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The Pale PathThe dream was a mouth. Not a human mouth. Not the pink, fleshy thing that tasted strawberries or whispered secrets. It was a cavern of wet stone, vast and dark, where the air hung heavy with the scent of rotting apples and old copper. In the dream, Thomas stood on a ledge of slick slate, holding a white pill. It was impossibly large, the size of a marble, glowing with a soft, sickly...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SuspectYou wake in the cold. The air is sharp, tasting of iron and stale tea. You are not in your own skin. You are in the skin of a man who has forgotten how to blink. The room is white. The walls are white. The light is white. It is a light that does not forgive. It is a light that strips. The clock on the wall ticks. It is a sound like a bone breaking. Slow. Rhythmic. Final. You look at your hands....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThe wind in the valley did not howl. It whispered. It scraped against the stone like a fingernail on a blackboard. A dry, persistent sound. I sat in the corner of the great hall. The torches burned low. The shadows stretched long across the flagstones. They pooled around my boots. I watched them. I did not move. My hand rested on the pommel of my sword. The leather was worn smooth. Soft. Like...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe banquet hall smelled of roasting pheasant and stale perfume, a heavy, cloying scent that seemed to coat the back of my throat. I sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, my fingers gripping the edge of the porcelain plate, the cold ceramic biting into my skin. Around me, the senior archivists laughed, their voices rising in a cacophony of clinking glasses and polished wit. They were...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe train shudders. You grip the rail. The cold bites your knuckles. You are moving. Always moving. The window is a black mirror. It reflects your face. It is a stranger’s face. Hollow eyes. A jaw set like stone. You are not who you were. You are what is left. The landscape blurs. Fields of grey stubble. Dead trees. The sky is a sheet of lead. It presses down. It weighs on your chest. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe dream began, as it always did, in the sterile, humming silence of the sub-basement, a place that existed simultaneously in the physical world and in the fractured architecture of Major Elias Thorne’s mind, where the air tasted of ozone and old copper and the fluorescent lights buzzed with a frequency that seemed to vibrate directly against the teeth. He stood before the containment unit, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of the old manor into a slick, dark mirror reflecting the bruised sky above. Elias Thorne stood by the window of the library, his reflection a ghostly overlay on the glass, watching the water trace its slow, inevitable path down the pane. He was a man of books and quiet routines, a scholar of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueThe bread is hard. You have held it for three days. It sits in the pocket of your heavy wool coat, a dense, rectangular block of dried grain and salt. It is your only possession of worth. The rest of your kit is mud and blood. You stand at the edge of the moor. The wind does not blow; it scours. It strips the warmth from your skin and the sound from your throat. You are a Captain. You have a...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe iron lungs wheezed, a rhythmic, mechanical groan that seemed to synchronize with the dripping of condensation from the high, soot-stained rafters of the factory floor. I was not there to inspect the looms, though that was what my badge said, and though that was what the men in the boardroom in London had asked for. I was there to find the leak in the soul of the machine, the place where the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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