0 Comments
0 Shares
0 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Golden CircuitThe ink was black. The paper was thin. The cold was absolute. Elias sat in the booth at the back of the station. It was a place of iron and steam, a cathedral of industry where men went to die or to live, but mostly just to wait. He held a pen that had been gifted to him by Arthur. Arthur, who was now a name on a brass plate in the town cemetery. Arthur, who had been the only man in the world...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerYou are in the kitchen. It is dark. The moon is a thin blade of bone. You hold the jar. It is heavy. It is cold. Inside, something moves. It is not water. It is not wine. It is milk. White and thick. It swirls slowly. You do not drink. You watch. Your sister is gone. She has been gone for three days. The house is silent. The silence has weight. It presses against your eardrums. You are not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe banquet hall of the Whitmore estate was a cavern of gold leaf and shadow, where the air hung thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the heavy, cloying perfume of lilies. It was a place designed to swallow men whole, a gilded cage where the social hierarchies of the old world were enforced not by iron bars, but by the subtle, crushing weight of expectation. Arthur, a junior clerk in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ExileThe iron gate groaned. You knew the sound. It was the voice of the old world, rusted and reluctant, speaking from the throat of the estate. You stood in the courtyard, your hand resting on the pommel of your sword. The metal was cold. It had always been cold. You were the keeper of the perimeter, the shadow that the masters ignored until they needed it to bite. The house loomed above you. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended gray curtain over the rusted grid of the old textile mill in Leeds. Inside, the air tasted of wet concrete and stale tobacco. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the main floor, his coat soaked through, the fabric clinging to his ribs like a second skin. He was a large man, broad-shouldered, with hands that had held rifles and handcuffs...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AlibiThe rain does not fall; it strikes, a ceaseless, rhythmic hammering against the leaded glass of the high window where you stand, your hands white-knuckled around the hilt of a sword that is not steel but iron, and it is cold, and it is heavy, and it is the only thing that feels real in this hall of painted shadows and suffocating perfume. You are the Weaver of the Court, a title that sounds...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MasterThe soup is cold, but the steam still rises from it, curling into the air like a ghost trying to remember its name. You hold the bowl in both hands, the ceramic rough against your palms, and you watch the surface tremble with a vibration that has nothing to do with the wind. There is no wind here. There is only the hum, a low, thrumming sound that lives in the floorboards and in the marrow of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CartographThe bell in the tower of St. Jude’s did not ring. It sat there, a dark, swollen fruit of bronze, silent in the throat of the stone. Thomas knew it was silent because he had climbed the spiral stairs every night for three weeks, pressing his ear against the metal, waiting for a hum that never came. Outside, the siege had settled into a rhythm of artillery and mud. The town of Oakhaven was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RoadThe ink bled into the cheap blotting paper, spreading like a bruise under skin. Thomas sat in the back row of the St. Jude’s Orphanage dining hall, his elbow resting on the scarred oak table, and stared at the word he had just written. *Redemption*. The letters were jagged, aggressive, as if the pen had been dragged by a hand that could not control its own trembling. He was twelve years old,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek