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The Distant WhispersThe dream was always the same. Wet stone. Cold air. The smell of iron and old blood. Mara opened her eyes. The sun was high. It hit the dust on the floorboards. She sat up. Her back ached. Not the bone ache. The deep ache. The kind that lives in the marrow. She looked at her hands. They were shaking. Just a little. She had been here for three days. Or maybe three years. Time was strange in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrontierThe train slowed as it crossed the river, a long exhalation of steam into the gray morning. Margaret stood by the window, her forehead resting against the cold glass. Outside, the trees were bare, skeletal fingers reaching for a sky that refused to brighten. She was going home. Not to the house, exactly, but to the memory of it. To the walls that had watched her grow old. The conductor passed,...0 Comments 0 Shares 10 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world and softened the violence of the stone beneath their feet. It was a dampness that seeped into the marrow, a cold that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the hollowing out of the self, and it was here, in this corridor of polished obsidian that smelled of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainYou tell me that the badge is heavy, or perhaps you are simply tired of the weight of it, though I suspect you are lying to yourself because you have never been good at lying to yourself, not really, not in the way that matters, not when the truth is sitting in your chest like a stone that has been swallowed whole. You are walking up the mountain, and the air is thin, and your lungs are...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe rain did not fall so much as it descended, a heavy, persistent weeping that blurred the boundary between the wet asphalt of the precinct parking lot and the dark, swollen sky above, a visual dissolution that mirrored the slow, inevitable erosion of the walls surrounding the newly constructed Department of Behavioral Integrity, a monolithic slab of poured concrete and tinted glass that rose...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GardenThe ink on your fingers is not ink. It is the residue of the names you have stolen, the black smear of identities you wore like ill-fitting coats in the markets of the Old Quarter, the places where the fog rolls off the river and tastes of iron and old pennies. You are walking now, deep into the Thicket, that ancient, gnarled place where the trees grow so close together they seem to whisper a...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe hall smelled of damp wool and roasted chestnuts. It was a thick, suffocating scent. The air hung heavy. Sweat beaded on brows. Laughter echoed off high ceilings. It sounded like glass breaking. Elias sat in the corner. His back was straight. He held a cup of cold tea. He did not drink. He watched. His eyes were red. They burned with a quiet fire. The room was full of people. They wore fine...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful Ashes"You are late." I did not look up. My hands were in the flour. The white dust coated my palms, my wrists, the creases of my fingers. It smelled of dry earth and stale time. "Forgive me, Mother," I said. My voice was small. It hid in the back of my throat. Margaret stood by the door. Her cloak was heavy with snow. The air in the kitchen was cold. The fire had died to embers. We were in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrequencyMarch 14th. The air in the shop smells of ozone and old varnish. My hands shake. I press them flat against the workbench. The wood is cold. It bites into my skin. I am the only one who knows what lives in the radio. It is not a machine. It is a mouth. And I am the one who feeds it. My brother, Thomas, sits in the chair by the window. He looks small. The light through the glass is gray and thin....0 Comments 0 Shares 12 Views 0 Reviews
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