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The Wistful AtlasThe wet season in the Florida swamplands does not end; it merely changes the pitch of its complaint. Crescencio Arellano woke to the smell of wet cardboard and the sound of brakes squealing on the service road, a mechanical wail that seemed to know exactly how much he needed to hear. He was thirty-four, a border patrol agent with twelve years on the books, and his marriage was rotting faster...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeI was scrubbing the mud from the hem of my dress when the guards came for the Archivist. My hands were raw, the water in the bucket cold and gray. I watched them drag him from the square, his mouth open in a silent scream that the wind swallowed. The Guild Master stood on the steps of the loggia, his face a mask of bored indifference. He did not look at the man. He looked at me. I was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainChapter One "Notice to Staff: Unauthorized administration of unlicensed botanical preparations constitutes gross negligence and theft of institutional property. Violation results in immediate termination and legal referral." I woke with the taste of boiling water on my tongue, a sharp, mineral scald that coated the back of my throat. It was the third night in a row the dream had come, the white...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerI The district of Tondo is a machine that grinds its own gears, a place where the air tastes of diesel and wet concrete, and the only clock that matters is the one on the Bureau wall. I am Juan Cruz, thirty-two, and I have three days to secure a permanent visa before the festival begins, though there is nothing to celebrate. My trade is home health aid; I have three clients, two of whom are...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinI, II, III Did you think I was dead? That is the question hanging in the back room of the juke joint, the air heavy with stale tobacco and the low hum of the refrigerator. I am sitting on a plastic chair, my legs stretched out, the floorboards creaking under the weight of my bad knees. The light from the single bare bulb above is yellow and thin, cutting a sharp line across the table where my...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded Paradox"Is he dead, or just sleeping?" The question hung in the air, thick with the smell of boiled linens and antiseptic, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bad penny. Elias Thorne did not answer immediately. He stood in the corridor of the Blackwood Sanatorium, a brutalist block of concrete and glass perched on the edge of the Vermont wilderness, where the wind howled against the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ChronicleThe recipe called for three ounces of black root, two sprigs of night-blooming jasmine, and one vial of river water drawn at the third quarter moon. I counted the ounces on the back of a tobacco tin, the numbers smudged by sweat and the damp air of the cellar. My father’s cough was a wet, rattling thing that shook the house from the foundation up, a sound that had replaced his voice weeks ago....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenAct I The winter that broke him had begun with a signature. Vladimir Georgiev remembered the ink, black and wet, soaking into the rough paper of the magistrate’s desk. He had been thirty-two, a postal rider on the mountain route, his lungs already scarred by the thin air and the coal dust of the city he fled. He needed a roof before the snows sealed the passes. The magistrate, a thin man named...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdAct I The oaks in the Highlands do not merely stand; they hold the ground together. I have spent thirty years listening to the creak of their roots, a sound like a settling house, a gasp that precedes the storm. I am Gil Paisley, and I am dying by inches, my sight failing in the dark corners of my mind while the trees grow fat on my attention. Elara, the archivist with ink-stained fingers and a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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