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The Distant AffairThe rain did not fall. It pressed. Margaret stood by the window of the high tower. The glass was cold. It bit her palms. She wore the blue dress. It was stiff. It smelled of dust. And old blood. Below, the city moved. It was a sea of black umbrellas. They swayed like weeds. The smoke from the factories choked the sky. It was a brown, thick fog. It hid the stars. It hid the truth. She looked at...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe leather strap of the heavy brass-bound ledger case, which sat upon the floorboards of the scribe’s cramped study, had begun to fray at the very edge where it met the clasp. It was a delicate unraveling, a slow hemorrhage of threads that bled into the dust, yet to the eyes of those who walked the cobblestone streets of Oakhaven, it was a beacon of rot. The town, a place where the mist clung...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarYou are standing in the kitchen, holding a porcelain plate that has shattered into three distinct, jagged pieces, and you are trying to remember if you dropped it or if it simply decided to cease existing, because the air in this house is so thick with the scent of ozone and wet stone that it has become impossible to distinguish between the physical world and the one that has been leaking in...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe ink bled. Margaret watched it spread across the parchment. It was a stain. A dark, wet bruise on the white. The factory smelled of coal smoke and wet wool. The air was thick. It pressed against her lungs. She was not a spy. She was not a traitor. She was only a girl with ink on her fingers. But the men in black coats did not care about intent. They cared about the mark. The room was small....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe banquet hall smelled of roasted pork and wet wool. It was a heavy, cloying scent that clung to the stone walls of the Guild Hall in Ashworth, a city of narrow streets and taller spires. Master Elias Thorne sat at the head of the long oak table, his hands resting on the polished wood. He was a man of letters, a scholar of the old texts, but here he was a guest at the table of the Wardens....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrontierThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey curtain that blurred the boundary between the road and the sky. Elara sat in the back of the station wagon, her hands wrapped tightly around the leather-bound journal resting on her lap. The leather was soft, worn smooth by decades of thumbs, the gold lettering on the spine faded to a ghostly whisper. It was not a book of stories, but...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe air in the archives always tasted of copper and old dust, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and settled into the creases of my skin. I had been cataloging the vellum scrolls for three weeks, my fingers stained with the iron gall ink that seemed to seep into my very marrow, and I could feel the boundary of the room shrinking around me, a physical pressure that matched the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe banquet hall smelled of wet wool and boiled cabbage. You stood at the end of the long mahogany table, your hands stained yellow from the saffron you had crushed between your palms. The air was thick. It hung in the rafters like a heavy, invisible cloth. Margaret sat at the head of the table. She did not look at you. She ate her mutton with the precision of a surgeon. Her fork cut the meat...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended gray curtain woven from the soot and steam of the industrial district, a perpetual mist that clung to your clothes and tasted of copper and old iron. You stood at the edge of the wharf, watching the last of the night shift board the steamers that hissed and groaned against the dark water, their lights smearing into long, bruised streaks as...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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