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The Faded ShieldThe air in the Crag of St. Jude tasted of copper and old blood, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and refused to wash away. I walked with the weight of the world in my stomach, not from hunger, but from the terrible, humming presence of the Thing inside me. It was not a monster in the way the villagers’ stories described, with scales and claws and a mouth full of jagged teeth....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grief that coated the wet asphalt of the district in a sheen of black oil. You stood in the doorway of the precinct, the heavy oak door groaning against its frame, and watched the wraiths of the city dissolve into the gray mist. Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed with a frequency that seemed to vibrate in your molars, a sound...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ChronicleThe rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the world into a watercolor painting left out in the damp, and I remember thinking, as I pulled the woolen blanket tighter around my shoulders, that the house itself was breathing, a slow, wet exhalation of old wood and damp stone that smelled of peat and decay. I was walking the long, dim corridor toward the east...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe rain hit the cobblestones like a thousand small, angry fists. I watched it from the window. My hands trembled. They always did now. The tremor started in the tips of my fingers. It crept up the wrists. It ate the strength from my forearms. I could no longer hold a needle steady. I could no longer tie a shoe lace. I was thirty-two years old. I was failing. The coat hung on the hook by the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ChronicleI woke with the taste of iron and old dust on my tongue, the dream still clinging to the corners of my mind like a wet wool sock that refuses to dry, a heavy, suffocating weight that pressed against my ribs as the grey light of the morning crept through the cracks in the shutters of my small office in the old quarter of Ashford. It had been a dream of water, deep and black, where something...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Community Center smelled of boiled cabbage and old carpet, a scent that had seeped into the very fibers of the building over forty years of potlucks and parish meetings, and Gerald Thorne stood at the center of it all, holding a ceramic mug that had once been the color of the sea but was now the color of a bruise, its glaze chipped away in a jagged line that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe man in the grey suit stands by the window. He does not look at you. "You are here," he says. You are here. The room is cold. It smells of damp stone and old ink. The light is grey. It falls through tall, narrow panes. The glass is thick. It distorts the world outside. You see your reflection. It is pale. Your hands are pale. They rest on the desk. The desk is oak. It is scarred. It is worn...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe hall of the Guild of Antiquities was thick with the scent of beeswax and old paper, a heavy, cloying atmosphere that pressed against your skin like a wet wool blanket. You sat at the long oak table, your hands folded tightly over a silver key, the metal cold and unyielding beneath your fingers. The key was the object of your obsession, the artifact that had consumed your waking hours and...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe rain had not stopped for three days. It fell with a steady, indifferent rhythm against the tin roof of the station. I stood on the platform, watching the steam curl from the locomotive. My coat was thin. The wind cut through it. I held my bag tight. Inside was a glass mirror. Small. Circular. The rim was brass. It had belonged to my father. He had polished it every morning. He had looked...0 Comments 0 Shares 10 Views 0 Reviews
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