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The Distant WhispersThe dream was wet. Mud. Thick, black mud. It clung to his boots. It soaked into the seams of his coat. He could not move. The cold was a living thing. It bit at his ribs. He looked down. Roots. Pale, twisted roots. They wrapped around his ankles. They pulled. He kicked. The mud splashed. He woke up gasping. The city outside was grey. Rain tapped on the glass. Soft. Rhythmic. A heartbeat. He sat...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Institute for Advanced Theoretical Physics hummed with the low, electric thrum of a thousand minds attempting to solve the same unsolvable equation, a cacophony of clinking crystal and forced laughter that vibrated through the soles of Eleanor Vance’s shoes, a sensation that felt less like celebration and more like the structural groaning of a building under...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumYou hold the book. It is heavy. The leather is cracked. The smell is dust and old sweat. You sit in the corner. The room is cold. Stone walls. High windows. Light is grey. You are alone. No one else is in the tower. You are the archivist. Or you were. The title is gone from your mind. Only the duty remains. The book is your life. It is a ledger. It records the debts of the house. It records the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe oak stood at the edge of the clearing. It was ancient. Its bark was deep and furrowed. It looked like a face. I had seen it before. In dreams. Or maybe in life. I could not remember. I only knew it was there. I walked toward it. The ground was soft. Moss covered the earth. The air smelled of rain. And decay. I am a soldier. Or I was. The rank is gone. The uniform is gone. Only the habit...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant NightmareThe iron gates of the old textile mill, which you have guarded for thirty years, stand open for the first time in your life, and the rusted hinges scream a long, metallic shriek that sounds suspiciously like the sound your own knees make when you try to stand up in the morning, a sound that has become the background music of your existence, a rhythmic creaking that serves as a countdown to a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe ink stains your fingers. It is a black that does not wash out. It lives in the whorls of your skin. It is the color of dried blood and old night. You are a scholar of the map. You do not draw them. You correct them. The room is cold. The candle gutters. The wax pools like white bone. You hold the quill. Your hand trembles. Not from fear. From hunger. You have not eaten in two days. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe rain fell in sheets of grey silk against the glass. It had been falling for three days. I stood before the Great Oak in the center of the courtyard. Its roots twisted into the wet earth like knuckles. I loved it. I loved its stillness. I loved the way it held the sky. I did not love the men who watched me. They stood in the shadows of the arches. Their coats were black. Their faces were...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe iron key turned in the lock with a sound like a bone breaking, sharp and final, sealing the heavy oak door of the interrogation chamber shut. Thomas Bradshaw stood in the center of the room, his hands bound behind his back by chains that bit into the raw flesh of his wrists, the cold metal a constant, biting reminder of the weight of his own conscience. Across the table sat Magistrate...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe air tasted of copper and ozone, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat even as the shockwave of the first detonation ripped through the fabric of the sky, turning the clouds into shredded silk that hung suspended in a void that had no up or down. I was pinned beneath the rubble of what had once been a stone archway, my service pistol heavy and useless in my hand, the slide locked...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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