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The Distant GardenThe coat is yours. It was always yours. But you do not remember buying it. You do not remember the shopkeeper, the rain that slicked the cobblestones, or the moment you pulled the wool over your shoulders. You only remember the weight. It hangs heavy on your frame. The fabric is thick. It is grey. It smells of dust and old paper. You are standing in the square. The square is empty. The stones...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseThe knife did not feel like steel in Thomas’s hand, but like a heavy, warm bone, vibrating with a frequency that hummed in the marrow of his wrist and climbed, insistent and cold, up the length of his arm to settle in the hollow of his throat where the voice usually lived. He was standing in the nave of St. Jude’s, the air thick with the cloying, resinous scent of myrrh and the wet, metallic...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CircuitThe hand shook. It always shook. A tremor. A wire. Taut. Vibrating in the cold air. Elara held it up. Look at the veins. Blue. Dark. Pulsing. She was a mender. No. A breaker. The ledger said mender. The truth was breaker. She looked at the clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. The shop was silent. Dust motes. Dancing. In the beam of light. High window. Barred. She was in the yard. No. In the cell. The walls...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe ink bled into the parchment with a wet, sucking sound that seemed to pull the air out of the room, and Thomas Ashworth watched the black stain spread across the page like a bruise forming on pale skin, his hand trembling not from fear but from the sudden, crushing weight of a truth he had not asked to carry, while outside the high, narrow windows of the scriptorium, the bells of St. Jude’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe rain had stopped, but the air in the atrium of the St. Jude’s Correctional Center for Juvenile Delinquency remained thick with the scent of wet wool and industrial disinfectant. Margaret Holloway stood by the glass partition, her reflection ghostly against the gray sky, watching the young man on the other side. He was called Arthur, though the file listed him as Subject 402. He sat on a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe mud was cold against my shins. It sucked at my boots with a wet, viscous sound, like a dying animal. I did not look back. I could not. To look back was to admit the weight of what I carried, and I had no strength left to bear it. "Run, Thomas," a voice whispered. It was not my own. It was the wind, or the ghosts in the hedges, or the madness taking root in my skull. "Run, or they will take...0 Comments 0 Shares 41 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe rain stopped. The silence was heavy. It pressed against the glass. It pressed against the skin. Julian stood by the window. He watched the water recede. The town lay below. Gray. Wet. Dead. He checked his watch. The face was cracked. The hands were frozen. It had been three days. Since the order came. Since the map was drawn. The bridge was the target. The old stone bridge. The one over the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe rain fell on the city like a static charge. It was a gray, relentless drizzle that turned the asphalt into a mirror for the streetlights. I walked with my head down. My boots were heavy. They were black leather. I had worn them for three years. They were my armor. They were my identity. I was a fighter. I was a warrior in a concrete jungle. I wore my violence like a coat. It fit me well. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe stone chapel of St. Jude’s stood at the edge of the moor, a jagged finger of gray limestone pointing accusingly at the bruised sky. I had walked for three days to reach it, my boots worn thin against the mud, my mind worn thinner against the silence. I am not a man accustomed to walking, nor to silence, but the nature of my inquiry demanded a pilgrimage of the body before it could accept...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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