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The Distant GardenThe air in Ward 4 of the Sanatorium for the Chronically Dissolved smelled of ozone and old paper, a sterile scent that Elias Thorne had come to associate with the preservation of the self. He sat at his desk, a slab of polished mahogany that seemed to float in the gray haze of the room, and dipped his quill into the inkwell, the liquid black and viscous as a pupil dilating in the dark. At...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe quill was heavy, a feather of black swan, and my fingers, wrapped around its shaft, felt the weight of every mistake I had made in forty-two years. I sat in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude, the candlelight flickering against the damp stone walls, and I tried to form the letter 'a' in the final chapter of the Chronicle. My hand trembled. It was a palsy, the physicians said, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RoadThe silver buckle of the belt sat in Elias Thorne’s palm, cold and heavy against the skin, a small metal weight that had held up his life for twenty-two years. He turned it over, watching the light catch the engraved initials of the Border Patrol Service, and the noise of the banquet hall seemed to recede into a dull, distant hum. Around him, the officers of the Ninth Sector raised their...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ApartmentChapter One The white town of Tunis hummed with the industry of the shipbreakers, a low, metallic groan that rolled across the marsh-landed beaches where the hulls of dead vessels were picked apart by men with rusted tongs. It was a sound that settled into the teeth, a constant reminder of the weight that water carries and the fragility of the steel meant to hold it back. I was Mahmoud Kassem,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThorne. The name was not shouted, but it carried the weight of a stone dropped into a deep well. It hung in the freezing air of the northern ridge, sharp and final. I stood in the mud, my rifle steady against my shoulder, the wool of my uniform soaking through with a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, and for ten years I have worn this...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesI. "Notice of Reprimand: Subject Nordli, E. Deviation from Protocol 7. Correction Required." Erik Nordli read the slip twice. The paper was dry, brittle as old skin. He sat in the harbor quarantine hut, the wood groaning under the weight of the still air. Outside, the badlands carved the horizon like a wound that refused to close. He was thirty-four. He had been a licensed medium for six years....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant Affair14th October, 1893. The brass compass lay in my palm, cold and heavy as a dead bird, its face cracked down the center where the needle had once swung with the certainty of a metronome. I held it up to the window, watching the afternoon light strike the fractured glass, and I thought of the ridge, that jagged scar across the northern Highlands which the Ordnance Survey has refused to chart for...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisAethelgard’s stone dust settled on the cobblestones before the first light of dawn broke over the canal. The air smelled of wet granite and the metallic tang of the river, a scent that clung to the clothes of every stevedore and mason who worked the waterfront. Femmigje de Groot stood in the shadow of the cathedral’s unfinished nave, his hands wrapped around a chisel that felt less like a tool...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden GreenhouseThe wax was hot against my palm, a small, round lie that burned hotter than the fever in the lower ward. I pressed it into the clay, the Green Seal, and the pain was immediate, a white spike driving up my wrist. It was the only truth I had left. The city council had sent the order down the tower stairs at dawn, a scroll sealed with red wax, demanding the lower ward be burned to stop the rot....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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