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 SongThe rain fell in sheets. It washed the mud from the wagon wheels. Mara pulled the hood low. She stepped off the coach. Her boots sank into the sludge. Kettle Creek was a town of gray stone. And wet wood. And silence. She had no map. She had no money. She had only a letter. The ink was faded. The words were simple. Come home. Your father waits. Mara was a detective. She worked in the city. She...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThe letter was found in the pocket of a dead man’s coat. It was written in ink that had turned the color of dried blood. The paper was thick, rough, and smelled of damp stone. It was dated the third day of the Feast of St. Jude. The writer was Thomas Bradshaw, a squire of the night watch in the city of Ashworth. The recipient was his brother, Edward, who had left the city three weeks prior to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe clock in the hall had stopped at four. Elara saw the dust motes dancing in the beam of light. They were silent. They were gold. She did not blink. She counted them. One. Two. Three. The house was old. The walls breathed. They exhaled a smell of wet wool and decay. Elara walked. Her shoes made no sound. The floorboards were soft. They yielded like skin. She sought the glass. It was in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownThe hearth in the great hall of Harrowgate Manor roared like a beast held in a cage, sending sparks up the soot-blackened chimney where the smoke curled into the dark, indifferent night. It was a feast, though the word felt too light, too bright for the heavy oak tables laden with roasted boar, venison, and pies heavy with game. The air smelled of rendered fat, rosemary, and the metallic tang...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BannerThe morning light came to Yorkshire as it always did in November—thin, apologetic, the colour of old bone. Arthur Pendelton stood at the second-storey window of his Edinburgh flat and watched it fall on the tenements across the street, on the wet cobblestones, on the pale blue banner that hung from the lamppost like a question someone had asked and never answered.It had arrived on Tuesday,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended gray mist that clung to the windowpanes of the fourth-floor apartment in Bristol like a second skin. Elara stood before the glass, her breath fogging a small, circular void in the condensation, watching the city below dissolve into a smear of neon and wet asphalt. She was seven years old, though she often felt older in the way that time...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe Wistful Asylum The letter arrived on a Tuesday, folded into a triangle so precise it might have been pressed in a vice. Margaret Ashworth-Cross turned it over in her hands — pale cream stock, wax seal cracked with a thumbnail, no postage. Her name was written in a hand she had not seen in twenty-three years: J. Penhaligon. She did not open it immediately. She set it on the mantelpiece...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ChronicleThe glass shatters. You are standing in the basement. The air is cold and smells of damp concrete and old paper. You hold the fragment in your hand. It is sharp. It is wet. "Put it down," says Martha. You do not put it down. You look at Martha. She is sitting on the folding chair. She is watching you. Her face is calm. "It’s broken," you say. "Yes," she says. "It is broken." The room is small....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe iron gate of the Ashwood Estate did not yield to Thomas Bradshaw’s push, nor did it shudder under the weight of his desperate, bleeding hands. He stood in the mud of the moor, the rain a cold, silent curtain that blurred the world into a grey smear, while inside the heavy oak doors, the laughter of the gentry rang out like the clinking of silver spoons against fine china. Thomas was not a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek