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The Wistful PetalThe rain did not fall. It hung. A grey curtain of mist, thick as wool, suffocated the city. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood in the alley. His knees were wet. The mud sucked at his boots with a wet, sticky sound. He held his service pistol. The steel was cold. The air was cold. He breathed. The mist entered his lungs. It tasted of iron. A figure emerged from the shadows. Small. Hunched. A boy. No,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe feast in the chapel of St. Jude’s was not a celebration of joy, but a ritual of sustenance. The air was thick with the smell of boiled turnips, damp wool, and the metallic tang of old blood that had never quite scrubbed out of the stone floor. It was a medieval cold, the kind that settled into the marrow and stayed there, a permanent tenant in the bones. Elias Thorne sat at the long oak...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrequencyThe train hissed. Steam curled. Cold air bit. Elara Vance sat. She held a box. It was small. It was heavy. The wood was oak. The grain was dark. The metal latch was rust. It smelled of damp. It smelled of earth. It smelled of old paper. She looked at her hands. They were pale. The nails were short. The skin was tight. She was a woman of forty. Her face was a map of lines. Each line was a year....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe air in the refinery district hung heavy with the scent of sulfur and hot iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of the throat and settled into the lungs like fine, invisible dust. It was a city of gears and pistons, of towering smokestacks that bled grey plumes into the perpetual overcast, and I stood at the center of it, a child of the machine, my small hands stained with the soot that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe hammer hit my knuckle. Again. It didn’t hurt. Or it hurt so much the pain turned into a white hum, a ringing bell inside my skull. I kept swinging. The wood split. Not clean. Jagged. Like a broken tooth. "Stop," said the Voice. It wasn’t a voice. It was the air. The air in this room, this high, cold room with the vaulted ceiling painted with stars that weren’t real, felt thick. It pressed...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureThe ration card for the nutrient paste sat on the kitchen table, its edges soft and worn from the thumb that had rubbed it into submission over the last three months. It was a rectangular slab of grey polymer, unadorned and sterile, bearing the serial number of Elias Thorne, Citizen Class Four, Sector Nine. Elias looked at it, then at the bowl of grey sludge that constituted his breakfast, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe rain didn’t fall so much as it was exhaled by the sky, a heavy, sulfurous breath that coated the cobblestones of the lower district in a slick, black mirror where the gaslights bled into the wet stone, turning the world into a bruised and trembling watercolor that I could not quite remember painting myself because my hands were already buried up to the wrists in the mud, clawing at the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GardenThe fluorescent lights of the Department of Municipal Efficiency hummed with a frequency that Elara had come to associate with the slow decay of her own will. She sat in the corner of the vast, windowless archive, her fingers tracing the cold plastic of a file folder that contained nothing but the bureaucratic residue of a dead man’s pension. The air smelled of stale coffee and ozone, a sterile...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a thick gray veil that erased the horizon and swallowed the world whole. Margaret Holloway stood in the muck of the valley, her boots sinking into the sludge with every step, the weight of the rifle in her hands feeling less like a weapon and more like a limb she had grown out of necessity. The air smelled of wet iron and burnt pine, a scent that had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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