Beneath Ceaseless Skies Audio Fiction Podcasts
BCS 363: Dreams in Burnished Silver
Jul 23, 2026 · 16 min · 12 segments
By Christine Hanolsy, from Issue #462 of Beneath Ceaseless Skies Online…
Beneath Ceaseless Skies Audio Fiction Podcasts
Jul 23, 2026 · 16 min · 12 segments
By Christine Hanolsy, from Issue #462 of Beneath Ceaseless Skies Online…
Dreams in Burnished Silver by Christine Hanelsey Every sunset and every sunrise, a door opens.
The dayboys shuffle inside, yawning and jostling each other with easy geniality, carrying their polished mirrors and oil lamps, which Mother lights one by one as they enter.
At the same time, the nightgirls file out, sewing baskets dangling from our elbows, our skirts whispering in the growing darkness.
All night long under the light of the moon, we stitch.
Memories to dreams, dreams to hearts.
While we work, Mother sits in the corner and spins starlight into silver thread, nestling each spool in her basket alongside spools of gold.
She spins us stories to use in our embroidery.
We call her Mother, but it's a term of authority, not affection.
We are not siblings.
We are only connected by the purpose laid upon us, as binding as blood.
When the sky begins to redden, a bell summons us back into the arcade, where it is not yet light and no longer dark.
In the hall, the air is redolent of beeswax and smoke.
Dayboys do not dream, Mother says, because they sleep by lamplight and the moon is not permitted to reach her long fingers into their rooms.
We nightgirls see shapes in the dark that are invisible under the harsh glare of the sun.
The moon is a kinder light.
We first crossed paths, you and I, in the dim arcade surrounding the courtyard.
I looked up at exactly the right moment.
You turned your head as your sleeve brushed mine.
The intense blue of your eyes made me stumble, and then I was inside.
The door closed with a clang.
I paced the day away instead of sleeping, as if you'd left your lamp alight beside my cot.
When the evening bell rang, we filed past each other once more, and this time I kept my chin lifted.
You found me right away, pressed a tiny metal disc into my hand as we passed, a minuscule mirror that, under the light of the moon, captured my image in parts, a freckle here, an eyelash there.
In return, I gave you my name, Nyx.
We learn to walk slowly, to pause in the passageway between sunrise and sunset, perhaps to drop and recover a spool of thread or bend to tie an unlaced shoe.
Dreams in Burnished Silver by Christine Hanelsey Every sunset and every sunrise, a door opens.
The dayboys shuffle inside, yawning and jostling each other with easy geniality, carrying their polished mirrors and oil lamps, which Mother lights one by one as they enter.
At the same time, the nightgirls file out, sewing baskets dangling from our elbows, our skirts whispering in the growing darkness.
All night long under the light of the moon, we stitch.
Memories to dreams, dreams to hearts.
While we work, Mother sits in the corner and spins starlight into silver thread, nestling each spool in her basket alongside spools of gold.
She spins us stories to use in our embroidery.
We call her Mother, but it's a term of authority, not affection.
We are not siblings.
We are only connected by the purpose laid upon us, as binding as blood.
When the sky begins to redden, a bell summons us back into the arcade, where it is not yet light and no longer dark.
In the hall, the air is redolent of beeswax and smoke.
Dayboys do not dream, Mother says, because they sleep by lamplight and the moon is not permitted to reach her long fingers into their rooms.
We nightgirls see shapes in the dark that are invisible under the harsh glare of the sun.
The moon is a kinder light.
We first crossed paths, you and I, in the dim arcade surrounding the courtyard.
I looked up at exactly the right moment.
You turned your head as your sleeve brushed mine.
The intense blue of your eyes made me stumble, and then I was inside.
The door closed with a clang.
I paced the day away instead of sleeping, as if you'd left your lamp alight beside my cot.
When the evening bell rang, we filed past each other once more, and this time I kept my chin lifted.
You found me right away, pressed a tiny metal disc into my hand as we passed, a minuscule mirror that, under the light of the moon, captured my image in parts, a freckle here, an eyelash there.
In return, I gave you my name, Nyx.
We learn to walk slowly, to pause in the passageway between sunrise and sunset, perhaps to drop and recover a spool of thread or bend to tie an unlaced shoe.
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