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The Wistful CrossroadsThe velvet lining of the coat was a deep, bruised purple, the kind that seemed to absorb the light from the chandeliers rather than reflect it, and you had worn it so many times that the fabric had stretched at the elbows and frayed at the cuffs, revealing the coarse wool beneath like a secret shame. It was a garment that had once belonged to a man of consequence, a figure who moved through the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe iron taste of blood mixes with the dust of the old world, coating your tongue as you press your back against the cold stone of the Senate’s undercroft. Your lungs burn, a ragged, animal thing, trying to pull air from the stagnant, moldy dark. You are not a soldier anymore. You are a prisoner of a system that has forgotten how to breathe. Above you, the heavy doors of the Hall of Records...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ApartmentThe hall of the Department of Municipal Order hummed with the low, electric thrum of industry, a sound that had long since ceased to be merely mechanical and had become the very pulse of the building’s soul. It was a vast, cavernous space, lined with the polished mahogany of desks that had witnessed a century of bureaucratic judgment, the air thick with the scent of dust, dried ink, and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe iron gate of the Ministry of Internal Security did not open. It slid. It moved with a hydraulic hum that vibrated in my molars, a low, tectonic groan that seemed to rise from the bedrock of the city itself. I stood on the wet pavement, the rain misting my uniform, and watched the massive slab of brushed steel retract into the earth. Behind it lay the atrium, a cathedral of glass and steel...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe flood took the bridge at Coldwater Hollow and the diesel pumps behind Dale's Feed and Seed, and it was coming for the Whitmore house. Deputy James Whitmore heard about it from Sheriff Earl Bradshaw, not from any relation, because he had no relation left there. He was parked behind the gas station in the next county over, eating a hot dog with the radio low. "Whitmore, you copy? They say the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale AltarThe kettle was boiling. It sang a high, thin note that cut through the grey air of the room. I looked at the teacup on the table. It was white. It had a chip in the rim. I had bought it from a stall in the market three days ago. It was cheap. It was mine. "Is it ready?" my brother asked. He stood by the window. The fog was thick outside. The streetlights were on. They looked like pale eyes...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BannerThe bone was in my hand. It was white and cold. I walked through the fog with a group of boys. We were the Watch. We walked to the edge of the town. We looked for the thing. The thing that came from the mist. "Keep your eyes open," said Thomas. He held his sword tight. His knuckles were pale. "It takes the heart," he whispered. "It takes the heart first." I looked at my hands. The bone was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe rain did not fall. It poured. It hammered against the tin roof of the cottage like a thousand angry fists, a relentless, drumming violence that turned the night into a blur of grey and black. I sat on the edge of the bed, my fingers laced tightly around the hem of my nightgown. My heart was a bird in a cage, beating fast and frantic against the bars of my ribs. Outside, the world was...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe banquet hall smells of roasted pork, stale wine, and the metallic tang of old fear, a scent that has seeped into the very plaster of the walls of the St. Jude’s Correctional Facility for the Mentally Deranged, a place where the living are kept safe from their own minds and the dead are kept in the archives. You are sitting at the head of a long table, your hands trembling slightly under the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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