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The Faded ShieldThe bell rang once. Then twice. The sound was wet, like a stone dropped into deep water. It echoed in the stone hall. The air was thick. It tasted of dust and old blood. Young Thomas sat on the cold floor. He was small. His hands were shaking. He held the shield. It was not large. It was a disc of dark wood. The paint was peeling. Red and gold remained. It was his father’s shield. Now it was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe departure was not a grand affair, but a quiet severing of tethers in the sterile, humming air of the administrative wing. Margaret Holloway stood by the window, watching the rain streak the glass of the Ministry of Cultural Preservation, a building that smelled of wet wool and old paper. She was leaving, or rather, she was being let go, though the HR director had used the word...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MazeThe ledger is open on the desk, the ink still wet, a dark smear against the cream paper. You are looking at the numbers, but you do not see them. You see the face of your brother, Thomas, and the way he looked when he sold the first lot of timber to the men from the city. You remember the smell of the varnish, the sharp chemical bite of it, and the way it coated the tongue. It has been three...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe dream began with the smell of ozone and wet slate, a sharp, metallic tang that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s tongue. He was standing in the center of the village square in Oakhaven, a place that had been quiet for decades, now humming with a low, subterranean vibration that he felt in his teeth before he heard it in his ears. The air was thick, not with mist, but with a heavy, viscous...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe rain falls on the stone. It is cold. It is wet. It soaks the wool of your tunic. You stand in the courtyard of the High Court. The air smells of damp moss and old iron. You are a man of the law. You wear the badge of the Crown on your chest. It is heavy. It is cold. It presses against your ribs. You feel its weight. You feel the hunger in your belly. You have not eaten since morning. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe first thing I saw was the bird. It hung in the air, suspended in the sterile gray light of the atrium, its wings spread wide as if it were still trying to fly. The vulture was dead, of course. We all knew it was dead. The stillness of it was the only thing that moved. It hung from a thin wire, a macabre decoration for our new corporate culture of transparency, or perhaps it was just a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe fog rolled in off the harbor. It tasted of salt and rust. I stood on the wet cobblestones. My boots were soaked. The rain had stopped. The city held its breath. My name is Silas. I am a guard. I guard the gate. The gate is old. The stone is cold. My hand rests on the iron bar. The bar is slick. I do not let go. Behind me is the yard. The yard is empty. The trees are bare. The wind shakes...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineThe letter lay on the rough-hewn oak table, its edges yellowed and brittle as autumn leaves, the ink faded to a ghostly violet that seemed to bleed into the parchment. Margaret Holloway did not read the words at first; she only touched the paper with her fingertips, feeling the dryness, the fragility, the weight of a past that had refused to stay buried. She was in the deep of the winter woods,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden GreenhouseThe fluorescent lights hummed. A low, sick drone. It vibrated in my teeth. I gripped the edge of the desk. The laminate was cold. It bit into my knuckles. White. Bleached bone. I looked up. Mr. Sterling stood there. He did not blink. His tie was red. A streak of blood. Or maybe just the light. It was always red in this building. The air tasted of ozone and stale coffee. I wanted to speak. My...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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