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The Pale BridgeI. The Municipal Notice of Indictment, dated the fourteenth of November, 1912, stated in dry, bureaucratic ink that Luigi Rinaldi, constable of the Third District, was charged with the premeditated murder of Mayor Enzo Farnese, the crime allegedly committed in the shadow of the Pale Bridge, a structure which, according to the addendum, did not exist. The smell of the office was stale tobacco...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe first thing Elias Thorne noticed was not the smell of the office, but the stain. It was a dark, viscous blotch on the corner of the final page of Silas’s diary, pulsing with a faint, wet heat that defied the sterile air of the Bureau’s archive room. Elias, a thirty-four-year-old cryptographer whose hands trembled only when he thought of the pension check that would sustain him for the next...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsShadows do not belong to us; we belong to them. I I sat in the hurricane shelter on the second week of the strike, the air heavy with wet concrete and fear, while my shadow lay flat on the floor, refusing to rise. It was a thick, oily thing, pooling around my boots like spilled ink, and it did not move when I moved. Hwan, the broker, stood by the door, his hands in the pockets of his coat,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful Campus"You hold the file steady, or it slips." Dong Ma woke with the taste of rust on his tongue, the steam pipes above his bunk hissing a low, continuous note that sounded like a dying animal. He was twenty-two, a cadet at the Ironworks Academy, and the ink on his official service ledger was fading. He traced the name of his father, Ma Zhen, with a trembling finger. The letters were thinning,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GardenThe cobbler’s name was called out by the tax collector, a man whose voice seemed to scrape against the inside of Elias’s skull like a rough stone on wet wood, and Elias looked up from the last of the leather strips, his hands stained black with the tannin, to find the official standing in the doorway of the shop, a ledger tucked under one arm and a look of bored contempt on his face. It was the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticNotice of Revocation: Subject Noor Abbasi. Classification: Fraudulent Medium. Effective: Dawn. I held the orchid stem in my left hand, the blackened tip cracking under my thumb. The air in the attic smelled of damp wool and the metallic tang of old blood. My mentor, Tariq, sat across from me, his coat damp from the unseasonal drizzle that had been failing to arrive for three years. He did not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ProtocolThe ink in my pen is thick, a black sludge that resists the nib, much like the blood in my veins has begun to resist the skin. I hold the letter in my hands, the paper damp with the condensation of this outpost’s air, and I watch the light on the back of my wrist where the runes have begun to bloom again. It is a faint, pale glow, like the moon seen through heavy cloud, marking the place where...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe town crier’s voice, thin and reedy, cut through the morning fog like a blade through wet wool. “Elias Thorne! To the hall! You are summoned.” Elias stood in the doorway of his small brick house, the chill of the October air biting at his knuckles, and watched the crowd gather in the square. The Grey Path, that pale, shifting line of stone that bisected the town center, had moved again...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThorne. The name hung in the air of the magistrate’s office, heavy and damp, like a wet wool coat left to dry in a cold room. Elias stood by the door, his hands clasped behind his back, feeling the tremor that had started in his left thumb three weeks ago now spreading up the forearm, a slow, rhythmic shaking that made the leather of his gloves creak. The office smelled of varnish and old...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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