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 BonsaiThe dust in the attic of the old textile mill settles in a way that suggests it is alive, a grey snow that never stops falling inside your lungs. You are sitting on the floor, surrounded by the debris of your trade, and the silence is so heavy it presses against your eardrums like deep water. You are Elias Thorne, though the city records list you as a janitor, a lowly custodian of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JokeThe fire did not begin with a spark, but with a sound, a low, grinding hum that seemed to rise from the bedrock of the city itself, shaking the dust from the eaves of the iron foundry and rattling the leaded panes of the window where Elias Thorne sat hunched over his ledger. It was a Tuesday in late October, the kind of day where the sky hung low and gray like a wet wool blanket, pressing down...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the manor house into slick, dark mirrors reflecting the dying light of the afternoon, and it was in this oppressive, wet silence that Arthur Blackwood stood before the window, his hand resting not on the iron of his sword, which hung rusted and useless on the wall like a shed skin, but on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThe door is white. It has always been white. You stand before it. The wood is rough. It scratches your palm. You do not pull. You push. It does not move. You push harder. Your breath comes in short gasps. The air smells of damp earth. It smells of iron. It smells of old paper. You are tired. You are so tired. The house stands behind you. It is a large house. It has many windows. They are dark....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SilenceYou do not speak. You listen. The cell is stone. It is cold. The air tastes of damp and old iron. You are here. You are the Inquisitor. Or so they say. You are the man who finds the truth. Look at the object. It sits on the floor. It is a small wooden box. It is carved with vines. It is closed. You stare at it. It has been here for three days. Three days since the monk, Brother Thomas, was...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MistThe fog did not roll in so much as it rose, a thick, white miasma that swallowed the cobblestones of Blackfriars Lane and erased the sharp edges of the medieval timber-framed houses, turning the street into a void where sound went to die and time seemed to pool like stagnant water in the gutters. I stood at the threshold of my rented room, a third-floor attic that smelled of damp wool and old...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridThe first letter was written in ink that had dried to the color of old bruises, the script cramped and frantic, scrawled on the back of a bill for linens that no longer existed. I found it tucked inside the binding of a treatise on humoral theory, a book I had purchased from a estate sale in the village of Oakhaven, a place where the mist clings to the valley floor like a shroud that refuses to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe sky did not turn red, nor did the ground shake with the violence of a collapsing earth, but the air in the factory floor of the Whitmore Ironworks turned thick and sour, a metallic taste coating the tongues of every man who stood there, as if the atmosphere itself had been scraped raw by the grinding gears of a machine that had run too long without oil. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the center...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenThe banquet hall smelled of roasted garlic and expensive despair. It was a sterile, white-tiled room, a subterranean bunker beneath the Ministry of Harmonic Resonance, where the air was recycled through filters that stripped out all scent except the chemical tang of obedience. We sat around a long, polished mahogany table, twelve of us, the senior technicians of the Department of Neural...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek