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The Faded GuestThorne, you’re late again. The voice came from the rear of the truck, low and grinding, like gravel shifting under a tire. Elias Thorne did not turn around. He kept his eyes on the winding road that cut through the Appalachian foothills, the steering wheel slick with sweat and the residue of the cold coffee he’d drunk three hours ago. The contract on the passenger seat was yellowing at the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe survey of the old mill foundation required four hours, three pencils, and a steady hand that Elias Thorne no longer possessed, a fact that sat in his chest like a swallowed stone as he knelt in the damp earth of the valley floor. He was fifty-two years old, a retired cartographer whose life’s work had been the precise mapping of the county’s topography, and now his fingers, trembling with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineThe needle was in the vein, but the line was not clear. Elias watched the IV drip, counting the seconds between the beads of saline that should have been flowing. Four seconds. Five. Six. The bag was empty, yet the tube remained dry, a hollow vein of plastic leading to his wife’s arm. He did not look up. He looked at the floor, at the scuff marks on the linoleum that looked like dried blood, or...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographMy hand was steady as I tightened the clamp on the theodolite, the brass cold against my palm, but the air in front of me was not. It was the third morning of the survey, the year 1894, and the Mist had returned. It did not roll in like a fog from the sea; it sat there, a perfect, flat sheet of grey that reflected the surveyor’s chain, the tripod, and the man holding it with a fidelity that was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairElias Thorne’s fingers were stained green to the knuckles, the pigment of crushed ferns seeping into the whorls of his skin as he pressed the final leaf into the drying press. It was the fourth hour past midnight, the only light in the archive room coming from the single gas jet above his desk, which hissed with a faint, angry sputter. He worked in the shadow of the Blackwood estate’s history,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueThe mud was thick enough to swallow a boot, and I was hauling the sandbag over the lip of the trench with my left hand while my right gripped the cold steel of my service pistol. My knuckles were white, the skin split and raw from the constant friction of the earth. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, a Sergeant who has spent eleven years digging holes in the dirt for men who never had to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe hand of the man in the grey wool coat gripped the iron railing of the freight car, his knuckles white against the rusted metal as the train shuddered into the station, the wheels screaming a high, metallic protest against the rails that had not been greased in months. Elias Thorne, forty-two years old and carrying the weight of a reputation that had crumbled like dry plaster, stepped down...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostFour hundred and twelve days since the last letter from Elias. Thomas counted them on his fingers, the knuckles swollen and red from the frost, as he walked the frozen moor toward the farmhouse at the edge of the village. The air was not cold; it was heavy, a low, metallic hum that vibrated in the molars and the soles of the boots. Thomas was a constable, a man of law and order, but here, in...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe blood on the linoleum was bright and startling, a wet smear against the sterile gray floor of the customs office. Elias Thorne stood over the unconscious form of Officer Halloway, his knuckles raw, his chest heaving in the thin, recycled air. He wanted only to secure his pension, to keep the agency’s long, cold fingers away from his younger sister Clara, but the first sign of opposition was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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