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The Distant WhispersThe rain does not fall so much as it insists, a cold and persistent drumming against the slate roof of the watchtower, a sound that has become the very rhythm of your blood since you took the post three winters ago. You are not a warrior in the way the old ballads describe, with steel clashing and blood on the lips; you are a keeper of silence, a sentinel of the threshold, your body a rigid...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BannerThe mud sucked at my boots with a wet, tearing sound as I dragged the canvas across the muddy field. It was heavy, soaked through with rain and something darker, though I could not tell which was the blood and which was the river water. My hands, raw and bleeding, gripped the ropes until the fibers bit into my skin. Behind me, the world was screaming. Not with voices, but with the shriek of...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerYou are sitting at the head of the table. The room is too large. The chandelier above you is too bright. It burns with a cold, white ferocity that strips the color from the faces around you. You count them. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Twelve chairs. Twelve people. You are the twelfth. The food is cold. The wine is stale. You taste ash in your...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe rain in this city does not fall so much as it hangs, a suspended grey curtain that blurs the hard edges of the pavement and the softer, more human edges of the people who walk beneath it, and I have learned to love the way it erases the distinction between the street and the sky, making the entire world a single, breathing entity that is both suffocating and strangely free. I am Margaret...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe dream began in the cellar, a place that smelled of wet stone and the heavy, sweet rot of apples left too long in the dark, and Thomas stood there with his hands pressed against the cold earth as if he could feel the pulse of the world beneath his fingertips, a vibration that was less a sound and more a pressure in his teeth, a low humming that rose from the soil and wrapped around his...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe brass compass on your desk does not point north. You know this because you have wound the mechanism three times this morning, watching the needle shiver and settle, always drifting three degrees to the east, toward the window where the fog hangs heavy against the glass. It is a small thing, a mechanical error in a world of such grand, deliberate deception, but it haunts you. You are Captain...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineThe letter is dated. October the fourteenth. The ink is smudged where your thumb rested too long. You are reading it by candlelight. The wax has hardened on the floorboards. You are a warden. Or you were. Now you are a prisoner of the stone. The walls are old. They breathe. They do not care if you are there. The keep is a mouth. It has swallowed you. It is swallowing the light. You remember the...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe fire did not start in the kitchen, as the morning reports would later claim, but in the heart of the Grand Hall, where the tapestries hung like shed skins of long-dead kings. It began with a whisper of smoke that tasted of old paper and copper, a scent that clawed at the back of Thomas’s throat before the first ember touched the velvet drapery. He stood in the center of the room, his...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale PathThe coat is blue. Not the blue of the sky, which has long since forgotten how to be blue, but the deep, arterial blue of a vein pressed against paper. You know this because you have held it for three days. You have held it in your hands, in your mouth, in the hollow of your throat where the air tastes of iron and static. It is a heavy garment. It weighs more than cloth should. It weighs the...0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews
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