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The Wistful WitnessThe iron of the anvil sang a high, thin note against the dark, a sound that tasted of copper and old blood in my mouth. I was hammering, my arms a blur of motion, the sweat stinging the cuts on my forearms, not from the heat of the forge but from the cold that had settled into the marrow of my bones. In the court of King Aldric, time did not pass; it accumulated. It settled in the dust of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerYou are standing in the kitchen of the house on Harrow Lane, the one you bought with your late husband’s pension and the small inheritance from your sister, a house that smells of damp wool and the distinct, metallic tang of old blood, a smell that has seeped into the very grain of the pine floorboards and now resides in your own lungs. It is Tuesday evening, the kind of grey, bruised afternoon...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe letter arrived on a Tuesday, the ink still wet and smelling faintly of iron and rain, though the sky above the moor was a bruised and unbroken grey. Elias Thorne sat at the edge of the marsh, his boots sinking into the black peat, reading the words of his mentor, Aldous, by the light of a dying sun that seemed to bleed directly into the water. It was not a letter of greeting, nor of advice,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrequencyThe smell of burnt sugar and old rose petals hangs thick in the air, a cloying sweetness that coats the back of your throat like a secret you have swallowed but cannot digest, and you stand in the center of the dining room with the table still set for the feast that never quite began, the silverware tarnished under the weight of your own gaze as you try to remember the last time you felt the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe ink is black. The candle burns low. You hold the pen. Your hand is steady. You are not afraid. You are the keeper of the word. You are the wise one. They call you the Scribe. You know the truth. You have always known the truth. But you are afraid to write it down. The room is small. Stone walls. Cold air. The window is barred. It is night. The world outside is dark. The world inside is...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe wall was white. It was always white. Marek stood before it. The surface was smooth. It was cold to the touch. It did not breathe. It did not blink. It simply existed. It was a monolith. It rose from the floor. It touched the ceiling. The ceiling was also white. The floor was white. The air was white. There was no light. There was no shadow. There was only the hum. A low, constant hum. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden GreenhouseThe old man sat in the center of the kitchen, his hands resting on the cold oak table which had held the weight of his family’s history for three generations, and he watched the dust motes dance in the single shaft of afternoon light that pierced the boarded-up window, thinking about how the air in this house had grown thick and stagnant, like a lung that had forgotten how to exhale, and he...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe fluorescent lights in the sub-basement of the Federal Records Center in Virginia did not buzz so much as they hummed, a low-frequency vibration that settled into the marrow of my bones and resonated with the hollow ache of my left knee, a joint that had long since ceased to forgive the winters I had spent on foreign soil. I sat at my workstation, the beige plastic of the chair cold against...0 Comments 0 Shares 9 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureThe air in Sector Four always tasted of copper and stale rain, a metallic tang that coated the back of the throat no matter how often one scrubbed. Elias Vane sat at his desk in the Bureau of Atmospheric Compliance, the gray light of the overcast afternoon filtering through the reinforced glass, casting long, pale shadows across his paperwork. He was a man of middle years, with the quiet...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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