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 Distant CartographThe dream did not arrive like a wave, but like a sediment, settling in the marrow of Thomas Ashworth’s bones before his eyes even opened to the grey, mist-choked air of the keep. He stood on the ramparts, the wind tearing at the heavy wool of his doublet, and below him, the valley lay still and white as a burial shroud. It was not the valley he knew, not the muddy, industrial sprawl of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe glass orb sat on the velvet cloth, a perfect sphere of amber light that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic heartbeat, and Professor Elias Thorne stared at it with the weary intensity of a man who had been staring at the same wall for forty years. It was not merely a decorative piece in the high, vaulted chamber of the Grand Council, though it looked like one, polished to a mirror sheen and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale GardenThe iron gate of the Blackwood Asylum did not creak, for it had been oiled three times by men who feared the sound would disturb the silence of the dead, yet in the marrow of my bones, it screamed with a frequency that only I could hear, a low, tectonic groan that vibrated through the cobblestones and into the soles of my boots as I pushed it open, the hinges weeping rust like old blood into...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MeridianThe bell rang. It was a dull sound. Thomas struck it again. The iron clapper hit the rim. A thin cloud of dust rose from the floor. He wiped his hands on his apron. The leather was stiff. It smelled of tallow. Outside, the gate opened. Men walked in. They wore wool. They wore iron. They carried swords. Thomas watched them from the high window. He did not look away. He was a man of the house. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden RitualHe woke in the dream of the mountain. The air tasted of iron and old snow. Seraphina stood before him, her face a mask of white stone, her eyes two pits of absolute dark. She did not breathe. She did not blink. She held the chalice. "Drink," she said. Her voice was the sound of a blade being pulled from a sheath. Seraphina was not a woman. She was a memory of a woman, preserved in the amber of...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale AltarThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that blurred the windowpanes of the St. Jude’s Home for the Aged and Infirmed, a place where the air tasted of boiled linen, damp wool, and the faint, cloying sweetness of decay that seemed to settle into the very wallpaper, a wallpaper that was peeling now, curling back from the walls like dead skin to reveal the bare, weeping...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AshesThe air in the ventilation shafts of Sector Four did not smell of rust, as the old manuals promised, but of ozone and crushed lilies. It was a scent that clung to the back of the throat, sweet and metallic, a reminder that the city was breathing through its own broken lungs. Elias Thorne sat on a crate of unsorted data cores, his knees pulled up to his chest, watching the dust motes dance in...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe van smelled of damp wool and old pennies. Arthur sat in the back, his knees pressed against the front seat. He was seventy-four. His hands shook. They always shook now. He held a plastic bag. Inside were three jars. Glass. Sealed with wax. The contents were dark. Thick. Smelling of earth and iron. The driver, a man named Miller, did not look back. The radio played static. Then a song. Old....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale CircusThe wind carried the scent of wet wool and ancient iron, a smell that clung to the skin like a second hide, and we walked the gray spine of the moor where the fog lay thick as milk upon the stones. I was the last of the seers of the Ashwood lineage, though I had long since stopped calling myself that, preferring the quieter designation of the Keeper of the Bound, for it was not my power that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek