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 GardenThe glass shattered. It did not break with a polite sound, but a shriek, a jagged tearing of the air that sucked the warmth from the room. I stood in the center of the foyer, my hands still raised, trembling, as the shards of the antique mirror rained down around me. The reflection of my face, once so clear, was now fragmented into a hundred terrified eyes. They stared back at me, disjointed,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden FarceThe feast of the St. Jude’s Order was a thing of heavy gold and heavy silence, the air thick with the scent of roasted venison and the sweat of men who had spent the day in the chapel’s lower vaults. You sat at the far end of the long oak table, your armor polished to a mirror shine that caught the flickering light of the tallow candles, though your hands, hidden beneath the tablecloth,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ApartmentThe paint on the hallway wall was peeling in long, dry strips, like dead skin sloughing off a body that had forgotten how to hold itself together, and Elias Thorne stood in the center of the room with a can of cheap enamel in one hand and a roller that felt too heavy for his wrist in the other, staring at the chipped baseboard where the wood had turned gray and brittle from years of damp. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AtticThe iron spoon was cold. It sat in my palm. A heavy thing. Blackened by years of smoke. I held it tight. My knuckles turned white. We walked. The road was mud. The sky was gray. It rained. "Keep up," said Thomas. He did not look back. He carried a bundle on his back. It was wrapped in oilcloth. He walked fast. His boots splashed in the puddles. I followed. My legs were short. I was small. I was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe rain in Harrowgate did not wash the streets clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into black mirrors that reflected the low, bruised sky. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his small, rented room above the apothecary, watching the water bead and slide down the glass. In his hand, he held a porcelain spoon, its bowl worn thin and uneven, a white chip missing from...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiThe rain in the Hollow did not fall so much as it suspended, a thick, grey curtain that blurred the line between the earth and the sky, turning the cobblestone streets of the old quarter into a mirror for the bruised clouds above. Elias Vane sat in the back room of his shop, a place that smelled of stale tea, wet wool, and the faint, metallic tang of copper filings, his hands resting on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden HarborThe feast hall of Blackwood Manor did not smell of roast pheasant or spiced wine, but of ozone and dried blood, a metallic tang that coated the tongue with the taste of iron filings and old rust. Margaret Holloway sat at the far end of the long oak table, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her knuckles white as bone against the dark velvet of her gown. The chandeliers above, heavy with...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MistThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended gray curtain that blurred the boundaries between the wet cobblestones of the Plaza and the imposing stone facade of the Chancellery. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old paper and stale tobacco, a suffocating blend that seemed to settle in the lungs of every person who entered the office. Elias Thorne sat at the edge of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiThe thing about the bonsai is that it does not want to be small. That is the first lie you tell yourself, the lie that keeps the air conditioning running in the windowless room of the mind where I have kept the specimen for the last forty years. I am a maker of things, a restorer of damaged objects, a man who has spent his life in the quiet, dusty warrens of antique shops in Edinburgh,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek