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 Pale EchoThe fog had settled into the cobblestones of Whitechapel like a second skin, damp and cold and smelling faintly of coal smoke and rotting turnips, and I stood on the corner of Brick Lane with my collar turned up against the wind, waiting for a man who did not exist, or rather, waiting for the man that the constables believed he was, a thief, a liar, a creature of shadow who had slipped through...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SilenceThe stone was cold. It bit into my palm. I held it tight. We stood in the courtyard. The wind howled. It tore at our cloaks. We were the Watch. That was our name. We did not judge. We only kept the peace. Or so we told ourselves. I looked at Silas. He stood beside me. His face was pale. Sweat beaded on his brow. He looked tired. I knew that look. It was the look of a man who had forgotten why...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CrossingThe mud was black and slick as oil. It sucked at my boots with a wet, rhythmic groan. Rain fell in sheets, cold enough to sting the exposed skin of my neck. I stood on the bridge. The planks were rotten. They shifted under my weight, groaning like old men in pain. Below, the river churned, brown and angry. I was not supposed to be here. The order was clear. Burn it. Save the town. That was the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe rain fell in sheets of grey iron, hammering the cobblestones of the lower ward. Elias stood at the edge of the stone arch, his boots slick with mud and the red residue of the tannery. He held his ledger close to his chest. It was a slim thing, bound in cracked leather, filled with the precise arithmetic of survival. You must leave, his father had said, the night before the fever took him....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe air inside the glasshouse was thick, tasting of damp earth and the metallic tang of old pennies, a smell that had settled into the very fibers of your jacket over the last three decades. You stood in the center of the conservatory, the only living soul among the rows of twisted ferns and weeping willows, holding a clipboard in one hand and a heavy brass key in the other. The key was warm,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden ScarThe dream began, as it always did, with the scent of ozone and the taste of copper on the tongue, a metallic tang that coated the teeth and seemed to vibrate against the very roots of the skull, a phantom warning of electricity that had not yet struck but was already humming in the air like a plucked wire, thick and taut, pulling at the nerves until they snapped into a sharp, bright focus that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestThe mortar is already cracking under the weight of your wrist, the stone dust mixing with the blood from a cut you do not remember making, as you stand before the threshold of the house that exists in no map, a place where the air tastes of iron and old rain and the silence is so heavy it presses against your eardrums like deep water. You are here because the fever took him, because the child...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MythThe mud sucked at his boots with a wet, hungry sound. "Move it, Ashworth." The voice came from above. From the light. Thomas did not look up. He looked at the ground. He looked at the blood in the puddle. It was his blood. Or maybe it was the boy’s. The boy was dead. The boy was under him. The boy was no longer there. "Move it." Thomas stood. His legs shook. His knees knocked together. He was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe rain hit the cobblestones like a thousand small, cold hands. I stood by the window of the university library, watching the city bleed into the dusk. It was 1894, or so it seemed to feel. The air smelled of wet wool and old paper. I held the scarf. It was silk, midnight blue, frayed at the edges. It had belonged to Elias. Elias was gone. Not dead, not yet, but gone in the way that matters....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek