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The Wistful SkylineThe glass was cold against my palm, a smooth, unyielding circle that held the entire, distorted office of the Behavioral Integrity Division in its center. I had come to say goodbye, though the word felt too soft, too domestic, for the severance of my career and my self. Margaret stood across the steel desk, her face a mask of professional concern that did not reach her eyes, which were hard and...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe rain had not stopped for three days. It hammered against the slate roof of the Ashworth estate, a relentless, gray drumming that turned the world outside the window into a blurred smear of mud and dead leaves. I sat in the high-backed chair in the study, my boots still caked in the wet earth of the garden. My hands were steady. They were always steady. But my heart was a trapped bird,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe bell tolls not for the hour, but for the weight of your sin, a deep, resonant thud that vibrates through the stone floor and into the marrow of your bones. You are in the scriptorium, the air thick with the smell of oak gall and damp parchment, and your hands are stained violet with ink. You are not here to write. You are here to remember, and the remembering is a kind of death. The abbot,...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe jar sat on the desk. It was glass. Clear. Empty. Dr. Elias Thorne stared at it. His hands trembled. Not from cold. From fear. The room was cold. Stone walls. High ceilings. Dust motes danced in the thin light. He was the court physician. Or so they called him. To the Queen, he was a tool. To the court, a curiosity. To himself, a prisoner. He had served for ten years. Ten years of silence....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe ink was drying on the ledger when Elias Vane first noticed the smell of ozone. It hung in the air of the precinct station like a wet dog, sharp and metallic, cutting through the stale tobacco and old coffee that usually defined the room. Outside, the rain hammered against the soot-stained glass, blurring the neon signs of the industrial district into smeared streaks of red and blue. Elias...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe air in the Aetheric Reclamation Zone smelled of ozone and wet slate, a scent that had long since overgrown the memory of rain. I stood at the edge of the precipice, my boots sinking slightly into the grey, pulsating moss that carpeted the valley floor. Above me, the sky was not a sky but a churning ceiling of industrial smog and faint, electric lightning, the residue of the Great Filter...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe blade was in my hand. It was not steel. It was light. It was cold. I held it up. The air screamed. "Drop it," said the voice. It was not a voice. It was a pressure. I did not drop it. I tightened my grip. My fingers bled. The blood was black. It smelled of iron and rain. "Who are you?" I asked. The air answered. "I am the end of the line." I looked at my sister. She was behind me. She was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe dream starts with the sound of wool tearing. It is a sharp, wet rip, like a fish coming off a hook, and you are holding the end of the thread. You look down. You are wearing the shawl. It is not your shawl, but it fits you so perfectly it feels grown from your skin, the fibers knitting themselves into the creases of your knuckles, the soft loops catching on the calluses of your palms. It is...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe knife is in your hand. The handle is slick with blood that is not yours. It is black. It is cold. It smells of iron and wet earth. You are in the cellar. The air is thick. It tastes of mold and old bones. You do not know how you got here. You do not know why you are holding the blade. Your heart hammers against your ribs. A violent drum. A trapped bird. You look down. The floor is stone....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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