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 Pale ProtocolThe ink bleeds. You watch it spread. Black veins on white. The paper is thin. Too thin. You press your finger down. It smudges. You are in the glass house. The walls are foggy. Outside, the sky is wrong. It pulses. A deep, bruised purple. Steam rises from the ground. Not water. Something thicker. Smells of iron. And ozone. You are here because they said you would be. Director Halloway’s voice....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe train hissed against the iron rails, a long, shuddering exhale that vibrated through the soles of Elias Thorne’s boots. He sat near the window, his posture rigid, his spine a straight line of defiance against the plush velvet seat. In his lap, wrapped in oilcloth that had seen better decades, lay the object that defined his entire existence: the gauge. It was a precision instrument of brass...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale GardenThe rain was not falling; it was being erased. I felt the drops strike my shoulders, but before they could darken the wool of my coat, they dissolved into a fine, white mist that smelled of ozone and old pennies. I stood in the center of the moor, a desolate stretch of heather and rock that the maps had long since forgotten, and I was trying to remember if I had a name. It was a slippery thing,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsThe iron box sat in the center of the table, a squat, riveted thing of blackened metal that smelled of oil and old blood. It was not a large object, no bigger than a man’s head, yet it possessed a gravitational weight that seemed to pull the air in the room downward, pressing against the chest of everyone present. Thomas Bradshaw stood before it, his hands clasped behind his back, his knuckles...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MasterThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended mist that turned the cobblestones of the lower city into mirrors reflecting a sky the color of bruised iron, and within this damp, breathing grayness, Elias Thorne stood with his back against the rough-hewn stone of the alleyway, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts that misted and vanished before it could even reach the face...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant LegendThe banquet hall of the Iron Citadel does not smell of roasted meats or spiced wine, but of ozone and burnt copper, a scent that seeps into the marrow of your bones and calcifies there, a permanent monument to the machinery of war that has consumed your life and, in turn, has been consumed by the void. You sit at the head of the long, blackened table, your armor polished to a mirror sheen that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AlibiThe coat hung in the hallway. It was a heavy thing, charcoal wool, woven with a pattern that had once been sharp. Now the lines blurred. The fabric felt dry. It smelled of dust. And old tobacco. Thomas stood before it. He was a small man. His hands shook. They shook because he was tired. He had been awake for three days. The war was far away. But it lived in his bones. It lived in the silence...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongThe chisel slips. You feel the wood give way, then snap. The splinter shoots out, embedding itself in your thumb. You do not cry out. You do not flinch. You simply watch the red bead of blood well up, dark and viscous, against the pale grain of the oak. It is a small injury. It is the only one that matters. You are in the workshop of the institution. The air smells of sawdust and varnish, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerIn the dream, which was not a dream but a waking that felt more tenuous and less solid than the sleep he had left behind, Arthur Pendelton sat at the long oak table of the St. Jude’s Hospice cafeteria, a place that smelled eternally of boiled cabbage and floor wax, and he was waiting for his mother, who had been dead for seven years, to bring him the soup. The soup was the thing, the singular,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek