackson of Tupelo, Mississippi, that her work showed “much promise” and that Wendell Highsman wished her the best of luck on her future endeavors. “Well, send him in, I suppose.” Wendell walked back into his office and sat down, facing away from the window. The man who walked in, dressed in a shaggy brown coat and sporting a thick, black mustache, carried a cardboard box with him. Wendell was annoyed already. Mrs. Olson’s job included not letting prospective authors in to see him. If you let one man in, they’ll all want to come, pleading their case for why your rejection was so cruel, so unjust, so callous and unappreciative of their work. In the past, Wendell considered allowing only solicited submissions. Maybe he would again, if they all lived. The man was very forward. “Excuse me, sir. I am from Bos-ton, and I must speak with you.” “You’re not from Boston.” Wendell meant it as a question, but it came out as an accusation. “Oh, yes, I am. I live there with my wife and infant son. I just rode down on the train this morning.” “No, your accent. French?” “Yes, that is where I grew up. My name is Jean-Danton Souard.” Buy the Book The Franchise Thomas Elrod Buy Book The Franchise Thomas Elrod Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget “Never been to France, sadly. During the war I was stateside. Stars and Stripes. You know it?” “No.” “Fine outfit. When did you come to the United States?” “1946.” “Hmm. Not Vichy, were you? Oh, never mind. How can I help you, Mr. Souard?” Jean-Danton fumbled with the box in his arms. He placed it on Wendell’s desk, then sat in a wingback chair in the corner. Wendell looked at the box and sighed. “I can’t just read manuscripts off the street,” Wendell said. “We have a system, a way of doing things here. You understand, it’s only fair.” Jean-Danton nodded. “Yes, I have read the magazine. I understand your policies, but this is my only copy. I spent all our savings to get it typed.” “We have policies about returning manuscripts, too, you know. It’s all in our submission guidelines.” “It is just too important to send through the mail. I cannot just leave it with anybody.” Every manuscript was always the most important thing in the world. “So you expect me to read this now, while you sit there?” “I must take this manuscript home if you reject me, yes.” Wendell sighed and looked out the window. “Mr. Souard, I really do not have time for this today. We are very busy. I am waiting on proofs for the new issue, we have plenty of other manuscripts to review, plus I need to provide some editorial feedback on—” Someone laughed outside his window. They were all going to die and people were laughing. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Souard. It is a bad day. You should go back to your family in Boston. If something should happen, you should be with them.” “If something should happen? Do you mean the bomb?” “Yes. Is there even anything else right now?” “No, I suppose not. But, it seems to me, if it is all so hopeless, why not read my novel?” Wendell thought he should call his sister in San Francisco. When something happened, she would be far enough away. Maybe he would call his lawyer, his accountant. Make sure his affairs were in order. His sister would close the magazine, most likely. She had always hated it. When they were children she complained how it took up their father’s time. Just as well. What would be left of it anyway, once Wendell was dead? Old issues in an A&P somewhere in Minnesota. There’s a fun discovery for future archaeologists: Look at these primitive stories full of horny astronauts! What a bizarre culture! “You know,” Jean-Danton interrupted, breaking Wendell’s reverie (he was looking out the window again), “during the war I was a prisoner in a German camp. Me and many other French soldiers. We knew we were going to die. Knew it, even if we hoped otherwise. But until you are dead you still need to live.” Read my book because we’re going to die anyway. It was a novel approach, Wendell gave him that. He considered that Jean-Danton was a man comfortable with the current state of the world, who wasn’t distracted by the certainty of death. Or at least, he could spin a little yarn and convince you of that. For the first time, the manuscript intrigued Wendell. “You can’t sell stories in an American magazine with a foreign name. We can only sell issues if people have good strong American names.” “Will you read my work?” “Perhaps. What is it about?” “The end of the world.” “Well, now, that is very topical.” “It takes place in a medieval, magical kingdom.” “I don’t do that sort of thing right now. Sputnik, you know. Kids want to go to the moon.” “But this land is unique. There used to be magic, but it’s been outlawed. And some of the inhabitants want to see it return. So there is an internal rebellion, and the story becomes an exploration of politics and society and—” “Wait, wait,” Wendell said. “This is all too much. You said it was about the end of the world?” “Well, metaphorically, perhaps.” Wendell laughed. “The French.” “It’s the end of their world, the world they know. You see, at the end of this whole rebellion, magic does come back, but it isn’t what anybody expected. It changes the entire realm, everyone’s relationship to one another, to themselves. They end up in a world they didn’t expect, and couldn’t foresee.” “How long is it?” Wendell pried open the top of the box. It was entirely filled with paper. “It’s, well, typed it is over two thousand pages. Two thousand, one hundred and sixty-three to be precise.” “Christ, I got Proust over here.” “I know it is quite long, but every word is perfectly chosen, I assure you.” “You speak English very well.” “I had an English tutor. Before the war. She lived with us.” “You were wealthy then?” “She was a communist. We all were.” An ambulance drove past, sirens roaring. Somebody in the city was going to die and they wouldn’t even get to see the bomb. “Well, Mr. Souard, I am not going to lie to you. We don’t serialize novels very often, certainly not ones as long as this. But I’ll take a look at it. Politics and the end of the world are on my mind, too, after all.” “I appreciate that, Mr. Highsman. I really do. Is there any chance for a decision right now, and an advance? I spent my last dollar on my train ticket.” “I didn’t say I would buy it, Mr. Souard, just that I would read it. And anyway, what good is money going to be soon? I’ll tell you what, though. I can pay you fifty dollars today. If I don’t buy your novel, take it as a commission for a new story. I’m feeling generous.” He was, too. The sounds of people chatting on city streets on the last day of their lives had inspired in him a charitable spirit. “Thank you, Mr. Highsman. Very much. Is it all right if I smoke?” “Yes, yes, go ahead.” Jean-Danton lit a cigarette and Wendell found himself, like a magnet, pulled to look out the window again, back down to the children in the park. He should give Souard more, what did it matter? He would give him a hundred dollars, maybe a thousand. He would bet the whole future of the magazine on this sprawling, ridiculous novel. He would need it to be a major hit, an unexpected sensation, for such a decision to make sense. Perhaps it would be, there was no way of knowing. Nothing about the future can be known at the end of time, only imagined. Wendell could certainly imagine the novel a success. Imagine a future where they serialize the whole thing and sell out issue after issue, readers demanding to find out what happens next, what twists and turns of fate await their favorite characters. Wendell could imagine the eventual publication of the book, in a handsome hardcover, then a cheaper but bestselling mass-market paperback. Then the sequels, each one another hit. Poor Mr. Souard’s children become wealthy inheritors of this massive, popular series. Hollywood makes movies, they make television shows, people read the books to their kids and tell them, “My parents used to read this to me.” Everyone knows the names of the characters and the author and, of course, the place where it all began. On the pages of World Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine, Wendell J. Highsman III, Publisher and Editor in Chief. It was a nice thing to imagine, on the day you were going to die. “Hell, how about two thousand dollars? And I buy it right now. If it stinks, you’ll just have to rewrite it, right? Ha.” “Two thousand? My good sir, I say, I mean I do say…” “Never mind that. Oh, Mrs. Olson? Can you come in here? Now, Mr. Souard, there will just be some paperwork for you to sign. Say, what is the name of this mythical realm of yours? We need a good name. For you, too. Maybe just abbreviate your Christian name. J. D. Souard, doesn’t sound too bad? Even a little American. But your world, what do you call it?” “It is the same as the title of the novel. It is called The Malicarn.” Excerpted from The Franchise, copyright © 2026 by Thomas Elrod. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>The Franchise</i> by Thomas Elrod appeared first on Reactor.