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The Wistful MountainThe bus stopped at the edge of the fog. Mara stepped out. The air was cold. It smelled of wet stone and old pine. She carried a small bag. Inside was her mother’s locket. Inside the locket was a photo. The photo was faded. It showed a woman. It was Mara. It was young. "Are you lost?" The voice came from the driver. He was old. His eyes were milky. He did not blink much. "No," Mara said. "I’m...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrequencyThe radio crackled. It was a low, wet sound, like mud being pulled from a boot. I pressed the earpiece tight against my skull. The static was not empty. It was full. It hummed with a frequency I could feel in my teeth. "Unit Four, report," the voice said. It was Colonel Vance. His voice was smooth. It was cold. It was like ice sliding over glass. "Unit Four is here, sir," I said. My voice was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe rain was cold. It bit. It did not care for us. I walked. My boots were wet. The mud was deep. It sucked at my heels. I felt heavy. The weight was in my chest. It was a stone. A cold, gray stone. I had been looking for a door. A red door. It was not here. It was never here. I am a finder. That is my name. I find things. Small things. Lost rings. Broken keys. The truth is a small thing. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceDreams are often about birds. Or maybe they are about cages. It is hard to tell in the half-light of sleep. In the dream, the sparrows were gold. Not the dull, rust-colored gold of old coins, but a bright, living metal that sang when the wind hit them. They hung from the eaves of a building that looked exactly like the university library, but taller, impossibly tall, its stone white as bone....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe ash was not white. It was the color of a bruise that has forgotten how to hurt, a dull, swollen violet-grey that clung to the wool of my coat like a secret. I held it in my cupped palms, the heat radiating against my skin in a familiar, phantom rhythm, and watched the flakes dissolve into the thin, freezing air of the courtyard. We were in the Hall of Whispers, that place where the walls...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CellarThe fire did not begin with a spark, but with a scream that tore through the thatch of the manor house, a sound so raw and jagged it seemed to split the night air in two. It was the scream of the village, a collective intake of breath held too long, released only to be swallowed by the roar of flames that licked up the ancient oak beams of Halliday Manor with hungry, bright tongues. Inside the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe bell above the door of the Guildhall did not ring so much as it exhaled, a long, bronze sigh that settled over the cobblestones of the market square like a heavy, damp shroud. It was a sound that Elias Thorne had known for forty years, a sound that marked the boundaries of his life as clearly as the lines on a weathered map. He was a maker of bridges, or rather, the man who held the ledger...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThe ink on my fingers was the color of dried blood, a rust that would not wash away no matter how many times I scrubbed with lye and hot water. It seeped into the whorls of my skin, a permanent brand of my office in the high tower of the Ministry of Records. I am a clerk, a man of little consequence, whose days are measured not by the sun but by the ticking of the great clock in the atrium, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe knife broke. It snapped clean at the hilt. The steel tip skittered across the wet stone. It rolled into the dark. Tomas froze. His hands shook. The blood was not his. It was the porridge. It was the life. The bowl shattered. Oatmeal splattered the floor. It looked like grey flesh. It looked like mud. He looked up. The eyes were there. They were old. They were cold. They were the eyes of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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