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The Wistful ShowThe rain had been falling for three days. It washed the rust from the iron fences and the dust from the windshields of the parked cars. I sat in the driver’s seat of my father’s old truck. The engine ticked as it cooled. My hand rested on the hilt of the sword. It was a practice blade, cold steel, heavy and dull. I had carried it for twenty years. It was not a weapon. It was a weight. It was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MasterThe frost had not yet melted from the ivy on the north wall when Elias Thorne woke to the sound of his own breathing. It was a heavy, wet sound, a rhythmic labor that seemed to belong to someone else. He lay in the narrow bed of the annex, the mattress springs groaning under the weight of his years, and watched the light creep across the ceiling. It was a pale, watery light, the color of old...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe bread was stale. Not dry, not hard, but stale in the way that time rots a thing from the inside out. Silas sat on the cold floor of the bakery, his back against the stone wall, holding the loaf in his hands. It was the last one. The oven had gone cold three days ago. The flour had run out two days ago. But the bread remained. It sat on the table like a stone, heavy and gray, waiting to be...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WhispersThe pill was white. Oval. Smooth. It sat in the center of the porcelain saucer. A perfect circle of enamel. The light hit it. It did not glint. It absorbed. Thomas stared. His hands shook. Not from cold. From the weight of the silence. The house held its breath. Dust motes danced. Slow. Suspicious. They moved like spies. Watching. Waiting. Thomas was the prisoner. Not of a cell. Of a room. Of a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe rain against the reinforced glass of the briefing room was a rhythmic, static hiss, a white noise that seemed to scrub the edges of the world clean, leaving only the gray stone of the Capital and the sterile hum of the air filtration systems. Commander Elias Thorne sat with his back to the window, his posture rigid, a physical manifestation of the discipline that had defined his thirty...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe ash fell like snow. It did not melt. I stood in the courtyard of the Spire. The air tasted of iron. My lungs burned. I coughed. Blood. Red against the grey. I wiped my mouth. The taste remained. "Stand firm, Brother Elias," said the Warden. His voice was dry. Like paper rubbing. I did not move. My knees shook. The sickness was in my bones. It ate me from within. I felt light. I felt...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant NightmareThe ink on the page did not dry; it bled. You watched the letters of your mother’s name, written in her own hand on the final page of her diary, swell and blur until the word Margaret became a dark, viscous smear, a wound in the paper that refused to close. You sat in the study, the room heavy with the scent of old paper and the faint, metallic tang of the air conditioning that hummed against...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueThe rain has not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that dissolves the boundary between the sky and the frozen earth, and you stand at the edge of the tree line, your breath coming in ragged, white plumes that vanish almost before they are formed, feeling the cold not as a sensation on the skin but as a heavy, damp weight pressing against the inside of your chest, a weight that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureThe air in Sector Four tastes of rust and ozone, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and refuses to wash away. You are sitting in the breakroom, the fluorescent lights humming a low, sickening drone that vibrates in your teeth. On the table before you sits a small, ceramic pot. In it, a single stalk of fern unfurls, its fronds a vibrant, impossible green against the grey linoleum...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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