0 Comments
0 Shares
1 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Distant WoundThe rain did not fall. It hung. Elias Thorne stood at the window of the iron-clad office, watching the grey water bead on the glass. Outside, the city of New Albion was a skeleton of soot and steam. The sky was a bruise that would not heal. It had not rained in three years. The humidity was a physical weight, pressing against the skin, filling the lungs with the taste of wet rust and old...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful PetalThe road to the keep is long. It is wet with rain and the memory of mud. You walk it. Your boots are heavy. They are soaked through. The leather creaks with every step. It is a sound like a joint grinding. You feel the cold seep into your bones. It settles in your knees. It settles in your hips. You carry a bundle. It is wrapped in rough burlap. Inside is your husband. He is not dead. He is...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden FarceYou step off the train into the grey sleet of Oakhaven, the air biting at your face with a cold that feels less like weather and more like a verdict. You are fourteen, though you feel older, weighed down by a secret that has grown heavy in your chest for three years. In your coat pocket, wrapped in oilcloth, lies the shard. It is not gold, despite what the townsfolk whisper. It is glass. Thick,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe table groaned under the weight of the feast. Roast goose. Mince pies. Cider that smelled of autumn rot. My hands shook. I held the knife tight. The wood handle was slick with sweat. "You look pale, Thomas," my father said. He did not look up from his plate. His eyes were closed. He chewed. Slowly. "I am fine, Father." My voice cracked. A small, ugly sound. The room went quiet. The candles...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CellarThe hum of the ventilation system is not merely a sound to you; it is a living thing, a low-frequency pulse that vibrates in your molars and settles into the marrow of your bones. You are standing in the sub-basement of the Institute, a place that exists on no architectural blueprint, a pocket of concrete and steel buried three stories beneath the manicured lawns of the city’s most prestigious...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden RitualThe departure was not a leaving but a dissolving, a slow evaporation into the grey morning air of the capital. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the terrace, his coat buttoned to the chin, watching the rain slick the cobblestones below. He was a man of middling years, a clerk in the Ministry of Public Order, a position that required him to file the dreams of the populace into neat, categorized...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SuspectThe mist in the valley of Oakhaven does not merely settle; it invades, a pale, wet shroud that swallows the rooftops of the textile mills and the iron spires of the gas lamps until the world is reduced to a series of damp, breathing circles around you. You are twelve years old, and your name is Elias Thorne, though to the men in the town square who lean against the cold brick of the police...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AtticThe cart wheels groaned against the cobblestones, a rhythmic scraping that sounded like bones breaking. I tightened my grip on the reins. My hands were shaking. Not from the cold, though the autumn air was sharp enough to cut. I was shaking because I knew what was waiting for me in the town of Oakhaven. I knew the look in the magistrate’s eyes. I knew the way the air would smell of burnt straw...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterThe bread is stale. You know this not by the taste, which is too dry to register on your tongue, but by the texture of the crust under your fingernails. It flakes away like dead skin, brittle and grey, offering no resistance to the pressure of your thumb. You have been eating this loaf for three days. It is the only thing left in the pantry of the stone house where you have been locked for...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek