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 BannerThe bread was cold. It had been cold for three days, but Elias did not mind. He pressed his thumb into the stale crust, feeling the dry give of it, and broke a piece off. He chewed slowly. The taste was flat, dust and salt and the faint, bitter memory of yeast. He ate the bread as one eats a prayer, with reverence, because it was the only thing in the world that remained constant. Outside the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden ScarThe wind outside the high, arched windows of the Ministry of Continuity did not howl; it whispered, a low, constant sibilance that seemed to vibrate in the teeth of anyone who worked within the stone walls. Elara Vance sat at her heavy oak desk, the wood worn smooth by generations of hands that had filed the same types of reports. The year was not marked on a calendar here, for time in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 19 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe rain had not stopped for forty days, a ceaseless, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the city into a watercolor of despair. I held the astrolabe in my hands, its brass surface cold and smooth, worn thin by the friction of years spent seeking order in the chaos of the sky. It was a beautiful instrument, precise in its mechanics, yet useless against the deluge that had swallowed our...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JokeThe rain does not fall so much as it is extracted from the air, a fine, persistent mist that clings to the wool of your coat and seeps into the joints of your fingers, cooling the blood until your pulse feels less like a heartbeat and more like a slow, mechanical ticking in the hollow of your throat. You stand in the doorway of the workshop, the heavy oak door swollen with damp, looking out...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful PetalThe iron bit my mouth. It tasted of rust and old blood. I spat into the void, a soundless exhalation that hung in the air like a ghost. Around me, the arena stretched, infinite and grey, a landscape of fog and fractured stone that defied the geometry of the world I had left behind. My sword, a jagged shard of obsidian, hummed in my grip. It was the only thing that felt real. The only thing that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe stone gate of the Abbey of Saint Jude, which had stood for four hundred years as a silent sentinel over the valley of the River Ouse, did not fall in a single thunderous crash, nor did it crumble under the weight of a single catastrophic storm, but rather it began to dissolve, grain by grain, mortar by mortar, into a fine, grey dust that settled upon the shoulders of Thomas Bradshaw like...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantThe fog in Harrowgate did not lift so much as it receded, a slow and deliberate withdrawal that exposed the town in layers of grey slate and damp stone, as if the world were being peeled back to reveal its raw, trembling nerve. I sat in the high window of the miller’s cottage, my hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold, watching the mist curl around the eaves of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant BladeThe cold had teeth. It bit through the wool of my coat and settled in the marrow of my bones, a damp, grey ache that no fire could fully banish. I sat on the edge of my cot in the cramped cabin of the *Ironclad*, the steamship cutting a white furrow through the dark, churning waters of the North Atlantic. Outside, the wind screamed. Inside, the only sound was the rhythmic, heavy thud of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant BladeThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a fine, gray mist that clung to the glass of the high window. Elias Vance stood before the mirror, his reflection fractured by the condensation. He adjusted his tie. The knot was perfect. His hands were steady. Yet, inside the hollow of his chest, a drum beat a frantic, arrhythmic warning. He was a detective, or he had been, until the morning the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek