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The Faded PortraitI woke with the taste of iron and ash on my tongue, the dream still clinging to me like wet wool, a suffocating shroud that refused to let go of the memory of the march, the endless, grinding, rhythmic pounding of boots against the frozen mud of the valley, a sound that had become so intrinsic to my being that I could no longer distinguish it from the beating of my own heart, a steady, dull...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe glass case is broken. You know this because the shards are scattered across the floorboards like frozen rain, and because your own hands are trembling so violently that you can barely keep the door of the armory from banging shut. The air in the small, windowless room smells of iron filings and old dust, a scent that has permeated your lungs for so many years that you can no longer...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WhispersThe dream was not a place but a sensation, a heavy, wet dragging of something across stone that refused to yield, and in that pre-conscious haze Elias Thorne felt the weight of his own history pressing against the inside of his skull like a tumor made of silence and rust, a sensation so profound it forced his eyes to open in the sterile, fluorescent hum of the administrative wing of the St....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe bone in your left hand is not yours. You know this with a certainty that bypasses thought, a visceral knowledge that lives in the marrow and the tendon. It is a metacarpal, pale as driftwood, polished smooth by the friction of decades in the earth. You hold it in the gloom of the corridor, the stone floor cold against the soles of your boots, and the air tastes of damp limestone and old...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe train groaned against the rusted tracks as it descended into the valley, a long, metallic exhale that seemed to carry the weight of the entire decaying institution behind it. Arthur Penhaligon sat in the corner of the second-class carriage, his spine pressed rigidly against the window glass, watching the fog unravel from the weeping willows that lined the embankment, their branches dragging...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe river was already high. It had been rising for three days, swallowing the mudflats, the reeds, the old tires, and finally the bridge. It did not roar. It simply existed, a vast, brown indifference that erased the line between land and water. Silas stood on the dock. His boots were soaked through. He held a lantern. The flame flickered, weak against the wet air. He was a man of wood. A...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ApartmentThe rain on the roof of the caravan sounded like a thousand small fingers drumming against the tin, a relentless, rhythmic tapping that had worn Edward Ashworth’s nerves down to raw, frayed wires over the last three days of travel. He sat in the driver’s seat, his hands resting loosely on the wheel, watching the mist curl around the ancient oaks that lined the muddy track, their branches heavy...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe mist sat heavy on the fields. It did not rise. It stayed. It pressed against the glass of the window. It was gray. It was cold. It was alive. Thomas stood alone in the kitchen. The clock ticked. The hands moved. They did not care about the time. They only moved. Thomas watched the steam from his tea. It curled. It vanished. He was a man of order. He wore his uniform. The buttons were...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe van smells of diesel and old sweat. It is a smell that has soaked into the fabric of your skin. You are seven. You are driving. Your father is in the passenger seat, his head resting against the window, his eyes closed. He is breathing shallowly. The air conditioning is broken. It is August. The heat is a physical weight, pressing against the windshield, blurring the road ahead. You do not...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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