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The Wistful LetterThe candle sputtered, a thin blue tongue licking the air, and Thomas Bradshaw did not look up from the vellum. "You are writing too fast," the voice said. It was not a voice, strictly speaking, but a pressure against the inside of his skull, a low hum that had become a distinct, mocking syllable over the last three nights. "The ink is drying before the thought is finished. You are leaving gaps...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileChapter One "Entry 402: Nair, Deepak. Junior Clerk. Status: Probationary. Note: Attendance irregular. See file." The ink on the ledger was still wet, a dark smear that looked less like writing and more like a bruise on the page. Deepak Nair stood in the dim corridor of the Bombay Steamship Company archives, his hand trembling as he reached for the book. He was twelve years old, though he...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiDo you think a man can own a ghost? I asked the mirror while shaving, the razor cold against my jaw, the lather drying in the damp air of the cellar. My reflection looked back, but the mouth moved a half-second too late, forming the words I had just spoken. Jian Ma, it said, or rather, the shape of the words came from the glass. I am thirty-four, an animal control officer in a river county...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaWhat is the weight of a thing that no longer exists? I ask this because the ledger says it is four hundred baht, but my hands say it is four thousand. The fog on the Chao Phraya is thick enough to chew, and it has stopped the boats since dawn. I am Anong Phanurat, a runner for the pawnbroker, and I have come to buy back the silver mortar my wife used to grind the dried chilies. The shopkeeper,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RootWho drinks first when the poison is also the cure? Khalid Ghannam stood in the cellar, the damp rising through the soles of his boots to soak his ankles. The air tasted of wet stone and the sweet, rotting sugar of the walnut grove above, a smell that clung to the back of the throat. He held the root in his left hand, its skin black and slick, pulsing with a faint, cold heat that had nothing to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe grey in Tunis did not lift; it settled into the marrow of the white stone houses like a debt that could not be called in. The Ferryman’s Ledger, October the fourteenth The rain had been falling for three days, a steady, cold sheet that turned the prairie dog town landscape into a blur of mud and old grass. I am writing this by the light of a single tallow candle, the wax dripping onto the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisI remember the weight of the iron gate more than the words spoken through it, a heaviness that settled into the marrow of my bones long after the clang faded into the damp air of the street. It was late November in Oakhaven, the year of the great frost, and the cold had a physical presence, a hard, white pressure that bit through my wool coat and made the joints ache with a dull, persistent...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe ink bled from the parchment in a slow, viscous weep, pooling in the grooves of the oak table with a weight that seemed to press against the floorboards, and as you counted the drops—one, two, three, four—each falling with the dull thud of wet clay, the smell of turned earth rose up to choke the air of the archive, thick and cloying as the rot of a buried apple. You are Elias Thorne,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographChapter One Did you know that ink is just blood that has forgotten how to flow? I asked my father this question while he sat at the table, his left hand resting on the wood, leaking a dark, viscous fluid onto the linoleum. He did not look up. He was counting the seeds in the inventory, a list whose viability was falling faster than the price of bread in the border town. I was twelve. I had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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