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The Distant ClueThe mud on the road was thick and black, smelling of wet iron and rot. Elias walked. His boots were old leather, patched three times with scrap hide from a dead ox. The patch was darker than the rest. It held. He carried a bundle on his back. Inside the bundle was the grey cloak. It was his mother’s cloak. The wool was thick. It smelled of lavender and dust. He had not washed it in years. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerMara woke with the taste of iron on her tongue. The ceiling above her was not the plaster of her childhood home but the warped wood of a train car. Outside, the rain hammered against the glass, a relentless, static hiss that blurred the world into a smear of grey and green. She sat up. Her head throbbed. A sharp, bright pain, like a nail driven into the temple. She looked down at her hands....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsMara was bleeding from the nose when he kicked the door in. The wood splintered, a violent orange fracture against the grey wall. He stood in the hallway, chest heaving, a handkerchief pressed to his face. The red bloom on the white cloth was bright, almost cheerful in its absurdity. Who are you, Mara? the voice from the end of the hall asked. It was calm. Too calm. I am the one who knows what...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe mud of the trench was not merely wet earth but a living, breathing slurry of decay and iron that sucked at the boots of the men who stumbled through it, a viscous paste that held the memory of every footstep ever taken in its dark, wet belly, and I stood knee-deep in that cold, sucking void while the sky above tore open with a light so violent and white that it seemed to erase the very...0 Comments 0 Shares 16 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CrossingThe rain fell in sheets of gray steel. It hammered against the leather of Arthur’s chest. He did not feel the cold. He did not feel the mud sucking at his boots. He only felt the weight of the gold. The medallion sat against his sternum. It was warm. It was heavy. It was alive. The bridge was stone. It was old. The stones wept with rain. Arthur crossed it. His hand was on the hilt of his sword....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe rain did not fall so much as it invaded, a cold, metallic tide that seeped through the double-glazing of the clinic window and settled into the marrow of my bones. I stood in the center of the room, my back pressed against the sterile white tile of the examination counter, my hands trembling not from fear but from the sheer, vibrating tension of a bowstring pulled to its absolute limit....0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe bell does not ring. It screams. You wake. Dust coats your tongue. Thick. Gray. The air tastes of iron and wet wool. You are in the cellar. The stone floor is cold against your cheek. You sit up. Your hands shake. You look at them. They are red. Not with blood. With rust. Old rust. Deep in the creases of your knuckles. You do not remember how you got here. You do not remember the fall. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe mirror in the hallway of the suburban house on Maple Avenue did not reflect the room, but rather a vast, silent expanse of gray water, and it was into this aqueous void that Margaret Holloway looked each morning as she fastened the single, iridescent brooch to the lapel of her wool coat, a gesture that felt less like adornment and more like a ritualistic binding of her own flesh to the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverYou wake with the taste of iron and old dust on your tongue, the dream still clinging to you like wet wool, a heavy, suffocating shroud that refuses to shed the memory of a house that no longer exists in any map but in the architecture of your own grief. You are standing in the kitchen of the ancestral manor, the one your grandfather left to the wolves and the weather, the one that stood on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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