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The Golden DowntownThe rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, grey curtain that turned the world outside the window of Room 4B into a blurred watercolor of slate and charcoal, and I lay there on the thin mattress, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked exactly like the map of the riverbed where my father used to take me, thinking about how strange it was that a place so still could...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe fire took the clock tower at dawn. I watched from the window. The flames were orange. They were white. They were black. The smoke smelled of sulfur. It smelled of old wood. It smelled of my mother’s perfume. I did not run. I did not scream. I stood there. I held my tea. The cup was hot. It burned my fingers. I did not drop it. The town was waking up. Cries echoed. Doors banged. Boots on...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a fine, gray mist that clung to the wool of Martha’s coat and seeped into the bone-deep quiet of the station. She stood by the platform’s edge, her fingers wrapped around a paper bag that contained nothing but the heavy, metallic scent of her own failure. It was the third morning in a row that she had come here, not to catch a train, but to say...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden GreenhouseThe roast was browned, but the glaze was thin. Margaret wiped her hands on the apron. It was a yellow apron. It had once been white. The fabric was soft now, worn thin by decades of friction against the stove door. She held the spatula. The metal was warm. It burned her palm. She did not let go. The dining room was bright. Too bright. The chandelier was crystal. It caught the light from the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe ink on the parchment was still wet when the doors of the Great Hall groaned open, admitting a draft that smelled of damp wool and old stone. Elias Thorne did not look up from the ledger. He was a man who had spent thirty years in the service of the Abbey of St. Jude, and he knew the precise weight of silence. It was a heavy, suffocating thing, thicker than the air that filled the vaulted...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden OathThe rain hits the stone. It is cold. It is old. You feel it on your face. You stand in the hall. The air smells of wet wool and iron. There is a sound in the corner. A scratching. A low moan. You know what it is. You have known it for years. The Beast. It is not a monster. It is a man. Or he was. Now he is a thing of rage and rot. He is holding the door. He is holding the King’s heir. You draw...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SilenceThe rain did not fall so much as it insisted. It hammered against the tin roof of the shed, a relentless, metallic drumming that masked the sound of the forest. Elias sat on the overturned crate, his hands bound by his own will, not by rope. He looked at his hands. They were the hands of a man who had buried three men in the mud of the Somme, then two more in the trenches of Ypres, and finally,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe glass of the St. Jude’s Infirmary window did not merely break; it surrendered. I remember the sound of it, a high, thin shriek that tore through the heavy, medicinal smell of the ward, followed by the soft, wet thud of shards hitting the linoleum. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; time had lost its rigid architecture here, stretched thin like taffy over the years of my confinement....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent and grey curtain that blurred the edges of the city into a watercolor smear of slate and rust, and in the quiet of his small apartment on the fourth floor of a brick walk-up, Silas Vane sat at a desk that was not a desk but a flat plank of pine balanced on two stacks of encyclopedias, his fingers trembling slightly as he held the pen that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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