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The Faded BouquetThe dream began not with a sound, but with the distinct, wet sensation of something tearing at the seam of reality. Elias Thorne found himself standing in the center of a vast, industrial cavern that he recognized with a sickening lurch of familiarity, the air thick with the smell of ozone and rotting wool. He was not alone; before him stood a figure whose face was obscured by a mask of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MasterThe dust in the ledger room tasted of iron and decay. Elias Vance, forty-two, adjusted his glasses and lifted the brittle spine of Volume 1954-A. His hand trembled. The ink on the page bled, a brown stain spreading like a bruise. He had three months before the Parkinson’s would claim his fingers entirely, and three months before the Meridian Trust’s pension board would review his file. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe wax seal on the ledger did not break under Elias Thorne’s thumbnail; it resisted, cold and hard as a tooth, emitting a faint, dry hiss that smelled of ozone and old iron. Elias, a clerk of forty years whose hands had long since forgotten the tremor that usually plagued him in the dead of night, sat in the damp, subterranean archives of the provincial court, the air thick with the scent of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe clock in the antechamber did not tick; it breathed. Silas Vane sat in a chair of carved oak, his hands resting on his knees, pale and still as lily petals. He was a clerk of the lowest rank, a man whose life was measured in the filling of inkwells and the folding of parchment. Yet, for three days, he had not left the throne room of Lord Blackwood. The air in the hall was thick with the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinThe rain did not fall; it was imposed. Maren stood at the edge of the Glass Verge, her fingers interlaced, knuckles white against the damp chill of the air. Below her, the city of Aethelgard sprawled in a grid of silver and grey, a mechanical lung breathing in slow, rhythmic pulses of steam and light. It was a beautiful thing, in the way a frozen lake is beautiful—perfect, rigid, and devoid of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale EchoThe fire in the hearth of the stone cottage did not roar; it whispered, a dry, crackling hiss that sounded suspiciously like the tearing of old paper. Margaret sat on the floor, her back against the cold hearthstone, her hands resting on her knees. They were steady. That was the first thing she noticed, the terrifying stillness of her own body. She was a woman of fifty-two years, a woman who...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BannerThe convoy of three armored transports moved slowly through the dense, ancient forest that swallowed the modern highway whole, the engines humming a low, steady drone that seemed to vibrate against the bones of the men inside. Thomas Bradshaw sat in the lead vehicle, his hands resting loosely on his knees, watching the grey mist weave through the black pines as if the trees were breathing, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe chandelier above you sways in a rhythm that has nothing to do with the air conditioning, a slow, sickening pendulum that matches the erratic thumping of your own heart as you raise a glass of Pinot Noir to the room of forty-two colleagues who have gathered to celebrate your retirement after twenty years of service at the Municipal Infrastructure Bureau. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe red scarf is fraying. You can see it in the mirror, a raw, white thread dangling from the knot like a loose nerve. It is a Tuesday, and the air in the apartment smells of stale coffee and the particular dust that settles in high-rise buildings, that suspended particulate that makes everything look slightly out of focus. You are nine years old, or perhaps you feel nine, because time in this...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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