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The Pale BonsaiThe stone was cold under your fingers, a chill that seeped through the skin and settled in the marrow, but you did not pull your hand away. You were Elias, thirty-two years old, a clerk of modest rank in the ancient, fog-draped town of Oakhaven, and you wanted the chapel. Not for worship, nor for art, but to hold the shape of your sister, Clara, who had died in a fever three winters past. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe pen sat in my hand, cold and heavy, a stick of black lead waiting to mark the white void. Outside the window of the Municipal Archives, the gas lamps were just beginning to hiss to life against the early October dusk, casting long, wavering shadows across the stone steps where the streetcar tracks ran. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a junior clerk with a salary of eighteen pounds...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe document was a standard Form 104, a Notice of Pending Review, printed on the heavy, cream-colored stock that the firm reserved for matters of significant consequence, and I held it in my left hand while my right pressed against the left side of my chest where a sharp, rhythmic pain was currently unfolding. It was a Tuesday, the kind of grey, flat light that makes the glass towers of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe rain has not stopped for three days, a grey curtain that presses against the leaded windows of Blackwood Manor until the glass groans under the weight of the damp. I sit at the desk in my study, the leather of the chair creaking in protest as I lean forward, my eyes fixed on the small pot on the windowsill where the pale bonsai sits, its branches twisted like arthritic fingers. My wife,...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe wet plaster of the courtyard wall wept as Elias Thorne held the jagged shards of the family crest, the silver lion’s head split cleanly down the middle, its painted eyes staring out with a dull, vacant stare that matched the grey sky above. He was forty-five years old, a constable for twenty years, and his hands, which had broken a hundred other men’s jaws without trembling, now shook so...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinThe light in the reclamation sector was the color of old bandages, a flat, sickly yellow that never shifted with the sun, which did not exist here. "Elian," the foreman’s voice crackled through the static of the wall-mounted speaker, sharp and bored. "Elian, your quota is down by four percent. Fix the sensor array on Line 9 or your debt escalates by two points." Elian wiped a smear of grey...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe gold hummed against Elian’s neck, a low vibration that rattled his teeth. He stood before the High Curator, a twelve-year-old boy in a grey tunic, his hands trembling as he clutched the collar. It was the only thing in the Ministry that felt solid. The room was white, seamless, and silent, smelling of ozone and old paper. "You wish to keep it?" the Curator asked. His voice was flat,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe ink on the page was dry, but the shape of it was still warm, a jagged, golden tear that seemed to pulse against the cold fiber of the paper, and I traced it with a finger that had spent twenty years handling dead things. "It’s a corruption marker," I said, my voice sounding thin in the sterile silence of the archive, the hum of the climate control systems the only other sound in the room....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe soup was thin. It was a gray, watery thing, served in a chipped blue bowl. Elias sat at the edge of the table. The wood was bare. No tablecloth. Just the grain, worn smooth by decades of hands that were no longer there. He looked at the bowl. He looked at his mother. She was small. She had always been small, but lately she seemed to be shrinking into the chair. Into the shadow behind her....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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