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The Wistful AtlasThe rain hammers the tin roof of the watchtower. It is a rhythmic, violent drumming that drowns out the wind. You are up there. You are always up there. The wood of the bench is wet and slick against your trousers. Your boots are soaked through. You do not move. You do not shiver. You have learned to let the cold settle into your bones until it becomes part of you, a second skeleton of ice....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe engine coughs, a wet, rattling sound that vibrates through the soles of your boots. You are in the belly of the *Iron Lung*, a steam-driven submersible of your own design, suspended in the black water of the North Atlantic. The pressure outside is a living thing, a weight that presses against the riveted hull like a giant’s palm. You check the manifold gauges. The needles tremble, dancing...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CrossingThe rain did not fall so much as it was pressed down from the ceiling of the sky, a relentless, grey static that blurred the edges of the world outside the window. I sat in the corner of the break room, a space defined by the hum of the industrial fridge and the stale scent of burnt coffee. My name is Arthur, and for the past six months, I have worked as a data archivist for the Department of...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe rain did not fall so much as it settled, a grey mist that clung to the damp stone of the keep and seeped into the marrow of anyone who dared to stand near the window. It was the season when the harvest had long since rotted in the fields and the hearth fires burned low, consuming the last of the dried wood before the deep winter set in. Inside the great hall, the silence was not empty but...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe hall was warm. The fire roared. We were many. The air smelled of roast lamb and old wood. I sat at the head. My hands were still. My face was calm. They called me a monster. They whispered it. The words cut the air. They said I ate the children. They said I drank the blood. I did not answer. I ate my bread. I drank my wine. "Look at him," said Thomas. He stood. His voice was loud. "Look at...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowI woke with the taste of iron and ozone on my tongue, the metallic tang of a storm that had broken against the glass of a window that no longer existed. The air in the room was thick, heavy with the scent of damp wool and old paper, a suffocating embrace that felt less like atmosphere and more like a physical weight pressing down on my chest. I lay there, paralyzed by a dream that refused to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe rain slicks the gravel of the unmarked road, turning the world into a smear of grey and brown, and you are running, your boots heavy with mud, your lungs burning with the cold air that tastes of iron and wet earth. You are a soldier, though not in the way that the men in the city think of soldiers, for you carry no rifle, only a heavy iron box that is warm against your chest, and you run...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe rain hammered against the leaded glass of the keep, a rhythmic, ceaseless percussion that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of your bones. You stood in the center of the great hall, the stone floor cold and damp beneath your boots, your hand resting on the pommel of a sword that felt heavier than it had a moment ago. The air was thick with the scent of wet ash and old wax, a smell that had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureYou do not know why you are running. The air tastes of copper and burnt sugar. It is the taste of the medicine. You chew it. It is dry. It is ash. You spit it out. You keep running. The road is cracked. The sky is low. A grey dome presses down on the valley. This is the End of the World, or so they tell you. It is only the quiet after the bomb. Or the silence before the next one. You are...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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