By Trent Jamieson
Read by Ben Phillips
Some places you visit in dreams again and again. Some places visit you. Fourteen and it found me.
I stood knee deep in grass, brittle, yellowing, summer grass. The citadel rose above me, its clockwork beat roaring in my head; gears and wheels rumbling, ticking, tocking, groaning under the weight of all that time.
On the furthest buttress from me, though I dared not look, I knew he would be there, a single figure hanging, broken-necked, spinning in short circles, dancing on the dry hot wind.
And because I was doomed, because the dream was a tide and inevitability, I walked towards the citadel.
When I was near, so close that I could almost touch it, the ground shook and the brass doors at the tower’s base flung open like the wings of an iron dragon and I stared into the guts of the machine.