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The Golden ScarIn the industrial estate off Cass Folly Road, where the canals ran black with reflected sky and the warehouses slept like hibernating animals, there was a unit that had been empty for eleven months. It belonged, technically, to Edmund Ashworth-Cross — a translator of Portuguese poetry into English, thirty-nine years old, someone who had spent his career making other people's absence audible....0 Comments 0 Shares 11 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe dream tastes of iron and old rain. You are standing in the center of the round room. The walls are high. They are made of stone. The stone is cold. It presses against your skin. You feel the weight of it. You feel the weight of the years. You are old. Your back is stiff. Your hands are rough. You are the Keeper. You have kept this place for a hundred years. Or perhaps a thousand. Time is a...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended curtain of grey mist that blurred the edges of the city into a smear of charcoal and slate. In his dream, Elias Thorne stood in the center of a vast, circular atrium, the air thick with the scent of wet stone and old paper. He was wearing a mask of white porcelain, smooth and featureless, and he felt it growing heavier, fusing into his skin...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe rain did not fall. It hung. A grey, suspended weight over the fields. I stood at the gate of the estate. My father’s hands were cold. They wrapped my wrists. He did not speak. He pressed the jar into my palm. It was heavy. Glass. Thick. Green. Inside, something moved. Not water. Not mud. Something alive. It pulsed against the glass. A slow, red beat. My father’s face was a mask. Pale....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ApartmentThe rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world and turned the cobblestones of the old district into a slick, dark mirror reflecting the dim, amber glow of the streetlamps, which hummed with a low, electric buzz that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of my bones. I stood at the window of the upper floor, my hand resting on the cold glass,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostThe train left Harrowgate at 9:14. The platform was wet. Arthur Vance watched the tail lights fade into the mist. He held a leather folio against his chest. Inside, the manuscript waited. It was a complete draft. Twenty years of work. The air smelled of coal smoke and damp wool. He walked toward the station exit. His coat was thin. The wind cut through it. He was a scholar of comparative...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded DustThe frost cracked the window glass. A spiderweb of ice. I watched it spread. It ate the view. I am dying. Or I am leaving. The words are the same. My lungs burn. The air is thin here. Too thin for a man who has carried the weight of the world in his chest for thirty years. I left the house in 1948. I am returning in 1974. The house is old. The wood is dry. It wants to burn. I do not want to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe iron gate of the Citadel of Aethelgard groaned shut behind Sir Elias Thorne, the sound a low, resonant moan that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of his bones, sealing him in with the cold, metallic silence of the institution he had sworn to protect. He stood in the antechamber, the air thick with the scent of ozone and old stone, his hand resting on the hilt of his longsword, a weapon...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe alarm did not chime; it screamed. It was a sound that tore through the sterile, beige quiet of the Bureau’s sub-basement, a jagged tear in the fabric of the morning. Elias Thorne was not at his desk. He was in the containment cell, three levels down, where the air tasted of ozone and old blood. He stood before the glass, his hand pressed against the cold surface, watching the figure on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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