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 Wistful CampusThe hall smelled of wax and old wool. Miles stood by the window. He held a glass of wine. He did not drink it. He watched the snow fall. It fell on the campus. It covered the lawns. It buried the paths. He was the custodian. He had worked here for forty years. He knew every creak in the floor. He knew every draft in the wall. He knew the building. The building knew him. They were bound. A bond...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ShieldThe fog rolled off the harbor in thick, wet sheets, erasing the line between the water and the cobblestones of the city. It was a grey, suffocating morning in the old quarter, where the air tasted of brine, rust, and the damp wool of men who had not slept. Captain Elias Thorne walked with his boots heavy on the wet stone, his hands tucked into the deep pockets of his long coat, his eyes fixed...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale GardenThe iron gates of Ashworth Manor had not rusted in three centuries, a fact that should have alarmed me far more than the silence within. I stood on the wet cobblestones, my breath hitching in the November air, watching the facade loom against a sky the color of bruised slate. I am a restorer of old things, a man who spends his days coaxing life back into cracked mahogany and shattered...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale LetterThe frost did not merely settle upon the black pine needles of the Highwood; it shattered them. A fine, crystalline explosion of white silence erupted from the boughs, a sound like the breaking of a thousand glass vials, as the wind held its breath. In the center of this white void stood Silas Thorne. He was a man carved from the same stone as the cliffs that overlooked the Abbey, his shoulders...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden ScarThe ink was still wet when Margaret Holloway realized that her hands had turned black, the dark pigment seeping into the whorls of her fingerprints and settling into the cracks of her knuckles like the dust of a grave that had not yet been filled. She stood in the center of the long hall of the Ashworth estate, a place that had no specific year or season but existed in a perpetual, gray...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe frost bites deep into the asphalt. You pull your collar up. It is not enough. The wind here has teeth. It scrapes against your ribs. You are looking for a sign. A mark. A clue. The city sleeps under a gray lid of fog. You walk. Your boots crunch on the ice. You are a detective. Or you were. The badge is gone. The pension is gone. The apartment is gone. You have a bag. You have a coat. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ExileThe rain did not fall so much as it insisted, a heavy, grey curtain that blurred the distinction between the wet cobblestones of the old city and the wet stone walls of the hospital where Silas Vane lay awake, his body a cage of bone and bruise, his mind a labyrinth of questions he had spent thirty years refusing to ask. He was a man who had once moved through the world like a blade through...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ProtocolThe hand was gone. Not severed, but dissolved, the flesh having lost its claim to the bone long before the bone itself surrendered to the cold. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, but the days had blurred into a single, gray smear of wind and sleet. Elias stood on the ridge, the mud sucking at his boots like a living thing. He looked down at his left arm. The sleeve hung empty, a dark...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant PromiseThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended gray curtain that blurred the edges of the city into a watercolor smear of slate and bruised purple. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his fourth-floor office, his reflection ghostly against the glass, watching the street below where the umbrellas opened like black mushrooms in a damp field. He was a man who had spent thirty years...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek