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The Pale ShadowsThe mud on the road was deep and black, sucking at our boots with a wet, hungry sound. We walked in silence. Or nearly so. The wind cut through my wool coat, finding the gaps in the buttons, the thin places where the fabric had worn through years of use. I looked down at my hands. They were raw. The skin on the palms was cracked, bleeding slightly, stained with the same dark earth that coated...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SuspectThe hand is yours. Always. You remember the cold first. Then the weight. The man in the gray coat watches you. His eyes are wet. He is the Authority. You are the Subject. You are a ghost in a trench coat. You are running. From what? From the noise. From the sirens. From the memory of fire. You fled the city. You crossed the border. You are in the wilderness now. The trees are black. The sky is...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MazeThe wind howls through the gaps in the stone. You are cold. Your hands shake. Not from the chill. From the fear. The fear is a living thing. It eats your bones. You hold the key. It is heavy. It is gold. It smells of rust and old blood. You have carried it for forty years. Forty years of rain. Forty years of silence. You are the Warden. You are the gate. You are the lock. The door is before...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded DustThe wind on the ridge did not howl. It whispered. It scraped against the dry grass with a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard, a dry, brittle friction that pulled at the edges of silence. Elias stood at the edge of the cliff, his boots sinking slightly into the loose shale. He was not looking at the drop. He was looking at the tree. It was a lone oak, twisted by decades of exposure, its bark...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe rain hits the tin roof. It sounds like static. Like the end of a wire. You are standing at the edge of the platform. The air is cold. It bites your skin. You wear the coat. It is wool. It smells of damp wool and old iron. The train is coming. You can hear the wheels. A low groan. A heavy breath. The city rises around you. Brick and soot. Smoke from the chimneys. It hangs low. It chokes the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldThe air in the basement of the old Whitmore estate did not smell of damp stone, as one might expect from a cellar buried deep beneath the English countryside, but of old sweat and the metallic tang of fear, a scent that had soaked into the very fibers of the heavy wool rug and the peeling wallpaper, binding the room in a suffocating embrace that seemed to press against Thomas’s lungs with the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitI dreamed of the coat. It hung in a dark closet. The wool was grey. It smelled of old smoke. I reached for it. My fingers brushed the fabric. It felt cold. It felt heavy. I woke up. The rain was on the glass. I was in a cell. The walls were stone. They were damp. I had been there for three days. My name is Thomas Bradshaw. I was a soldier. I was a man of duty. I believed in the chain. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe wall breathed. I felt it against my cheek. A slow, wet exhalation. The concrete of Cell 4B was not cold. It was warm. It pulsed. I pressed my hand to it. The stone yielded like skin. It started three days ago. A hum. A vibration in the floorboards. Then the heat. Warden Miller came at dawn. He did not knock. He never knocked. He stood in the doorway, his white shirt stiff, his tie a red...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridYou eat the bread. It is stale. The crust is hard. You bite down. Your teeth crack. The white interior crumbles. You swallow. It tastes of dust. It tastes of iron. You are in the kitchen. The clock ticks. The steam rises. From the pot. On the stove. It is morning. The light is grey. The light is thin. You look at the table. The table is bare. Except for the plate. The plate is blue. Chipped at...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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