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Director
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
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Vă rugăm să vă autentificați pentru a vă dori, partaja și comenta!
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The Golden DowntownThe rain against the windowpane of the cramped, windowless office did not sound like water, but like the persistent, grinding friction of two stones rubbing together to kill a spark. Elias Thorne sat behind the heavy oak desk, the wood dark and polished by decades of neglect, watching the wet glass blur the world outside into a smear of grey and bruised purple. He was a man carved from the same...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 3 Views 0 previzualizare
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The Wistful CampusThe frost has not yet settled on the windowpanes of the manor, but the cold has already crept into the marrow of the house, a pervasive chill that seems to emanate from the very stones rather than the winter air outside, and you stand in the center of the grand hall, holding the shattered pieces of the blue glass orb that your mother kept by the hearth, feeling the jagged edges bite into your...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare
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The Faded BouquetYou are standing in the hallway of St. Jude’s, the linoleum cold against the soles of your shoes, and you are waiting for the Director to come out of his office, where he is likely counting the coins you just handed him, or perhaps he is simply enjoying the silence of his own power, the way a cat enjoys the sun on a windowsill before it decides to pounce. The air here tastes of stale coffee and...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare
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The Pale PathThe glove was black. It was leather. It fit my hand as if it had grown there. I wore it to the factory. I wore it to the dinner. I wore it to the mirror. The leather was soft. It was cold. It was mine. My name is Thomas Bradshaw. I am a man of cloth. I make suits for men who do not make things. They are powerful men. They sit in high rooms. They look down. I look up. I measure their shoulders....0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare
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The Wistful AsylumThe steam from the tea in the chipped cup didn't rise in straight lines; it spiraled, thick and white, smelling of wet wool and iron, before dissipating into the cold air of the carriage. Elias Thorne held the cup with both hands, his knuckles white, as if the ceramic were the only solid thing left in the world. Across from him, his brother, Julian, watched the rain streak the glass, his face a...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare
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The Wistful LetterThe iron cross is shattered. It is not broken by the wind, nor by the slow, grinding rot of the earth, but by your hands, by the frantic, desperate clawing of your fingers against the cold metal as the black locusts in the orchard twist their branches into shapes that mimic the screaming faces of the dead. You are standing in the mud of the old churchyard, in the village of Oakhaven, which the...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare
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The Distant TempleThe shell cracked the window before Margaret even heard the whistle. Glass sprayed. Warm. Wet. It stung her cheek like a slap. She did not flinch. She stood in the center of the parlor, holding a teacup. The cup was porcelain. Blue. It was intact. The door was gone. Splinters lay across the Persian rug. A draft howled through the frame. Cold air rushed in. It smelled of cordite and wet earth....0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare
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The Faded RoadThe tremor did not start with a sound but with a vibration in the teeth, a deep, sub-sonic thrum that traveled up through the soles of Elias Thorne’s work boots and settled in the marrow of his shins, a frequency that the earth seemed to emit only when it was ready to shed its skin, and he stood there in the middle of the construction site, his hand still resting on the cold, rough-hewn oak...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare
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The Distant AffairThe fire did not start with a spark, but with a taste. It was the copper tang of blood in the back of Thomas Whitmore’s mouth, a flavor he had carried for forty years. He sat in the high-backed chair of the war room, the air thick with the scent of stale pipe tobacco and the rotting sweetness of overripe pears. The pears were on the long oak table, a golden offering to the generals who had just...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare
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