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The Wistful CrossroadsThe clay face did not blink. It simply tilted, a slow, wet rotation of the head, as if the man inside were struggling to remember how to look. Elias Thorne stood in the alley, the rain slicking his uniform until it clung to his ribs like a second skin. He gripped the ceramic vial in his left hand, the knuckles white, the black liquid inside sloshing with a sound that was not liquid, but the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeDo you think it was the wind, Elias? The young man’s voice was thin, stripped of all the static that usually filled the air, and Elias looked at him not with the suspicion of a man facing a suspect, but with the weary recognition of a man seeing his own reflection in a cracked mirror. The radio in Elias’s breast pocket had gone silent three minutes ago, a sudden, absolute vacuum that had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe water in the estuary does not move so much as it waits. It holds the tide in a suspended breath, a grey and brackish pause between the land and the open sea, where the wading birds stand motionless on their long legs, watching the surface for any sign of life. Samir Salem stood in the center of the conservatory, a room that had been sealed against the damp for decades, and watched the dust...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureMaaike Bakker was fifty-four years old, and the deed to her house was not in her name. She sat in the kitchen, the ice on the river loud as breaking glass outside the window, and held the medical printer in her lap. The filament was low, the spool clicking dryly against the drive. She needed to print the final page of the translation before the dampening crew arrived. It was a simple task, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe fog in Oakhaven did not roll in so much as it seeped up from the porous limestone, a thick, mineral damp that settled into the joints of Elias Thorne’s knees and the creases of his collar before he had even finished unloading the surveying equipment from his truck. He stood before the skeletal remains of St. Jude’s Chapel, a structure that had been condemned for structural instability for...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe damp in the infirmary tasted of wet stone and old blood, a flavor that coated the back of Thomas’s throat as he watched his father, the Abbot, struggle to breathe. The old man’s fingers, gnarled like the roots of the yew tree outside the window, clutched a withered branch he had pulled from the earth that morning, his eyes fixed on Thomas with a terror that was not for his own life. Thomas,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitSubject: Bilal Wazir, Captain of the Night Watch. Status: Terminated. Cause: Structural failure of the vessel. Note: The salt pattern remains. I The clay was thin, thinner than the ice on the canal in January, and it wept a paste the color of old blood. Bilal Wazir held the vessel in his left hand, his right pressing against the stone of the cellar wall to steady the tremor in his limbs. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe letter lay in Elias Thorne’s palm, its edges soft and frayed from years of handling. The ink was brown, faded by time and sweat, the script of Silas Vane’s dead brother, Silas, who had taught Elias how to hold a baton and how to keep a secret. The paper was thin as onion skin at the folds, ready to tear. Outside the window of the small, damp office, the city of Oakhaven hummed with the low,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe notice was pasted to the shoji screen with a square of dried persimmon, the paper yellowed and brittle as old skin. Yamato Hayashi Payment of Bride-Price in Arrears. Final Notice. I did not read the rest. I knew the sum. I knew the date. I sat on the edge of the futon in the main room of the Hayashi machiya, the wood...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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