0 Comments
0 Shares
10 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Faded RuinThe ash fell like grey snow, settling on the shoulders of my uniform, a fine, cold powder that tasted of sulfur and old regret. I stood at the edge of the crater where the village of Oakhaven used to be, watching the smoke curl upward in thin, defiant ribbons, while the wind stripped the last of the leaves from the skeletal oaks. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; time had lost its rigid...0 Comments 0 Shares 10 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareThe letter sat on the table. It was white. It was crisp. It bore the seal of the County. Elias picked it up. His hand trembled. The paper was thin. It felt like skin. He did not read it. He knew the words. They were carved in the air. They were heavy. They were cold. Elias was a new man here. The town was old. The houses leaned. The streets were wet. He had come from the city. He had come to...0 Comments 0 Shares 10 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful VoyageThe rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in a fine, gray mist that clung to the brickwork of the city, turning the streets into slick mirrors of the neon signs above. I stood in the center of the intersection, my hand resting on the cold steel of my service pistol. The leather of my holster was worn thin, a map of years spent waiting for the moment that would define me. The city hummed...0 Comments 0 Shares 9 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CrossingThe brass astrolabe had hung above the mantle in my father’s study for forty years, a heavy, intricate wheel of gears and etched stars that did not tell time, but seemed to count something else, something slower and more terrible. It was a relic of the old world, brought over by him when he was a boy of twelve, fleeing the smoke of a city that no longer existed in any map I had ever seen. We...0 Comments 0 Shares 10 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe soup was cold. It sat in the ceramic bowl, a grey sludge of turnips and carrots that had lost their color hours ago. I stared at it. The surface was still. No steam rose. Just the faint, oily sheen of rendered fat. I did not eat. I waited. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The wind pressed against the windowpanes, a low, constant moan. I am a sergeant. I have spent thirty years holding the...0 Comments 0 Shares 9 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongThe ink was still wet on the parchment when the bell in the tower struck the hour, a heavy, bronze-throated sound that vibrated through the floorboards of the lecture hall. Elias Thorne did not look up from his notes. He was a man who lived in the architecture of sentences, a scholar of linguistics at a university that smelled of damp stone and stale pipe tobacco. His fingers, long and pale as...0 Comments 0 Shares 10 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe mist in the mill town of Ashenford did not lift so much as it dissolved, a gray veil that clung to the cobblestones and the soot-blackened brickwork of the textile factories. It was a damp, heavy silence, the kind that pressed against the eardrums before the clatter of the looms began its relentless, rhythmic pounding. Elias Thorne moved through this gray world with the quiet, deliberate...0 Comments 0 Shares 9 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale LetterThe moth was dead, or it seemed to be, pinned beneath the glass of the display case in the back office of the municipal archives. It was a large thing, a Luna moth, its wings a pale, translucent green that had yellowed with the dampness of the basement. Its legs were splayed, stiff as dried twigs, and the delicate hairs on its antennae had turned brittle and brown. Elias Thorne stared at it. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 9 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden EchoesThe rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the corrugated tin roof of the station house, a relentless, hollow rhythm that matched the thudding in my chest. I stood by the window, watching the mud slide down the hillside, turning the world outside into a smear of brown and gray. The air smelled of wet wool and old coffee, the scent of a place that had forgotten how to breathe....0 Comments 0 Shares 9 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek