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The Distant GardenThe wind did not howl; it screamed, a high, thin note that drilled into the marrow of Sergeant Elias Thorne. He was pinned against the wet shale of the cliff edge, the drop below a churning abyss of grey foam and black rock. The rain was not water but a physical assault, cold needles piercing the fabric of his uniform, soaking through to the skin. In his left hand, he clutched a single, brittle...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded DustThe vial was cold. It sat on the stainless-steel counter, a small glass cylinder holding a single drop of liquid. I stared at it. The drop trembled. Not from the air conditioning. It trembled because it was alive. Or so the report said. I am not a scientist. I am an investigator. I deal in facts. In records. In the cold hard data of who did what and when. But this drop defied the schema. It was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe rain had been falling for three days, a steady, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the world and turned the cobblestones into slick, black mirrors. I walked with my head down, clutching the leather satchel against my chest, feeling the familiar, dull ache in my shoulders from the long journey from the capital. The air here, in the old provincial town of Oakhaven, smelled of wet wool,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe blade broke. Not with a scream. With a sigh. Captain Elias Thorne stood in the mud. The rain was cold. It was cold like water in a grave. He held the hilt. The steel was gone. His opponent held a mirror. It was not a mirror. It was a face. It was his face. The eyes were wrong. The eyes were dead. Thorne threw a punch. His fist hit the wet air. The face did not flinch. The face smiled. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe rain had not ceased for three days, turning the gutters of the Whitmore Industrial Textile Mill into churning rivers of slate-gray sludge that reflected the sickly amber glow of the sodium-vapor lamps, a light that seemed to penetrate the very marrow of the stone walls and the cheap, synthetic fibers spun within them, creating a pervasive atmosphere of damp, inescapable decay that clung to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RootI dreamt of the house as a mouth, wide and dry, swallowing the light. In the dream, the walls were made of compressed ash, and my own hands were roots, white and knotted, trying to pierce the plaster to find water that was not there. I woke with the taste of dust in my mouth, the specific, gritty flavor of old insulation and neglect. The morning light in the bedroom was gray, filtered through...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe train pulled out of the station at four in the afternoon, a long, groaning exhalation of steam and iron that seemed to swallow the silence of the platform whole, and Elias Thorne stood by the open window with his head tilted back, watching the grey sky smear into a blur of indistinct clouds and bare branches, feeling the vibration of the engine hum through the soles of his shoes and up into...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe frost was thick on the windows of the manor. It looked like lace. It looked like bone. I wiped a circle in the glass. Outside, the coal smoke hung low over the valley. It was gray and heavy. It did not rise. It sat. It waited. My father stood by the fireplace. He did not look at me. He looked at the grate. The iron bars were black. The embers were dead. He held a small jar in his hands. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale LetterThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the coastal highway into a slick ribbon of grey sludge that reflected the bruised sky above. Arthur Penhaligon sat in the passenger seat of a rented sedan, his hands folded tightly in his lap, knuckles white against the fabric of his trousers. He was a man who had spent the last decade in the quiet, sterile silence of a federal psychiatric ward,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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