0 Comments
0 Shares
6 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Distant CrownThe hammer rang out. It was a sharp, metallic scream that cut through the damp air of the factory floor. Thomas Whitmore flinched. His back ached, a deep, grinding pain that had become his constant companion. He was forty-two years old. He felt sixty. The ironworks of King’s Row were vast and cold, a cathedral of soot and steam. The heat pressed against his skin. He wiped his brow with a rag...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ChronicleThe iron was cold. It sat on the table, a block of black weight against the white cloth. Elias touched it. The metal bit into his skin. He did not pull away. The smell of wet wool hung in the air. It was the smell of the castle. It was the smell of home. He looked at the tunic. It lay open. The fabric was blue. It was a deep, bruised blue. It had been his father’s color. It had been his uncle’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale GardenThe hall smelled of roasted pork and old stone. It was the Feast of St. Crispin, or perhaps St. Luke. I had stopped counting the saints. I only counted the hands. Mistress Elara stood at the high table. She wore a gown of deep violet velvet. The fabric was stiff. It did not breathe. I stood in the shadows near the hearth. I was the new seamstress. The men called me the witch. They whispered it....0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe ink did not dry. It never dried. It pooled in the crevices of the mahogany desk like a dark, viscous tear, spreading with a slow, deliberate malice. Margaret stood before it. Her fingers were stained black to the second knuckle. The smell was not of toner or solvent, but of iron and old blood. She was the Junior Archivist. The title sounded precise. It sounded safe. In the sub-basement of...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe orchard was gone. Only the roots remained. They clawed out of the gray dirt like skeletal fingers, white and brittle in the cold air. Elias stood before them. His shoes were wet. The mud sucked at his heels. He did not look up. Not at the sky. Not at the fence. He looked at the wood. At the fracture. One by one, the pieces fell. It was a Tuesday. The kind of Tuesday that feels heavy with...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden VisitThe rain had not stopped for three days, a gray, persistent weeping that turned the dirt road into a slurry of mud and rot. I walked with my father’s coat on, though it was far too large for my thin frame, the sleeves swallowing my hands in a heavy, woolen darkness. The air smelled of wet stone and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone, a scent that seemed to seep into the very fibers of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant SummerThe train moved through the dark with a rhythmic, mechanical shudder, the sound of steel on steel becoming a low, persistent hum that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of Elias’s bones. He sat in the corner of the compartment, a small leather case resting on his lap, his fingers tracing the cold metal of the lock. It was a case for pills, a simple, unassuming thing, but to Elias, it held the...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SilenceThe smell of roasting goose and burnt sugar hung heavy in the air of the Grand Hall, a thick, cloying mist that settled on the velvet chairs and the polished mahogany tables where the townspeople of Blackwood sat in their finest, waiting for the harvest feast to begin. It was a night of excess, a deliberate overabundance that masked the hollow, gnawing ache in the bellies of the men who worked...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridThe ink in the bottle was the color of dried blood, a deep, oxblood red that seemed to pulse against the white porcelain of the inkwell, and I wrote it down in the margin of my journal with a hand that trembled not from fear, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the cold that had settled into the bones of the city. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, for time had become a fluid,...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek