0 Comments
0 Shares
2 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Wistful IncenseThe smell of burnt sugar and stale lavender was the first thing that told me something was wrong, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the back of my throat like a bad taste, like the residue of a lie I couldn’t quite swallow. I stood in the center of the apothecary’s back room, the air stagnant and heavy with the dust of centuries, and watched as the jars on the shelves seemed to judge me with...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ClueThe morning light in the apartment on Waverly Street did not behave as light should, but instead pooled on the floorboards like a stagnant, bruised lake, refusing to reach the windows where Eleanor had left the curtains tied back with fraying twine. She sat at the edge of the bed, her hands resting on her knees, and watched the dust motes drift through the gray haze that had settled over the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden HarborThe gavel fell. It did not sound like wood. It sounded like a bone breaking. I sat in the gallery. My hands were sweating. The air in the courtroom was thick, stale, smelling of old paper and fear. I watched Dr. Elias Thorne. He stood in the center of the room. He looked small. He looked wrong. The judge looked at me. "Dr. Holloway," he said. "You will state your findings." My mouth was dry. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustThe iron lung of the factory floor had been his coffin for thirty years, a rhythmic, metallic respiration that sucked the life from the air and pushed it back out, gray and heavy, into the lungs of the men who worked the looms until their shadows bled into the darkness of the mill’s belly, and in that perpetual twilight, Elias Thorne, a man whose spine had curved like a question mark under the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownThe rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it hovered, a thick, grey curtain that smelled of wet iron and old stone, clinging to the skin of anyone foolish enough to walk the streets. Arthur Penhaligon stood beneath the awning of the defunct textile mill, his hand resting instinctively on the back of his neck, where the vertebrae felt exposed, raw against the damp air. It was a trick of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineThe letter was dated the 14th of October, three years prior to the current reign, and it smelled faintly of damp wool and iron. It was found tucked into the lining of a coat that no longer fit. The coat belonged to Elias Thorne, a man who had been dead for two years, his body cold in the ground beneath the chapel yard where the moss grew thick and soft. Elias had been a scribe in the House of...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownThe rain had not stopped for three days, a ceaseless, grey weeping that turned the cobblestones of the old town into slick, black mirrors reflecting nothing but the hollow, gas-lit faces of those who still walked them, and it was in this damp, suffocating silence that Elias Thorne found himself locked inside the basement of the Grand Hotel, a place that had once been the beating heart of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe ink was still wet when the fever took your hands. You were mid-stroke. The quill trembled in your grip. A single line of script had just appeared on the vellum. It read: The debt is paid. You stared at it. The letters seemed to float. They did not move. They were solid. They were real. The room was cold. The fire had died an hour ago. Outside, the wind howled against the windowpanes of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ParadoxThe rain did not fall upon the village of Oakhaven; it descended, a grey curtain drawn by the hand of a grieving god. It soaked into the thatch of the cottages and the mossy stones of the market square, turning the air into a thick, breathing thing that tasted of iron and rot. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the river, his boots sinking into the mud, holding a lantern that had long since lost...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek