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The Distant GhostNazario Ybáñez was forty years old, a divorcee who filmed weddings for a living, and he had not eaten in three days. The hunger was a physical weight, a stone in his gut that made his hands tremble as he sat in the damp cellar of the hurricane shelter. I dreamed of a banquet in the sealed vault, a table of marble where I craved the taste of the forbidden honey-cake. Old Kael, the union steward,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseThe silver censer was heavier than it looked, cold and rough against the palm, smelling of old wax and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. You held it with both hands, knuckles white, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps that sounded too loud in the silence of the dormitory. It was the third of November, the night the frost began to bite into the stone walls of the High Monastery, and you,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ParadoxThorne. The name hung in the air, heavy and wet, like a rag wrung out over a sink, and I looked up from the ledger I was shuffling, my fingers stained with the black ink of the city’s history, to see Director Halloway standing in the doorway of the archive, his silhouette framed by the harsh, buzzing light of the corridor lamps. He did not come in. He never came in; the sub-basement was for us,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded GuestDid you think he was gone? Nikos Makris asked the question into the static of the police scanner, a gift from a man who no longer spoke to him. He sat in the engine cab of the night bus, the last run out of the city, where the fog had stopped the boats and the mill siren tested the air at noon, a sound that still hummed in his teeth. The brass compass in his pocket grew cold, then hot, then...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe torch was wet. Thomas held it against his thigh, feeling the damp wool of his sleeve soak through to the skin, while the river churned below the mill wheel in the dark. It was the year 1342, and the water ran high, swollen with snowmelt from the peaks. He wanted to keep the lease. He wanted to grind the grain. He wanted to live. The opposing force was not a man, but a decree, and the man...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe first thing you notice is the weight of the silence, which presses against your eardrums like deep water, followed immediately by the smell of ozone and dried lavender that hangs in the air of the scriptorium. You have counted the seconds since the Abbot left the room; it has been four hundred and twelve seconds. In your hands, wrapped in oilcloth, lies the specimen known as the Faded...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe tape is wet, and if you do not splice it by noon, the static will eat the vowels, and the vowels are the only thing standing between us and the county asylum. Purificacion Uy sat in the back of the pawn-and-payday strip mall, her fingers stained with the iron-gall ink of her ledger, watching the low cloud press against the window like a damp cloth. She was fifty-two, and her mother, Nana...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe ledger lay open on the desk, its pages stiff with age and the weight of ink that had dried into the paper like rust. You counted the hours, not the coins, for in Aethelgard the currency of the condemned was time, and you had spent forty-two years measuring your own against the clock. The fog pressed against the high windows of the magistrate’s chamber, a gray, wet wool that smelled of damp...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe ink was still wet. Elias wiped his thumb against the hem of his shirt, leaving a dark, jagged smear across the white cotton. He leaned over the reading table, the smell of decaying vellum and old dust hanging heavy in the air, a scent that usually soothed his nerves but now made his stomach turn. The glyph sat in the margin of a fourteenth-century psalter, fresh and black against the faded...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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