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The Golden ScarThe air in the canteen tasted of rust and burnt sugar. It was a thick, cloying flavor that coated the tongue, a residue of the synthetic ration bars they called "Amber." The room was a cavern of concrete, lit by the humming flicker of gas lamps that buzzed like trapped wasps. Silas sat alone at a table bolted to the floor. His hands, scarred and red, gripped a tin cup. The metal was cold. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe fog did not roll in. It seeped, a slow exhalation from the black water, swallowing the spires of St. Jude’s and the jagged teeth of the old breakwater. Arthur Penhaligon sat in the high-backed chair of his study, the leather creaking beneath him like a dry bone. The room was cold. It had been cold for three weeks, ever since the heating system failed and the village council, led by Mayor...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CrossingThe tower stood apart from the village, a monolith of gray stone that swallowed the light. It was not a church, nor a watchtower, though it served both purposes in the eyes of the people below. Inside, the air was still. It tasted of dust and old iron. Silas Vane sat in the corner of the uppermost chamber. He was alone. He had been alone for three days. He was a man of the law. Or he had been....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe rain in London did not fall so much as it settled, a grey dust that clogged the pores of the skin and the gears of the city alike. Elias Thorne walked with a limp that had become his second name, the left leg dragging slightly behind the right in a rhythm that was less a step and more a surrender. He was a man of few words, which suited the era, for words in the Victorian underbelly were...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe dream was always the same, a recurring hemorrhage of light and salt. I stood on a deck that wasn’t there, the wood slick with a rain that fell upward, and in my hands I held a coat. It was a heavy thing, woolen and dark, smelling of ozone and old smoke, and I was trying to button it on a man who was made entirely of mist. He had no face, only the suggestion of a jaw, the hollow where eyes...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MirrorThe rain in Ashgrove did not wash things clean. It made the grime slicker. It pressed the city’s breath against the glass of every window. Martha stood by the door of the small flat she shared with her brother, Silas. She held a potted fern in her hands. It was dying. Its fronds curled inward, brown and brittle, like the fingers of a skeleton. She had bought it three days ago. Three days since...0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe vibration started in the sub-basement, a low-frequency hum that bypassed my ears and settled directly into the marrow of my shinbones, a sensation so profound and physical that it felt less like sound and more like the building itself was drawing a long, shuddering breath through the concrete and the steel. I was standing on the third floor of the Whitmore & Associates industrial park, my...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusYou wake in the center of a tent that smells of wet wool and stale rosewater, the air thick with the cloying sweetness of rotting fruit, and you realize that your hands are no longer yours but are instead the gnawed, splintered remains of a sugar skull, the bone-white surface crumbling into dust at every slight movement, a sensation that is both horrifyingly tactile and strangely familiar, as...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WhispersThe rain had been falling on the glass walls of the atrium for three hours, a relentless, gray curtain that blurred the city outside into a watercolor of smudged lights and indistinct shapes, and I stood there in the center of the marble floor, my shoes soaking through, watching the steam rise from the puddles as if they were ghosts trying to escape the earth. I was holding a pair of white silk...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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