0 Commentaires
0 Parts
28 Vue
0 Aperçu
Annuaire
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Connectez-vous pour aimer, partager et commenter!
-
The Chronicler of ChaosOctober 12th, 1892. The Master has decided that the concept of "Tuesday" is an oppressive social construct and has therefore abolished it within the confines of the estate. We are now to jump directly from Monday to Wednesday. I have spent the morning attempting to explain to the fishmonger that we cannot pay for the trout on a day that no longer exists. He was not amused. My name is Alfred,...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 38 Vue 0 Aperçu
-
The Hollows of BlackwoodThe fog in Blackwood didn't just cling to the trees; it clung to the soul. In the deep creases of the Appalachian mountains, the town of Blackwood existed as a forgotten bruise on the landscape. Here, the only thing more permanent than the poverty was the blood-feud between the Vane and the Thorne families, a conflict that had lasted three generations and claimed more lives than the coal...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 51 Vue 0 Aperçu
-
The First DawnACT I Three men died on the same day, and all three of them shared a birthday. Seamus O'Brien stood in the mill yard and watched them pull the bodies out. Three men from The Hollow—his building, his street, his neighborhood—wrapped in union cards and folded flags, none of them military, none of them official. Just membership cards that the men carried in their back pockets because their wives...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 17 Vue 0 Aperçu
-
The Signal at MontaukThe shack sat on the bluffs above Montauk Point, fifty feet above the Atlantic, surrounded by beach grass and the rusted remains of a World War II coastal defence battery that nobody had maintained since the fifties. Ethan Walsh had inherited the shack from his father, who had built it from scavenged lumber and fishing net in 1978, when Ethan was eleven years old. His father, Robert Walsh, had...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 21 Vue 0 Aperçu
-
The Rust of Time(Act I: The Ascent) The city of Ocre was a graveyard of iron, where the sky was the color of a bruised plum and the rain tasted of sulfur. Silas lived in the lairs of the scrap-heaps, his days spent sorting through the discarded husks of a forgotten era. In Ocre, time was not a concept, but a commodity. The "Vitality Trade" was the only economy that mattered. The rich lived in the Spire, their...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 32 Vue 0 Aperçu
-
The stock ticker on the wall of the brokerage office was still running when Leo Goldstein opened his eyes on Forty-Second Street.He was eight years old. He knew this because his hands were small and dirty, his clothes were too large and torn, and the pavement beneath him smelled of horse manure and coal smoke. But his mind was fifty-two years old, sharp and precise, the mind of a man who had spent three decades calculating risk for one of Wall Street's most respected firms. The date was October 24, 1929. Black Thursday....0 Commentaires 0 Parts 39 Vue 0 Aperçu
-
The Forty-Seventh ConfessionI The archive room smelled of old paper and old mistakes and the particular kind of dust that only accumulates in places where people go to forget things. Clara Voss sat at her desk in the New York Police Department archives on Centre Street, watching the dust motes drift through the fluorescent light like tiny planets orbiting a dead star. She had been in the archives for three years,...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 39 Vue 0 Aperçu
-
The Abandoned CrownThey caught Old Maggie in the soup kitchen before dawn, her hands raw from scooping broth into tin cups that didn't go far enough. She was crying without making a sound—the kind of crying that happens when grief has burned through the tears and is now feeding on something older. When she saw me standing in the doorway with my coat damp from the East End rain, she tried to compose herself. It...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 25 Vue 0 Aperçu
-
The Sealed ArchiveThe dust in the sub-basement of the British Museum had a particular smell—old vellum, iron gall ink, and something else, something that made Arthur Pemberton's fingers tremble before he even unrolled the first scroll. It was November 1888, and the fog pressed against the basement windows like a living thing. Arthur had spent three years in that sub-basement, seven years actually, ever since Mr....0 Commentaires 0 Parts 28 Vue 0 Aperçu
English
Arabic
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek