Conversations on Science, Culture and Time
Shadows of the Oracle
“Hmm,” murmured Tobias, frowning as he tucked the spool into a hidden pocket of his cloak. “We both felt that rift, after all. If something’s tampering with the Boundary, it’s not some idle hobby. They must be dabbling in powers they don’t understand.” He flicked his gaze downwards as a blunt-nosed bulldog waddled into the room. Cecil, his jowls quivering with each breath, seemed eternally unimpressed by the concept of cosmic threats.
[…]
Thus prepared, they set out. Horses had been borrowed from a taciturn stablehand who asked no questions—Tumbledown’s sort-of watchers were generally given a wide berth when they came round with that certain gleam in their eyes. The morning was crisp, and the air carried the faint perfume of wild herbs. As they rode over the softly undulating hills, Tobias and Miles occupied themselves with idle observations and the occasional jibe. They travelled in watchful silence for a time, hooves thudding against packed earth. At length, Tobias cast Miles a sidelong glance, jaw set.
Rumbles in Tumbledown
[…] Rifts were rare—accidents in the natural order of things. Most inhabitants of Tumbledown wouldn’t recognise one if it glowed pink and started yodelling, but Tobias was no ordinary inhabitant. He set down a scroll he’d been perusing (something about an obscure centuries-old wormwood ale recipe) and pressed his palm to the damp cobblestone. A faint whisper of energy played across his fingertips […] that hum in the air felt more like what he’d first suspected. He exhaled slowly, torn between apprehension and a strange flicker of excitement. Rumours of a rogue artisan had reached him in hushed tones—someone dabbling in intangible bargains, weaving regrets and memories like a tapestry waiting to unravel. Could this fledgling rift be tied to that meddling?
A Brief Respite (An Ambrose Short)
[…]Ambrose stood behind his old wooden counter, a ledger open before him. He wasn’t writing much, merely tapping his quill and eyeing the empty lines. […] A subdued jingle from the bell announced Father Quinn’s arrival. Tall and composed under his worn cloak, he shut the door gently, shaking off a few stray droplets from the persistent drizzle outside. Ambrose glanced over, one eyebrow arching in mild curiosity.
“Well, if it isn’t the town’s moral compass,” Ambrose said, tapping his quill against the ledger. “You’re either here to exorcise me or to poke through my inventory, Father Quinn. Which is it today?”
A Curious Trade: Epilogue
Long after the swirling snow had settled into a gentle hush outside, Ambrose found himself alone at the counter, poring over a large, leather-bound ledger. The lantern light flickered against the old pages, revealing names, dates, and cryptic notations scribbled in Ambrose’s spidery handwriting. Each line represented a deal—some trifling, some monumental—sealed within the walls of his shop.
He ran a fingertip down one column, skimming the entries of the day:
Irrational Public-Speaking Anxiety – Traded for a pocket watch.
Temptation to Erase Guilt – Declined; no sale.
Persistent Self-Doubt in a ‘Chosen One’ – Claimed as partial payment for… well, let’s call it “services rendered.”
A Curious Trade
Winter had laid its icy grip upon the town, painting the cobblestones with frost and casting halos of pale light around the few lanterns still burning. The air was crisp and sharp, the kind that bit at your nose and turned each breath into a fleeting cloud. The town itself, nestled against the bend of a slow-moving river, seemed to have been frozen in time as much as by the season. Crooked buildings leaned toward each other like old conspirators sharing secrets, their roofs bowed with the weight of centuries.
It was a quiet morning, the kind where sound seemed to carry farther, where the crunch of boots on snow echoed in the stillness. The river ran sluggishly under a crust of thin ice, its surface rippling faintly in the weak morning light, like an elderly man grumbling his way through another cold day.
The Threads We Leave Behind
The Watchman tossed and turned in his narrow bed, the chill of the morning doing little to quiet his restless mind. The child’s question echoed in the corners of his thoughts, gnawing at him with an insistence that no amount of pulling the blanket over his head could muffle. "What if the memories weren’t mine to forget?" The words struck like a splinter he couldn’t pry loose, sharp and nagging.
At his feet, Moss, his ever-faithful border collie, let out a low, impatient whine. The dog had been watching him with an intensity that suggested he shared the Watchman’s unease. Finally, Moss stood, padded over to the bedside, and pawed at his master’s arm. The Watchman groaned, sitting up and rubbing his face. "All right, Moss. I’ll bite. You win. No one gets any rest, apparently."
The Watchman
The town lay quiet beneath a velvet blanket of winter, its snow-covered rooftops glistening under the pale light of a crescent moon. The hour was late, and though a few sounds of merriment escaped from the alehouse near the square—a clatter of mugs, a burst of laughter—even these seemed to be softening, like the sleepy yips of puppies settling down for the night. The cobbled streets wound through the town like frozen veins, silent and unbroken save for the occasional echo of footsteps. Night was creeping in, the kind of deep, impenetrable night that left no room for the lingering warmth of day. The cold had long since bullied the townsfolk into their homes, and chimneys puffed small clouds into the brittle air. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed, its notes carried on the icy wind.
A Winter Tale
The snowstorm roared like a wild beast, lashing at the young traveller with icy fangs. Athanasius, bundled in a cloak that did little to shield him, hunched over the neck of his weary horse. The beast snorted, steam rising from its nostrils as it plodded forward, each step a laborious battle against the snowdrifts.
"Easy there, old friend," Athanasius muttered, his voice nearly lost to the howling wind. His fingers, numbed despite his gloves, clutched the reins as he squinted into the white chaos. The road—if it could still be called that—had long disappeared beneath a thick blanket of snow, leaving him to trust in the horse’s instincts more than his own sense of direction.