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The Distant SummerThe dream is always of the bread, that impossible, dense loaf of rye and caraway that sits on the stone table in the center of the empty hall, and the dream is always of the biting, that slow, deliberate tearing of the crust that releases a cloud of salt and smoke, and I am standing there, not as I am now, but as I was then, with the skin of my hands pulled tight over the bones and the eyes...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SilenceThe bell rang once. Then it stopped. Brother Silas stood at the edge of the moor. The mist was thick. It swallowed the world. He held his staff. The wood was old. The wood was dry. It had walked with him for forty years. Now it felt heavy. It felt dead. He walked on. The path was narrow. It cut through the heather. The heather was black. The sky was gray. There was no sun. There was no wind....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldHe dreamed of the moor. The grass was white. Not dead. White. As if the frost had not come to freeze, but to erase. The air tasted of iron and old blood. He walked. His boots sank into the soft earth. He did not know his name. He knew only the weight on his back. A shield. Oak and iron. Faded. The paint was flaking. The crest was gone. Just a dark stain in the center. It looked like a wound...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MythThe brass bell above the door did not ring; it screamed, a high, thin shriek that cut through the heavy, coal-choked air of the tavern like a blade through silk. You stood there, frozen, your hands trembling so violently that the heavy, cold iron coin in your pocket felt like it was burning your thigh. The coin was not just metal. It was the only thing left of you, the only anchor holding your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MythThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a heavy, suspended mist that turned the streets of London into a grey, breathing entity. Margaret stood on the wet pavement, her coat soaked through to the skin, watching the water pool in the cracks of the cobblestones. She was waiting for the door. It was not a door in a house, nor a gate to a garden, but a threshold in the fabric of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe air in the Bureau of Anomalous Records did not smell of dust or decay, as one might expect in a building that had stood silent for three centuries, but rather of ozone and the metallic tang of old blood, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a persistent lie. Margaret Holloway stood before the mahogany desk of the Chief Investigator, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WhispersThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the asphalt of Seattle into a dark, slick mirror that reflected the grey, unbroken ceiling of the sky. Margaret Holloway stood in the doorway of her apartment, a box of her late mother’s belongings balanced on her hip, and watched the world dissolve into a smear of water and neon. She was a woman of routine, of spreadsheets and quarterly reports,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe fluorescent tubes above your head buzz with a frequency that you feel not in your ears but in the marrow of your bones, a low, electric thrum that mirrors the accelerated, arrhythmic pounding of your heart. You are sitting in a chair that is molded to the shape of a human spine that no longer exists, the vinyl worn to a gray, fibrous transparency on the left side, and you are waiting for...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe rain fell on the cobblestones. It hissed. A thin, grey mist rose from the gutters. It smelled of wet wool and old iron. Silas stood by the door. He wore his coat. It was black. The wool was heavy. It clung to his shoulders. He looked down at his hands. They were raw. The skin was cracked. Blood seeped from the knuckles. He flexed his fingers. They hurt. Behind him, the house was dark. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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