Cold, Cold War

Masaru peered past the struts and wires between his biplane's wings, trying to take the sight in. The tower's base was a madman's helter-skelter ziggurat, made of impossible stone blocks the size of townhouses, that cut a swath across the city's snow-covered grid of tenement blocks and terraces. From the ziggurat’s peak, the ragged-toothed tower reached up to a dark stain of cloud fixed in the sky directly above.

The Changeling's claws tore strips of canvas from his biplane's top wing as it dove past.
A Sixpenny Crossing

"Stolen," the General hissed. "Stolen!" he shouted, enraged. "It was Easric Dane, I know it! Upon my soul, it must have been he!" Not only was it awful, but Pearl couldn't possibly be suggesting there was any truth to it. Earsic thought of drowning the book in the river. But Pearl Snow had a wicked pack of cards. They brooked none of Easric's sass and weren't lightly ignored.

Easric thought that was bullshit. He told her so.
Audio Fiction Podcast:
The Penitent

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All day, No. 17596 waited, but the guards never came.
From the Archives:
The Proof of Bravery
I had lost what I most cared for: the calculus of risk, and in its disregard, of bravery.