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The Distant PromiseThe mirror cracked. Not with a bang. With a sigh. A thin, spiderweb fracture spread from the center of the glass. It started at the eye. Then it ran down the cheek. Thomas stood still. He did not blink. He watched the lines multiply. They were sharp. They were white. They were his own veins. He was a captain. Or he had been. The rank felt heavy now. A stone in his pocket. A stone in his chest....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneI have always dreamed of the chisel, that heavy, iron-boned thing which does not care for the softness of the stone or the trembling of the hand that wields it, and in the dream I am standing in a courtyard paved with slate that stretches out toward a horizon where the sky is the color of a bruise, and there is a throne in the center of it all, a massive, jagged thing of black marble that seems...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe soup in the bowl was cold, a thick, beige sludge that had begun to congeal in the center. Thomas sat in the corner of the staff cafeteria, the linoleum beneath his chair sticky with old spills. He was a man who had spent twenty years holding a line, a perimeter, a boundary. Now, he held a spoon. The institution hummed around him, a low, electric drone that vibrated in his teeth. This was...0 Comments 0 Shares 37 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe carriage wheels groaned against the packed earth of the road, a rhythmic, wooden complaint that matched the hollow ache in Elias Thorne’s chest as he traveled toward the estate of his late mentor, the formidable Judge Aldous Blackwood. It was a journey of three hours through the mist-choked valleys of the industrial north, where the air tasted of coal smoke and wet iron, and the sky hung...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe dream was a house made of teeth, white and jagged against a sky the color of bruised plums, and in the center of the room stood a table carved from a single, unbroken bone. Wren sat at the table, his hands resting on the smooth, cold surface, and he felt the vibration of a sound that was not a sound, but a pressure behind his eyes. He woke with the taste of chalk in his mouth, the sheets...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrontierThe map was wrong. It had always been wrong, but only now, standing in the mud of the valley with the rain hammering against my oiled canvas coat, did I realize how deeply the error had been woven into the fabric of my life. We had been walking for three days. My boots were heavy, soaked through to the bone, and every step felt like a negotiation with the earth itself. The forest here was not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe rain does not fall here; it rises, a cold, silvery mist that clings to your skin like the memory of a shroud, and you stand in the center of the Great Hall, holding the single, withered sprig of holly that you have carried across the threshold of the dying world. It is a small thing, this plant, brown and brittle at the edges, yet it holds a life so fierce and green in its core that it...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographThe rain had been falling for three days, turning the mud on the road into a thick, sucking slurry that threatened to swallow the horses’ hooves whole. Thomas Ashworth sat rigid in the saddle, his hands white-knuckled around the reins, watching the grey mist cling to the pine forest like a shroud. He was a man of thirty winters, though the beard on his jaw looked older, rougher, worn by a life...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe van idled. It rattled like a dying dog. Miles got out. He stretched. His back popped. He looked at the house. It was gray. It stood on the hill. It was the Whitmore estate. Or what was left of it. The fence was down. The grass was high. Miles walked up the path. It was cracked. Weeds pushed through the concrete. He had the file in his hand. It was thin. One page. He knew what it said. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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