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The Faded GuestThe mill stood on the hill like a stone jaw, silent and white against the gray sky. It was a place of iron and steam, a beast that had eaten the river’s song years ago. Now it only breathed. Thomas walked the path. He was ten years old. He wore boots that were too large. They slapped his heels with a wet, hollow sound. The mud was deep. It sucked at his ankles. He did not mind. He had been...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineIn the dream that persisted with the tenacity of a stain on white linen, the house was not a house at all but a vast, hollowed-out ribcage of white plaster and exposed lath, breathing slowly in the dry, sterile air of the suburban afternoon. Eleanor sat at the kitchen table, her hands folded beneath the varnish of the laminate surface, watching the dust motes dance in the single shaft of light...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, gray sheet that blurred the boundary between the stone ramparts and the sky, so that the keep of Oakhaven seemed less like a fortress and more like a bruise on the earth. I stood in the center of the great hall, my hands clasped behind my back, feeling the cold seep through the wool of my doublet. It was not a cold of temperature, but of...0 Comments 0 Shares 24 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe rain against the slate roof of the St. Jude’s Orphanage was not a sound but a texture, a relentless, granular friction that scraped against the inside of Elias Thorne’s skull. He sat in the high-backed chair behind the oak desk, the wood polished to a dull, waxy sheen by generations of anxious hands, and he watched the candlelight tremble on the walls. The air in the scriptorium was thick...0 Comments 0 Shares 24 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundYou wake to the sound of the grinding. It is not a mechanical sound, nor the groan of settling foundations, but a wet, organic friction, like a bone being slowly sawed through with a dull blade. You are in the city of Oakhaven, a place where the streets are paved with white stone that never soaks up the rain, where the air tastes of ozone and old paper, and where no one speaks above a whisper...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe ceramic plate sits on the workbench, a shard of blue glaze catching the gray light of the factory floor, and you hold it with a tenderness that feels like a crime against the very nature of the object. It is a Tuesday in late October, 1914, and the air inside the Holloway Porcelain Works smells of wet clay and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. You are not a poet, nor are you a hero; you are...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SilenceThe feast is a riot of gold and smoke. You stand in the corner of the great hall. The air is thick. It smells of roasted boar and wet wool. Your father sits at the high table. He is a king now. He wears the crown. It sits heavy on his brow. You watch his hand tremble as he lifts a goblet. He does not look at you. He looks at the fire. The fire eats the wood. It eats the light. It eats the...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe rain does not fall so much as it hangs, a suspended grey curtain of water that turns the glass towers of the city into blurred, weeping mirrors, and you stand in the center of the atrium, your hand wrapped around the hilt of the blade you have carried for thirty years, feeling the cold steel seep through the leather grip and into the marrow of your bones, a chill that is less a temperature...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe train smelled of ozone and old wool. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass. Outside, the rain blurred the world into a smear of gray. I was going to see him. Or rather, I was going to find him. My coat was heavy. It weighed forty pounds. It had to. I checked the zipper. I checked the seams. I checked the lining. It was a military surplus jacket. Olive drab. Heavy canvas. It had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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