0 Comments
0 Shares
2 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Distant AffairThe train cut through the gray morning, a steel serpent shedding steam into the cold, and I sat with my hands wrapped around a tin cup of tea that had long since gone lukewarm. My left palm, the one that had once held the chisel with such ferocity, was now mapped with lines of scar tissue, a landscape of healed violence that pulsed faintly in the chill air. We were moving toward the capital,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineThe frost had settled into the mortar of the stone walls with such tenacity that the air itself seemed to vibrate with a cold, crystalline dread, a static charge that prickled against the skin and settled deep in the marrow where the blood moved sluggishly, thick and reluctant, as if it, too, were freezing over. I stood before the great iron gate of the Institute, my uniform stiff with the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe feast was a riot of bone and blood. Torches hissed in the iron sconces. Smoke curled through the high beams of the Great Hall, thick and sweet. It tasted of pine resin and old fear. Seraphina sat at the head of the table. Her hands were steady. Her eyes were not. She held the chalice. It was heavy. Gold leaf peeled from the rim. The wine inside was dark. Blacker than the night outside. She...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RuinElias drifted in a dream that smelled of ozone and wet concrete, a place where the sky was not blue but a bruised purple, and the buildings did not stand upright but leaned against one another like exhausted soldiers. In this hallucination, he was not a boy of fourteen but an old man, his fingers interlaced with those of a woman whose face he could never quite see, only the texture of her skin,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterThe rain did not fall. It hung. A grey veil. Static. I held my breath. My hands shook. Not from cold. From hunger. The house breathed around me. It was an old thing. Stone bones. Rotting wood. The wallpaper peeled like dead skin. We had no heat. We had no light. I looked at the window. The trees outside were black. They stood still. They did not move. They did not sway. They watched. I turned...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SuspectThe clock in the administrative tower of the Blackwood Ironworks did not tick so much as it exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that seemed to synchronize with the pistons of the great engines below. Arthur Penhaligon, a man whose life had been measured in ink stamps and ledger lines, sat at his desk in the seventh-floor office, watching the dust motes dance in the shaft of afternoon light that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe air tasted of copper and burnt hair. Elias Thorne held his line at the edge of the town square, his rifle steady despite the tremor in his hands. Smoke curled around the brick facades of Main Street, a gray shroud that swallowed the sun. He was a sergeant, a man built for order, for the clean geometry of command. But here, in the industrial heart of Oakhaven, the geometry had shattered. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe sky over Harrow’s Gap did not simply darken; it collapsed. It was a bruise the color of old iron, pressing down upon the town with a weight that seemed to suck the air from the lungs of every living thing within its borders. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the town square, his hands clasped behind his back, his knuckles white not from tension but from the effort of keeping them still....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsThe rain fell in sheets, cold and relentless, against the shingles of the old library tower. It was a sound like tearing cloth, a continuous, wet rip that seemed to come from the inside of the world. Dr. Elias Thorne stood by the window, his back to the room, his hands trembling slightly. He held a small, gray wool scarf in his fingers. It was knitted in a dense, tight pattern, the kind that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek