Drama
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The Heavy Key
I woke up this morning and forgot what color the front door was. I stood in the hallway for five minutes: staring at the wood. I had to walk outside and touch the paint to be sure it was white. My name is Maury, and there is a thief in my brain. It starts with…
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The Silver Knife in the Fog
Mick sat in the back of the dark lecture hall: a ghost in a corduroy jacket. He used to own this room. He used to be the man at the front: the one with the steady hands and the voice like calm water. Now, his hands lived in his pockets because they wouldn’t stop dancing.…
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The Ink on the Bone
Victor sat at his mahogany desk and counted his pens. There were ten. There were always ten. He lined them up so their silver clips pointed toward the door. If one was missing, it meant the floor was starting to tilt. He could feel the tilt today. It was a slow, heavy slide toward the…
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The Ghost in the Woodwork
So, you want to hear about Hayes and Quinn? Pull up a chair. This story is a bit of a trip, but it’s the kind of thing that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, things turn out okay even when the lights go dim. Hayes was an architect. Not just a guy who drew…
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The Echo in the Oak Desk
So, pull up a chair. You want to hear a story about a win? A real, honest-to-god victory? It does not happen often in this world, especially not in a town like ours where the same three names have owned every brick and board since the Great Depression. Sarah came back to town with her…
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The Copper Lung
Ike sat in his rusted truck and watched the town of Oakhaven rot. It didn’t rot like a piece of fruit: soft and sweet. It rotted like a dead tooth. The air smelled like wet pennies and old gym socks. Ike took a pull from a flask that tasted mostly like regret and cheap plastic.…
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The Ink in the Bone
Vince was a mess. His brain was like a house where someone kept moving the furniture while he was asleep. One day the keys were in the fridge. The next day, he forgot how to tie his shoes. He was an investigative reporter, or at least he used to be. Now, he was just a…
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The House of Cedar and Pine
Long ago, or perhaps just last Tuesday, there was a man named Marcus who decided to outrun the fog in his own mind. In the records of the great cities, Marcus was known as a man who built towers of glass that touched the clouds. But glass is a cold thing. It does not breathe.…
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The Rust in the Blood
I keep my left hand tucked into my belt. It is a traitor. It shakes like a cold dog, and it never stops. I used to be the man who hunted truth in this city, but now I hunt for the strength to hold a fork. When Maren walked into the room, I felt the…
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The Blood in the Ink
Miles sat in the crawlspace of his father’s old house: a place where the air felt like it was made of wet wool and secrets. His flashlight flickered. The beam of light danced over stacks of yellow papers that smelled like vinegar and dust. For twenty years, Miles had been the man who pulled the…