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The Wistful ThroneThe alehouse smelled of wet wool and woodsmoke, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the back of your throat. You sat at the head of the long oak table, your hands wrapped around a mug of stout that had gone cold an hour ago. The fire in the hearth crackled, spitting embers onto the flagstones, but the heat did not reach you. It never did. You were the Mason, the builder of the Holloway Spire,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden GreenhouseThe roots were dry. That was the first thing I noticed. They should have been slick with loam, heavy with water, but they crumbled like burnt toast between my fingers. I held the stem up to the light filtering through the glass. It was a single shoot. Green. Alive. But the base was brittle. I am a gardener. Or I was. The title is a legal fiction now. A status. I sit in the center of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MasterThe vial shattered on the linoleum floor of the sterile breakroom, a sound like a small, sharp scream that cut through the hum of the ventilation system. It was a Tuesday, though the day of the week felt irrelevant in the face of the sudden, violent disruption of order. Dr. Elara Vance stood frozen, her hands hovering in the air, trembling with a vibration that seemed to originate from the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe air in the ventilation shaft tasted of rust and ozone, a metallic tang that coated my tongue and made me want to gag, but I held my breath, counting the seconds until the next sweep of the drone’s red light, a beam that cut through the darkness like a surgical incision, revealing the dust motes dancing in the stagnant air, each one a tiny, suspended ghost of the life we had left behind in...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden RitualThe mortar bowl is chipped. You see the fracture line running through the clay like a vein of quartz, cold and hard. You hold it with both hands. The wood of the pestle bites into your palms. It is wet. It is thick. It smells of iron and rain. Your brother is screaming. He is not screaming in pain. He is screaming in rage. He is standing by the door of the cellar. The door is iron-banded. It is...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe ink was wet, still trembling on the parchment of his mind, when Major Silas Vane woke to the sound of rain drumming against the reinforced glass of the command center. He was not in his bed. He was not in the quiet, dust-mote-filled sanctuary of his suburban home where his wife, Elara, had long since drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. He was here, in the sterile white hum of the Federal...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostYou are tired. It is a deep, marrow-level weariness. The kind that does not sleep. You sit in the kitchen of the big house on Elm Street. It is night. The rain hits the glass. Tap. Tap. Tap. This house is wrong. It is too big. The ceilings are too high. The air is too thin. You came here to hide. Or to wait. You tell yourself you are waiting for the letter. The letter from the office. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownYou wake up with the taste of iron and old pennies on your tongue, a metallic slick that coats the back of your throat and refuses to clear, as if you have been chewing on the very concept of debt for a decade. The air in the room is thick, heavy with the scent of damp wool and the faint, cloying sweetness of rotting lilies that sit in a vase on the nightstand, their petals turning brown at the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineOctober 14, 1998. The rain here does not fall; it hovers, a gray static that blurs the edge of the world against the asphalt. I am writing this by the light of a single, flickering bulb in the back of the truck, the engine cold, the vibration ceased. My hands are shaking, not from the cold, though the air bites at my knuckles, but from the terrible, hollow silence that has settled into my...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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