0 Commentarii
0 Distribuiri
1 Views
0 previzualizare
Director
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Vă rugăm să vă autentificați pentru a vă dori, partaja și comenta!
-
The Wistful PetalThe rain did not fall; it was extracted from the sky, a violent, grey bleeding that soaked through the wool of your coat and into the marrow of your bones, turning the cobblestones of the old town into slick, black mirrors that reflected nothing but your own distorted, trembling face. You were running, or perhaps you were only being dragged by the weight of the knowledge you carried, a heavy,...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Distant TempleThe monsoon rains had been falling for eleven days when Arthur Pemberton-Clarke arrived at the abandoned Shikhotem Temple in the hills above Munnar, and he did not know yet that the temple was not abandoned at all—it was waiting for him, the way certain buildings wait for the bloodline they were designed to shelter, stone by stone, brick by brick, the way a lock waits for the shape of its key....0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Faded FrontierThe frontier was not a line on a map, but a wound in the earth that refused to heal. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the salt flats and watched the horizon dissolve into heat distortion. Ten years he'd been coming back to this place—ten years of chasing something he couldn't name. The newspapers called it the Western Wasteland. The maps called it Territory. But Elias knew it for what it was:...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Pale CircusThe salt wind off the Firth of Forth carried the scent of old circus tents — rotted canvas, stale popcorn, the ghost of greasepaint. Julian Ashford stood at the edge of Leith Harbour, his coat collar turned up against the damp, watching the last of the barges drag themselves into the slipways. Somewhere beneath the grey Scottish sky, a calliope wheezed its dying notes. He couldn't place it. He...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Golden VisitThe afternoon arrived as an uninvited guest, slipping through the letterbox like melted butter, thick and slow and smelling faintly of old paper and forgotten gardens. Arthur Pendelton watched it from his armchair, the one upholstered in a faded green velvet that had once belonged to his grandmother, or so she had claimed, though Arthur had begun to suspect she had purchased it from a salvage...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Golden QuestThe alarm does not ring. It screams, a digital shriek that tears through the sterile silence of the sub-basement, vibrating in your teeth before it reaches your ears. You are standing at the console, your hands hovering over the keys, the blue light of the screen casting long, cold shadows across your face. The air smells of ozone and stale coffee, a scent you have associated with safety for...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Pale AltarTHE PALE ALTAR It was not an altar in any religious sense, though Isobel Ashworth-Cross, thirty-two, Fellow of Somerville College, Oxford, knew precisely why it had been placed there. The stone was pale marble, veined with grey the way her grandmother's hair had been veined with silver in those final months — a geography of time made visible in mineral form. It sat in the corner where the light...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Faded ApartmentThe glass bird sat upon the windowsill, its crystalline feathers catching the pale, early light of the morning that had broken over the city of St. Jude’s. It was a thing of impossible fragility, cut from a single block of quartz until it resembled a sparrow in mid-flight, suspended in a moment of eternal, breathless ascent. I had kept it for forty years, since the day my father, a man whose...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Faded RootThe iron ration tins sat stacked in the corner of the office, a rusted monument to the last three winters, their edges worn smooth by the palms of men who had carried them through snow and sleet. Silas Vance did not eat from them. He kept them. To the men of the 14th Regimental Garrison, who watched him from the shadows of the courtyard with eyes that held the specific, hollow dread of those...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek