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 Wistful MountainThe glass sphere sat upon the rough-hewn oak table, a perfect, cold eye staring into the heart of the room. It was not a sphere of crystal, though it held the clarity of ice, but a hollowed-out geode, its interior lined with a lattice of amethyst so deep it seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it. Elias Thorne, a man whose face was a map of deep, silent ravines carved by decades of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenThe frost has taken the glass. You stare at the pane of your office, the fourth floor of the municipal ledgering bureau. Outside, the city is a skeleton of iron and soot. The wind howls through the gaps in the brickwork. It sounds like a dying animal. You are cold. Your hands are numb on the ledger. The ink freezes in the well. You must sign the name. Thomas Bradshaw. He is your friend. He is...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant LegendThe hammer struck the anvil. Sparks flew. I watched them die in the dark. My name is Elias. I was a smith. I made things for the King. I made swords. I made gates. I made chains. The air in the forge was thick. It smelled of hot iron. It smelled of sweat. My back ached. My hands were burned. I hammered. The King’s men stood by the door. They wore black. They did not speak. They watched. My...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RuinThe watch on Elias Thorne’s left wrist was not a watch. It was a shackle. The metal was cold. It bit into the skin of his radius. It was heavy, a dull weight that pulled at the joint whenever he raised his hand to wipe sweat from his brow. In the gray light of the cell, the metal gleamed with a wet, oily sheen. Elias looked at it. He had looked at it for three days. He had stopped counting the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe chair was not wood. It was not stone, nor steel, nor any material I had catalogued in twenty years of forensic anthropology. It was a hollow space where a chair should have been, a negative image of a throne carved into the dust of the abandoned subway maintenance bay. I stood before it, my flashlight beam trembling, illuminating the grain of the floor tiles that seemed to pulse with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraThe fog did not lift so much as it thinned, revealing the gray, skeletal ribs of the coastline like the bones of a leviathan picked clean by time. Seraphina Ashworth walked the path, her boots crunching against the gravel with a rhythmic, hollow sound that seemed to echo inside her own skull. She was a woman of iron and silence, a soldier of the border, tasked with the impossible duty of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe watch shatters. You hold the pieces in your palm. Cold glass. Sharp teeth. It was your father’s. Or perhaps yours. It doesn’t matter. It is broken now. You wake. The cell is small. The air is thick. It smells of rust and old sweat. You are a sergeant. You know this. Your uniform is stained. Dark spots. Brown. Red. You wipe your hands on your trousers. The fabric tears. Who did this? You do...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ShieldThe bells of St. Jude’s Hospital did not ring; they tolled, a slow, wooden percussion that seemed to hollow out the air in the corridors. It was a place built for the dying, though the living spent more years there than most, their bodies kept in a state of suspended animation by the cold machinery of the institution. Elara sat in the window seat of the administrative office, her hands folded...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CircuitThe rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the courtyard into slick, black mirrors reflecting the high, barred windows of the keep, and you stand in the center of that wet, cold square, your boots sinking slightly into the mud that smells of iron and rot, feeling the weight of the sword at your hip not as a tool of justice but as a heavy,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek