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The Faded PortraitThe hammer struck the lead came, a dull, heavy thud that vibrated up Thomas’s arm and settled in his jaw. He did not open his eyes. In the dark behind his lids, his brother’s face was not a ghost but a feverish blur, the skin slack and grey, the mouth open in a silent scream that had no sound in the waking world. Thomas blinked, and the workshop rushed back into focus, the smell of hot solder...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostThe wind on the ridge did not howl so much as it screamed, a high, thin note that seemed to drill directly into the bones of Elias Thorne, a forty-five-year-old border patrol commander who stood with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his heavy wool coat, watching the whiteout swallow the figure of his younger brother. Julian, thirty-two and limping with a bad knee that had never fully...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe name Elias was called out by the dust, a dry, rattling summons that echoed off the damp stone walls of the cellar where he had spent the last twelve hours hunched over the great pendulum clock, his hands slick with the black grease of three generations of oil. It was not a voice, exactly, but a vibration that traveled up through the soles of his worn boots and settled in the hollow of his...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe ink on the letter was still wet, a dark, viscous smear against the cream of the stationery, and your fingers trembled as you held it up to the grey light of the archive window. The paper smelled of iron and old dust, a scent that had long since colonized the lining of your nose, but this particular stench was fresh, aggressive, a violation of the sterile, silent order you had maintained for...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe morning inspection was a ritual of white light and silent feet. Elias stood in the center of the dormitory, his spine rigid, watching Warden Halloway’s shoes pass before him. The floor was polished concrete, reflecting the harsh overhead fluorescents until the room seemed to float in a void of blinding sterility. Elias was twelve, sharp-eyed, and hungry for something other than the hum of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CompassThe ink is moving. You watch it creep across the page, a slow, dark tide that defies the dry, static nature of the paper. It is 3:14 AM in the basement of the Blackwood Municipal Asylum, and the fluorescent lights are buzzing with a frequency that you feel in your teeth more than you hear with your ears. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and you have twelve hours to digitize the 1994...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe branch was cold in Elias’s hands, the bark pale as a dead man’s fingernail, weeping a thin, rust-colored sap that smelled of iron and old pennies. He held it over the linoleum floor of his kitchen, watching the drops hit the white surface with a soft, wet thud, each one spreading into a dark, intricate vein that looked disturbingly like a map of the border sector he had patrolled for...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorMy hands were already deep in the jagged fissure of the wall, my fingers numb and slick with the cold, wet substance that oozed from the cracks in the obsidian mirror, when I realized I was bleeding. The light in the master bedroom was the thin, grey sliver of dawn that cuts across the floorboards before the sun clears the ridge, a light that made the dust motes hang suspended in the air like...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldThe hilt of my sword was slick with the warm, coppery slickness of blood, and my fingers, wrapped around the leather grip, were already beginning to stiffen into claws that refused to release their hold. I was Elias, the warden of the Iron Gate, and I wanted to break the curse that bound my hands to the stone, a desire born not of rebellion but of a simple, grinding exhaustion with the slow...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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