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The Faded AlibiYou dream of the blue. It is a specific shade. Cobalt. Deep and cold. You see it in the lining of a coat you did not buy. It is the color of the sky before the storm breaks in late November. You wake with the taste of ozone in your mouth. The air in your apartment is stale. It smells of old coffee and damp wool. You are an immigrant. You have been here for three years. You speak the language...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Rehabilitation of the Deviant Mind smelled of roasted lamb, stale beer, and the metallic tang of fear, a scent that clung to the velvet drapes and the polished mahogany of the long tables where the faculty of the university sat in their stiff collars and severe tweeds, watching the creature in the corner with the hungry, unblinking eyes of...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ParadoxThe taste of iron and burnt sugar coated the back of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s mouth, a viscous, metallic film that refused to wash away even after he had scrubbed his teeth with pumice and salt. It was a dream, or perhaps a fever, that had dragged him back to the edge of the precipice where the world’s texture had begun to rot, where the air itself tasted of the preservatives they used in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale VerdictThe desk is heavy. You know this. You have moved it many times. The wood is oak. It smells of polish and dust. You are the Chief of Staff. This is your office. Or rather, it is the room where you sit. The title is a label. The label is wrong. You look at the mirror. It is on the wall. It is not a mirror. It is a window. Or it was. Now it reflects. The glass is cold. You touch it. Your finger...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MythThe rain does not fall; it hammers, a relentless, industrial percussion against the leaded glass of the observatory, a rhythm that syncs with the erratic thumping of your heart, a biological engine straining against the confines of your ribcage as you sit before the telescope, the lens a cold, unblinking eye that has seen more of the void than any human soul has dared to acknowledge, and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RoadThe boundary line is a straight cut through the soft earth, a scar that does not heal. You stand at the edge of the property, where the wild grass ends and the mowed lawn begins, and you feel the weight of the world pressing down on your narrow shoulders. It is a Tuesday in late October, though the year is a blur of gray skies and damp wool, indistinguishable from any other autumn that has ever...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ApartmentThe dream began with the sound of porcelain shattering against the wet cobblestones of a street that did not exist, a sound so sharp and brittle that it cut through the silence of the night like a blade through silk. Thomas Bradshaw woke with his heart hammering against his ribs, the phantom echo still ringing in his ears, the taste of copper and old dust lingering on his tongue. He was lying...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe soup breaks first. Not the bowl. The liquid. It shatters against the rim, a splash of cold, grey broth. You watch the droplets hang in the air. They look like tears. They do not dry. They hover. You are holding the bowl. Your hands are steady. You have always been steady. That is the job. To hold. To not spill. To not break. The room is small. It smells of damp wool and old paper. The walls...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostThe map was not paper. It was a sheet of pressed obsidian, cold and heavier than it looked, etched with lines so fine they seemed to pulse with a faint, internal heat. You held it in your gloved hands, the leather creaking under the strain of your grip. The ink was not ink, but a metallic alloy that shifted in color depending on the angle of the light, turning from silver to a deep, bruised...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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