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The Wistful SkylineThe pot of clay had been in my family for longer than anyone could remember, though the ledger in the attic suggested it was no older than the last century, which is to say, it was ancient in the way that silence is ancient, and heavy in the way that guilt is heavy. I carried it on my back, a strange and burdensome companion on the road to the border, where the mist clung to the heather like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe rain hits the tin roof like a fist. You are inside. The house is small. The walls are thin. You can hear the water dripping from the eaves. It sounds like a clock. Tock. Tock. Tock. You look at your hands. They are old. The skin is loose. It hangs on the bones. You flex your fingers. They click. You are a carpenter. You built this house. You built the porch. You built the fence. You did it...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe snow fell in heavy, gray sheets. It coated the windshield of the truck. It settled on the shoulders of the jacket. Elias sat at the wheel. His hands were white-knuckled on the steering column. He did not look at the passenger seat. He knew what was there. He knew the weight. He knew the silence. The road wound through the pine forest. The pines were black against the white. They leaned in....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographThe fog rolled into the dockyards of New London thick as wool. It swallowed the cranes and the brick rows of the warehouse district. I walked fast. My boots squeaked on the wet cobblestones. I was twelve. I felt small. I felt heavy. The air tasted of coal smoke and rust. I carried a box. It was small. It was wood. It was painted blue. The paint was peeling. Inside, there was nothing. Only a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden GreenhouseThe mist did not lift. It stayed, a thick white wool pressed against the windows of the train, blurring the world into a soft, indistinct gray. I sat by the window, my hands folded in my lap, watching the fog swallow the trees as they passed. The rhythm of the tracks was a dull, persistent thud against my skull. I was going to see the greenhouse. Or rather, I was going to see the place where...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe bread was black. Not the dark crust of a good bake, but the charred, lifeless black of coal. It sat in my hand, heavy as a stone. "Throw it," said the Captain. I looked at him. He stood by the fire, his back to me. The flames licked the iron pots, but the room was cold. It was always cold in the wagon. "It is for the boy," I said. "Throw it," he repeated. His voice was flat. Dead. "He will...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ApartmentThe rain has not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that blurs the boundary between the cobblestones of the old town and the wet, breathing fog that clings to the eaves of the stone buildings, and you walk through it with your boots soaked through to the skin, carrying a leather satchel that feels heavier with each step, not because of its contents but because of the weight of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe hall smelled of roasted pork and wet wool. It was a feast. We were many. The fire roared in the great hearth. Sparks danced like angry spirits. I sat at the long table. My armor was polished. My hands were steady. They called me Thomas. I was a soldier. The king was not there. The queen was not there. There was only us. The men laughed. The women poured wine. The air was thick. It felt...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ApartmentThe wind did not merely blow through the high, arched windows of the Abbey’s scriptorium; it screamed, a low, guttural moan that vibrated in the teeth and settled deep in the marrow, as if the very stone of the building were alive and thrashing in its sleep. Brother Julian stood at the center of the circular room, his hands pressed flat against the cold oak of the lectern, his knuckles white,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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