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The Pale ExileThe garden is dead. You know this before you open your eyes. You know it because the air tastes of rot and old iron, a flavor that has settled into your sinuses since you were a girl. You wake in the high tower, the window facing east, where the light should be golden but is instead the color of bruised skin. The stone is cold against your back. You do not move. You never move until the sun has...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe rain does not fall so much as it hangs in the air, a thick, gray curtain of mist that erodes the edges of the world and pulls you inward until you are nothing but a wet, shivering thing of bone and guilt. You are standing in the center of the study, a room that has smelled of old paper and pipe tobacco for as long as you can remember, yet today the air tastes of copper and iron, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe air in the courtyard of the Abbey of St. Jude tastes of damp stone and the metallic tang of old iron, a flavor you have come to know as intimately as the rhythm of your own breathing, a rhythm that has slowed to a heavy, deliberate thrum in your chest, mirroring the ancient, moss-eaten clocks that tick away the hours in the shadows of the cloister walls. You stand there, your hands clasped...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe feast was a lie. Tom sat at the end of the table. The house was big. It was too big. The walls hummed. The floorboards creaked. Dust motes danced in the gray light. They fell like snow. They settled on the white tablecloth. They stayed. The air smelled of rot. It smelled of wet earth. It smelled of old blood. Tom picked up his fork. He stabbed a piece of meat. The meat was gray. It looked...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RootThe van was too small for three people and a lifetime of accumulated debris, yet Margaret sat in the back with her knees pressed against her chest, feeling as though the vehicle itself was contracting around her, squeezing the air out of her lungs. It was a Tuesday in late October, the kind of day where the light in the Pacific Northwest feels less like sunshine and more like a pale, exhausted...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThe fire in the hearth was not a gentle thing, but a hungry, snapping beast that devoured the oak logs with a violence that seemed to shake the very stones of the chapel, and Margaret stood in the center of the nave, her hands bound with the thick, coarse hemp of the executioner’s cord, feeling the fibers dig into her wrists until the blood throbbed in time with her own terrified, hammering...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant NightmareThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the gravel drive into a slurry of brown mud that sucked at the tires of the sedan as it climbed the final, steep grade toward the Institute. Arthur Penhaligon sat in the back seat, his knees pressed together, watching the world blur through the wet glass. He was a man of fifty-two, with the kind of face that seemed to have been carved from the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe iron door of the keep groaned open, a sound like a bone snapping in the deep cold, and Silas stood on the threshold with his hands bound by chains that had long since worn the skin raw. He did not look back at the garrison marching him in. He did not look up at the pale stone spire that pierced the gray sky, a needle stitching the earth to the heavens. He only looked down at the mud, where...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MirrorThe fog that settled over the industrial district of Ashworth in the early hours of the morning was not merely weather but a living, breathing entity, a thick, grey wool that strangled the gas lamps and muffled the clanging of the ironworks into a dull, rhythmic thud that you felt in your teeth rather than hearing with your ears, and you stood at the window of your cramped attic room, your...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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