Postcards from the Drift

Fiction

June 14, 1912 Dear Leo, The sunlight here is different. It hits the gold leaf of the Zenith Plaza before it ever touches the clouds. Everything is brass, mahogany, and polished chrome. The magnets hum a low, steady tune that feels like a heartbeat beneath my boots. I can see the curve of the world from the balcony; the clouds look like frozen cream. I will send you a sketch of the skyline soon. Love, Elias August 22, 1915 Leo, The Hanging Gardens are in bloom. They use reclaimed mist to water the orchids, which makes the air smell of damp earth and vanilla. There was a tremor yesterday, just a slight shudder in the tea service, but the engineers say the magnets are merely settling into their groove. The city feels like a great, sleeping bird. I spent the afternoon reading in the Library of Glass. The silence is heavy and sweet. Love, Elias November 3, 1919 Dear Leo, The air feels thicker today. They have installed vents in the hallways to manage the oxygen, and the brass railings are starting to show spots of orange rust. It is a strange, violent color against the white marble. We are a few hundred feet lower than we were last month. The view of the coast is clearer now, though the city's hum has become a rattle. I still find peace in the morning tea, though the porcelain chips more easily these days. Love, Elias January 12, 1923 Leo, The gold leaf is peeling from the plazas in long, thin strips. It looks like autumn leaves on the pavement. We are rationing the air now; we speak in whispers to save our breath. I can see the forests of the surface, the real green, not the garden green. The descent is slow, but it is constant. I keep my coat buttoned tight against the damp wind that leaks through the seams of the grand ballroom. Love, Elias May 19, 1926 Leo, We are almost home. The magnets have gone silent, and we are drifting on the last of the inertia. The great spires are twisted and grey, but the stars are so bright tonight without the city lights to drown them. I found a small sprout growing in a crack of the rusted promenade. It is a stubborn, bright little thing. I will hold it carefully until we touch the earth. Love, Elias