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The Wistful VoyageRain hammered the roof of the van. A relentless, gray drumbeat. Mara wiped the blood from her lip. It tasted like copper. Like old pennies. "Stay down," she hissed. The man across from her didn't move. He was heavy. Thick-necked. A sergeant, maybe. Or a lieutenant. His uniform was torn. His face was a map of bruises. Mara checked her sidearm. Empty. She had given the last clip to the kid in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe rain on the glass of the windowpane was not water, but the condensation of a grief so heavy it had become liquid. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the threshold, his coat damp and heavy with the dampness of the world he was leaving behind, watching the streetlights bleed into the wet asphalt. It was a departure that did not feel like a departure, but rather a severing, a clean and terrible...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographThe rain did not fall; it was exhaled. It seeped through the cobblestones of the city’s lower district, a grey, suffocating mist that clung to the wool of your coat and the leather of your apron. You are a tanner. You know the smell of the pit before you see it. It is a scent that lives in the marrow, a heavy, sulfurous weight that settles behind the eyes. You carry it with you even when you...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinThe sky splits. It does not rain. It bleeds. Red light falls like ash. You stand in the field. The wheat is black. You know why. You have always known. The object is in your hand. A glass vial. It is warm. It is heavy. It is the only thing that is real. The others are gone. They ran when the sky broke. You did not run. You stayed for the glass. You stayed for the truth. The vial is cracked. A...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdYou hold the chisel in your hand. It is cold. The wood shavings smell of pine and old rain. You are in the attic. The dust motes dance in the single beam of light. They do not settle. They never settle here. You are Elias. You are the last of the Holloways. Or so they say. The letter is on the table. It is thick. Cream-colored paper. The seal is broken. The wax is black. It smells of sulfur and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceYou hold the brush. It is thin. The bristles are splayed. You know the wear. You know the time. The room is white. The light is cold. The air is still. You breathe. It is hard. Your lungs ache. The cough comes. You swallow it down. You must not break. Not now. "Is it ready?" The voice is low. It is smooth. It is the voice of the Director. He stands by the door. He does not enter. He waits. "It...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitI woke from a dream where the walls were breathing, a slow, rhythmic expansion and contraction that felt less like architecture and more like the lungs of a dying god. I lay there for a long time, listening to the silence that had settled into the corners of the room, a silence so thick it seemed to have weight, pressing against my eardrums with a dull, persistent ache. The light filtering...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe jar sat on the desk. It was a squat cylinder of glass, filled with brown soil and a single, gnarled branch. No leaves. No life. Just wood. And dirt. And a label written in black marker. It was the only thing in the room that didn’t feel like plastic. I looked at the jar. I looked at Captain Miller. He was sitting behind the desk, a mountain of a man in a uniform that fit him poorly at the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe train hissed into the station of Oakhaven, a low, mournful groan that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of your bones, carrying with it the scent of coal dust and the damp, heavy air of a November evening that refused to break. You stepped off the carriage, your boots squelching in the mud that had turned the platform into a treacherous swamp, and looked up at the looming silhouette of St....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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