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The Pale ShadowsThe wool is gray. It is coarse. It sits on your back. It smells of damp earth and old sweat. You are cold. The air in the chapel is still. The candles burn low. They gutter. The wax runs. It pools on the stone floor. You watch the wax. It is white. It is hard. It is brittle. You are a scholar. You study the texts. You copy the words. You do not question the words. You are careful. You are...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe bell tolled. It was a heavy sound. Bronze against air. Eldric stood at the gate. He waited. The fog rolled in. It smelled of damp stone. And old blood. A horse neighed. A single horse. It was brown. Its coat was matted. Its eyes were dull. Eldric touched its neck. The flesh was cold. The horse shied. Eldric stepped back. He looked at the road. It stretched north. Into the mist. No other...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, cold mist that clung to the canvas of the truck’s cab and seeped into the joints of the old diesel engine, which rattled with a rhythm that matched the slow, grinding ache in Elias’s left knee. He drove the route he had driven for twenty years, a stretch of highway in the Pacific Northwest that cut through dense, fog-choked cedar...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe fog rolled in off the bay. It swallowed the lighthouse. It swallowed the pier. It swallowed us. I held the line. The rope bit into my palms. The salt spray stung my eyes. I did not blink. Thomas stood behind me. He was small. He was quiet. He always was. We had been at this post for three years. Three years of gray water and gray sky. We did not speak much. Words were for other men. Men who...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe stone bites back. You feel it in the knuckles, a dull, throbbing ache that travels up the forearm and settles deep in the shoulder, a constant companion in the gray morning light. You are standing in the courtyard of the Holloway estate, the air thick with the scent of wet limestone and old blood. The gate is locked. It has been locked for thirty years, since the last of your kind was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe ink had long since dried on the skin of the manuscript, yet the words themselves remained wet, slick and trembling against the silence of the study, and I sat there in the heavy, industrial gloom of the Victorian evening, listening to the tick of the clock that seemed to count not seconds but the slow, inevitable erosion of my own sanity, while the portrait of my dear friend Arthur hung on...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceThe sky tore open. Thunder. A crack like bone. I held the line. Rain. Slick mud. The village below us shuddered. It was not a storm. Not truly. It was a breaking. A severing. My name is Elias. I am the Keeper of the Gate. I have worn the grey coat for forty years. The coat is heavy. It smells of damp wool and old smoke. I do not remember the first day. I only remember the weight. Eleanor was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded DustThe ink is black. The ink is wet. It smells of iron. I hold the pen. My hand shakes. No. It does not shake. It is still. It is very still. "You are a fool, Thomas." My wife speaks. She does not look at me. She looks at the window. The glass is fogged. The world outside is gray. The world inside is white. The walls are white. The sheets are white. The paper is white. "I am not a fool," I say. My...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ParadoxThe rain fell hard on the tin roof of the pub. It hammered a steady, wet rhythm. The air smelled of stale beer and wet wool. Elias stood by the bar. He held his glass. He did not drink. The glass was empty. It had been empty for an hour. The room was full. Men sat in the booths. They wore dark coats. Their faces were pale. Their eyes were low. No one looked at Elias. They looked at the floor....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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