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The Faded ChronicleThe mirror is cracked. You see the fracture line running from the top corner down to your eye. It does not split the glass. It just sits there. A thin, white scar. You touch it. Cold. Your reflection touches back. It does not blink. You are in the apartment. The walls are bare. The light is grey. It is morning. Or maybe it is night. It does not matter. The light is the same. You sit on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded GuestThe rain has been falling for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that blurs the edges of the world and softens the sharpness of your hunger into a dull, thrumming ache behind your ribs. You are standing in the center of the room, which is not a room you remember building, nor a room you remember entering, yet the air smells of wet stone and dried lavender, a scent so ancient it feels less...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden GreenhouseThe soup was thick. It smelled of iron and old pennies. We sat in the Great Hall of the Mill. The walls were stone, sweating in the humid air. I looked at my hands. They were red. Not from the dye. From the work. "Pour," said Alderman Harkness. He sat at the head of the table. His chair was high. His voice was low. He did not look at me. He looked at the bowl. "I am full," I said. Harkness...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale EchoThe rain against the windows of St. Jude’s Home for the Aged did not fall so much as it pressed, a grey, persistent hand against the glass, blurring the world outside into a smear of wet asphalt and dying maple leaves. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of boiled cabbage, antiseptic, and the sweet, cloying decay of lilies in the corner of the dining hall. Elias Thorne sat at the head of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceThe feast is loud. You sit. You watch. The candles burn. The wax drips. It looks like tears. It looks like blood. You do not eat. You do not drink. You hold the cup. Your hands shake. They do not stop. The table groans. The plates clink. The noise is a wall. You are inside the wall. You are alone. Thomas is beside you. He eats. He laughs. His voice is high. It cuts the air. He points at you. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceThe train moves through the dark. You are on it. You sit by the window, but you do not look out. You look at the object in your hand. It is a small, brass bell. It has no clapper. It is silent. It is warm. It has been warm since you picked it up in the station. The station was empty. The air smelled of rain and iron. You had come to leave. You had packed one bag. It was light. You carried it...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MythThe milk was warm. It sat in a white porcelain bowl, steam rising in slow, lazy curls that smelled of iron and old stone. I drank. The liquid burned my tongue. It was not milk. It was something thicker, darker, tinged with the red of rust. I did not spit it out. I drank it all. The bowl remained. It would always be there. Waiting. I am Marcus. I am in a place that has no name. The walls are...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe dust in the hallway is thick, a suspended galaxy of amber and grey that hangs in the slanted light of the afternoon, undisturbed by the breath of any living soul, and you stand in the center of it, holding the brass key in your palm as if it were a hot coal, feeling the heat of its metal bleed into the skin of your hand, a physical reminder of the weight of the office you have just vacated...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CellarThe mud sucked at her boots. It was a cold, wet grip. Sarah did not pull away. She stood in the ditch. The rain was a fine mist. It coated her skin. It felt like oil. She watched the line of soldiers. They moved in silence. Their boots crunched on the gravel. They passed her. One by one. They did not look down. She held the map in her hand. The paper was soft. It had lost its stiffness. The ink...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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