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The Wistful WitnessThe pen in your hand is a standard issue Parker, its clip bent slightly from being shoved into a jacket pocket for two decades. You hold it now, feeling the cold metal bite into the pad of your thumb, as you prepare to write the first entry of the official log for the northern sector. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, and you want only the quiet retirement that twenty years of service...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden VisitThe iron key was cold in Thomas’s palm, a slab of metal that bit into his flesh like a frostbite. He held it up to the grey light of the morning, turning it over to check the teeth against the lock of the Abbey gate, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts that misted in the damp air. The wood of the gate was black with age and rot, swollen shut, and the air around him smelled of wet earth and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe pencil snaps against the grain of the oak table, the sound sharp and final in the silence of the cellar, and you watch the graphite dust settle on the damp stone floor where the condensation has already begun to weep. You are thirty years old, a widow of the cartographer, and your hands are stained with ink that will not wash out, a permanent map of your labor etched into the skin. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThe memorandum lay on my desk, its edges curling slightly under the weight of the gaslight. It was a standard form, Ministry of Internal Affairs, Series C, regarding the extension of provisional tenure for clerks in the third division. I signed it with a steady hand, the nib scratching a sharp, definitive line across the paper. I wanted the permanent seal by the winter solstice. I wanted to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe drill bit, a three-inch cylinder of hardened steel, hung suspended in the air, vibrating with a high, thin whine that cut through the wind. Elias Thorne held the extraction handle with gloves that had lost their insulation hours ago, the metal biting into his palms as he waited for the ice to yield. Below him, the shelf of the Svalbard archipelago stretched out, a white void punctuated by...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleYou think you can just hand over a ledger, do you? That was the first thing I said to the cat, which was sitting on the stone floor of the cellar, licking a paw with the slow, deliberate indifference of a creature that has eaten well for forty years. I was holding the book, my grandfather’s ledger, and the leather was so dry it felt like holding a dead thing, brittle and cracked along the spine...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden VisitThe dream was not of peace, but of weight. Elias woke in the straw of his small chamber, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and old blood, his hand clamped tight around the leather cord at his throat. The golden seal of his brother, Thomas, sat against his sternum, a cold disc of metal that felt less like an heirloom and more like a tumor. He was forty years old, a scribe whose...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe moss was on the ledger again. I looked down, my fingers hovering over the ink-stained pages of the 1954 student registry. The green patch had spread from the margin of the page, creeping under the binding, pulsing with a wet, rhythmic throb that matched my own heartbeat. It was not mold. Mold did not have a pulse. It did not itch. It felt like a living skin, warm and damp, pressing against...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownThe jar was heavy, heavier than glass should be, and it burned against Elias’s palms like a coal wrapped in wax. He stood on the gravel platform of the rural station, watching the tail lights of the train dissolve into the grey morning mist, his father’s figure already a blur, then a ghost, then nothing at all. In his hands, the hive hummed, a low, persistent vibration that traveled up his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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