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The Wistful DinnerThe road is mud. It is thick and black. It pulls at your boots. You walk. You must walk. The rain does not stop. It falls in sheets. It soaks the wool of your cloak. You are cold. You are wet. You are alone. The village is ahead. The lights are low. They are yellow. They are warm. You see the tavern. The sign hangs crooked. It creaks in the wind. You stop. You look at your hands. They are...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe iron gates of Blackwood Manor did not rust. They simply wore thin. Like skin over bone, the metal had lost its sheen, becoming a pale, flaking ghost of its former strength. Elias stood before them, his small hands gripping the cold bars. He was twelve, though he felt older. The air smelled of wet slate and decay. It was the smell of time eating itself. The manor sat atop the hill, a jagged...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe storm breaks the ridge at dawn. It does not howl. It screams. A white void swallows the world, and you are running. Your boots slip on the wet shale. The cold bites through your wool. You are not afraid of the cold. You are afraid of the forgetting. You hold the notebook tight against your chest. It is soaked. The pages are soft. You will not lose it. You will not lose her. You are Dr....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueThe bell tolled at noon. I stopped. My hands were red. They were stained with the dye. It was deep purple. It soaked into the nails. It reached the cuticles. I looked at the basin. The water was black. I looked at the cloth. It was white. It would be white. Soon. I heard the footsteps. They were heavy. They were slow. They came from the gate. I did not turn. I knew the weight of the boots. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GardenThe banquet hall of St. Jude’s Home for Wayward Youth did not smell of roasted lamb or spiced wine, as the old brochures promised to the wealthy donors who visited once a year, but rather of damp wool, industrial floor wax, and the metallic, faintly sweet scent of fear that permeated the heavy velvet drapes which hung from the ceiling like the shed skins of some great, unseen serpent, and it...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe train did not stop. It screamed. A high, thin note that pierced the skull. Elias clutched his ticket. It was wet. His hands were wet. He was not supposed to be here. The ticket said London to Edinburgh. He was in the dark. The air smelled of ozone and old copper. He looked out the window. There was no landscape. Just a gray fog. Thick as milk. Across the aisle sat a boy. He was small. Maybe...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe kettle screamed. It was a thin, reedy sound, like a bird caught in a wire. I poured the water into the chipped ceramic cup. The steam curled upward, dissipating into the cold air of the break room. Outside, the rain lashed against the reinforced glass of the precinct’s annex. We were in the basement. Floor three. The walls were concrete, poured thick to keep the noise out. Or perhaps to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe dress was tearing at the hem. I felt the silk give way, a long, slow rip that ran up the back of my calf. It was a sound like a gasp. I did not look down. I kept walking. The floorboards groaned under my weight. They were old. They were tired. They knew what was coming. Thomas stood in the doorway. He was holding a glass of water. He was not drinking it. He was watching me. His eyes were...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe rain fell in sheets. Grey. Cold. Unrelenting. It hammered against the glass of the stationmaster’s office. A rhythmic, deafening drumming. Elias Thorne stood by the window. He watched the water run down the pane. Beads merging. Sliding. Dropping. He was a man of structure. Of protocol. Of the law. But the law did not reach here. Not really. This place was a ghost. A bruise on the map of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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