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The Distant ThresholdThe councilman’s pen stopped moving, scratching a small, jagged mark into the paper. "You want how much," he asked, not looking up. I wanted the lease renewed. I wanted the house. I wanted them to stop calling me a freak in the hollows when they drove past my porch. I sat in the back of the room, my hands folded in my lap, feeling the ache in my knuckles. It was a dull, grinding pain, like rust...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe feast hall smelled of roasted pheasant and wet wool, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the back of the throat. You counted the guests as they filed in, forty-two in total, each one a potential witness to your ascent, each one a weight on the scale of your reputation. Elias Thorne, Senior Inspector, stood by the pillar, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, feeling the cold iron...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetI was prying the rusted bolt off the servant’s pantry door when the heavy oak of the main hall floor groaned above me, a sound like a man clearing his throat in the dark. The air down here smelled of wet rot and old iron, thick enough to chew on, and my fingers, raw and bleeding from the handle, slipped against the cold metal. I am Thomas Hale, thirty-two, a constable who has served this...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe iron key was warm in Arthur Vane’s hand, a strange heat against the November chill, though the metal had been rusted brown for three years. He stood at the threshold of Blackwood Manor, his boots sinking into the wet turf, the weight of the constable’s truncheon heavy in his other fist. The order in his pocket was crisp, yellowed only at the edges, stamped with the seal of the County...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureThe ink was still wet on the evacuation order for Sector 4 when I signed it. My hand did not shake. It never did. I was a structural engineer, not a poet. I dealt in load-bearing capacities and shear strength, not in the trembling of the soul. Outside the window of the Ministry of Infrastructure, the rain fell in grey sheets, blurring the line between the street and the sky. The air smelled of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasMarch 14, 2024 I have counted the hours since the last radio check. It is four hours, twelve minutes. The static in my head has grown louder, a low-frequency hum that sits just behind my teeth, vibrating in the bone. I want out. I want the transfer to the city, a desk job, a life where the air does not feel like it is being sucked out of a sealed room. The opposing force is not the cold, though...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThorne. The name was spat from the fog, a wet, gravelly sound that cut through the drumming of rain on the tin roof of the dugout. Sergeant Elias Thorne did not look up. He was busy with his knees, which had begun to grind against each other with the dry, painful friction of unlubricated hinges, a sensation that had grown louder in the last three years until it drowned out the distant thud of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinThe ink on the ledger page was still wet, a dark, viscous smear that refused to dry, and Elias Thorne’s finger hovered over the column of names, trembling not from cold but from the sudden, terrible lightness in his own hand. He was forty-two years old, an Archivist of the Second Tier in the Ministry of Memory, and the name *Elias Thorne* was followed by a red slash, the bureaucratic symbol for...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographIn the damp cold of the station platform, Elias Thorne held the leather-bound deed case in his hands, the brass clasp biting into his thumb as he watched the steam from the locomotive curl into the grey November air. The case contained the only proof of ownership for the Thorne estate, a document he had spent three years verifying against county records while his father lay comatose in a bed in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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