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The Pale AltarThe rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the high windows of the faculty office, a rhythmic, liquid static that filled the silence. I sat in my chair, the leather worn smooth by decades of nervous energy. On the desk, a single white lily lay in a vase of stale water. It did not wilt. It did not change. It remained, stark and pale, an anchor in the shifting fog of my...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe fog rolls in thick and white, tasting of iron and wet stone. It presses against the glass of the watchtower until the world outside becomes a blur, a smear of gray nothingness. You sit at the desk, your hands resting on the cold wood, feeling the vibration of the machine beneath your fingers. It is a Tuesday. Or a Thursday. The days have begun to bleed into one another, a continuous,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe rain slicked the asphalt of Route 9. It was a black, oily sheet. Officer Dale Miller drove too fast. The wipers screamed. They were broken. He let them go. He held the bottle. A glass vial. Thick amber liquid inside. It hummed. Not a sound. A vibration. It buzzed against his palm. The heat of it seeped through his glove. "Easy, Dale." The voice came from the passenger seat. No one sat...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden GreenhouseMiles woke in the dark. He was not in his bed. He stood in a garden of glass. The air was thick. It smelled of wet earth and ozone. Vines twisted around the iron ribs of the dome. They were not green. They were gold. They pulsed with a slow, arterial light. Miles touched a leaf. It was warm. It hummed against his palm. He had been dreaming of this place for years. He had carried it across the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostThe rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the world and softened the sharpness of the steel doors you pushed through every morning. You stood in the center of the atrium of the Department of Corrections administrative building, the floor tiles cold against the soles of your boots, and you watched the reflection of your uniform in the darkened...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe Great Hall of King Aldous did not merely stand; it loomed, a monolith of blackened oak and stained glass that seemed to drink the light of the world and spit it back out as a pale, bruised twilight, and in the center of that suffocating silence, Sir Thomas Bradshaw held the mirror that had been his father’s, and before him, the King’s own reflection stared back, not with the familiar cold...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe iron gate did not creak, for it was not iron, but the solidified breath of a thousand centuries of silence, and Sir Thomas Bradshaw stood before it with the rigid posture of a man who had forgotten how to breathe, his armor, forged in the soot and sweat of the mortal realm, feeling less like protection and more like a cage that had slowly grown around his bones over the last decade of...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe rain fell upon the slate roofs of the manor house with a rhythmic, hollow persistence, a sound that seemed to seep into the very marrow of Colonel Julian Thorne’s bones. He sat in the high-backed leather chair by the cold hearth, his uniform immaculate despite the hour, the brass buttons catching the faint, flickering glow of the dying fire. It was a dream, or perhaps a fever, for the air...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale PathThe ink had dried on the letter, but it had never been sent, and now it lay on the oak table like a dead leaf, brittle and brown, waiting for a wind that would not come. Thomas Bradshaw sat in the high-backed chair, his hands folded over the parchment, feeling the weight of the words as if they were physical stones pressing against his palms. Outside the window, the rain lashed against the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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