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The Golden MythYou are holding a knife. It is small. A paring knife. The handle is cold. It is ivory. It fits your palm too well. You are in the kitchen. The kitchen is white. It is too white. It smells of lemon oil and fear. Margaret is at the table. She is reading a newspaper. She is wearing her blue dress. The one with the pearls. She does not look up. "Put the knife away, Thomas," she says. Her voice is...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe dream began with the sound of water lapping against stone. It was a rhythmic, persistent sound, like the ticking of a clock that had been left running in an empty room. Thomas Wren stood on the bridge of a ship that had no sails, only a single, rusted mast that scraped the low, grey sky. The wood beneath his boots was wet and slick, smelling of salt and decay. He held a lantern in his left...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe train smells of damp wool and rust. You hold the ticket in your fist. It is crumpled. Your knuckles are white. We are leaving. Do not look back. Margaret is already gone. She walked out the door without a coat. She did not say goodbye. She did not say hello. She just vanished into the grey fog of the street. You are alone now. The city is loud. It screams. Sirens wail like wounded dogs....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe cursor blinked. A steady, rhythmic pulse. I stared at it. The screen was white. Blinding. My name was on the document. Dr. Arthur Vane. Senior Lecturer. I typed a period. It appeared. I deleted it. The cursor blinked. I looked at the wall. Beige. Flat. No texture. Just like the silence. My colleague sat across from me. David. He had coffee. Black. No sugar. I drank water. Cold. Stale. David...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe ledger sat on the oak table, its spine cracked and leather peeling like dead skin, and I remembered how the ink had bled through the pages of my father’s accounts, a dark and spreading stain that smelled of iron and old blood, though it was merely the result of a leaking pen and a careless hand in a room where the air was always too thick with the scent of damp wool and unwashed bodies, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleYou are walking. You have been walking for a long time, perhaps since the morning, or perhaps since the season changed, though it is hard to tell when the sky remains that pale, bruised purple that hangs over the industrial valleys like a heavy, wet wool blanket. The air tastes of coal smoke and damp earth, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and settles in your lungs with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe bell rang. It did not chime. It screamed. A sound of twisted metal and snapping ropes. The roof of the town hall groaned. Dust fell. It coated the floor. It coated the men. It coated the masks. Caleb stood in the center of the room. He held his baton. It was heavy. It was wood. It was old. The varnish was peeling. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. Not from fear. From cold. The air...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe mist did not lift. It thickened. Elara stood alone in the center of the white field. There were no trees. There were no rocks. Only the grass, short and silver, bending under a wind that had no source. She was not human. Or perhaps she was. It was hard to tell. Her skin was pale as milk, tight over bones that felt too thin. Her eyes were large, black, and unblinking. They held no warmth....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale EchoThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of Oakhaven into a slick, reflective mirror of the low-hanging clouds. Detective Elias Thorne stood in the doorway of the precinct, watching the water drip from the brim of his hat, his mind churning with the same heavy, wet sludge that coated the town’s streets. He was a man who had worn many...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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