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 Wistful GridThe iron gate groaned against its rusted hinges, a sound like a bone snapping in the dark, and I stood there in the freezing November rain, holding the lantern up to keep the shadows at bay, knowing that the thing inside was not a ghost, nor a demon, nor a punishment from a God who had long since forgotten our names, but a simple, terrible, mechanical truth that I had spent the last three days...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe banquet hall smelled of roasted pheasant and wet wool. It was a thick, cloying scent, the kind that clung to the throat. We sat in a long row, twelve men in grey suits, our faces pale under the gaslight. The air was still. The clock on the mantel ticked with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. I watched the dust motes dance in the beam of light. They were alive. I was not. My name is...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JourneyThe rain in Chicago did not fall; it hovered, a grey, suspended mist that clung to the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat and seeped into the bone-deep cold of the November wind. He walked with a steady, rhythmic gait, his eyes fixed not on the wet pavement but on the small, crumpled square of paper folded into his breast pocket. It was a prescription, or perhaps a recipe, written in a hand that had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantThe fog did not roll in; it erupted, a violent, white exhalation from the mouth of the valley that swallowed the world in a single, breathless instant. You were running, your lungs burning with the taste of iron and ozone, your hands slick with the cold sweat of a scholar who has misread the signs of his own demise. Behind you, the architecture of the old observatory was dissolving, its stone...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe rain hits the pavement like a fist. You are running. Your breath tears at your throat. The city is a blur of neon and gray. You do not look back. You cannot. Something is chasing you. Not a man. Not a beast. A silence. A heavy, wet silence that smells of old iron and rot. It clings to your heels. It drags you down. You are Margaret. You are twenty-three. You are alone. The streets of London...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden Greenhouse"Take it." Silas held out the jar. It was small. Glass. Thick. Green. "Take it," he said again. His voice was dry. Sand in the throat. The inspector shook his head. He looked at the jar. He looked at Silas. He looked at the mud on his boots. The rain had stopped. The air smelled of wet iron and rot. "Is it evidence?" the inspector asked. "It is water," Silas said. "From where?" "From the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden ScarThe rain on the black marble of the High Court did not wash the streets clean; it only made the filth slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors that reflected the jagged, iron-gated spires of the Ministry. You stood at the center of the plaza, your hands bound behind your back by chains of polished silver that hummed with a low, electric frequency. The metal bit into your wrists, a cold,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustThe air in the archive did not smell of dust, but of ozone and wet iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s tongue like a bad penny. He stood before the glass case, his fingers hovering inches from the surface, trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the thing inside. It was a sparrow, pinned to a square of dark velvet, its wings spread in a posture...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownThe rain fell on the cobblestones of Highgate Square with a rhythmic, heavy persistence, washing the dust from the windows of the Guild Hall and leaving the air thick with the smell of wet wool and stale beer. Thomas Bradshaw walked through the downpour, his coat plastered to his back, his boots striking the stone with a dull, wet thud that echoed in the hollows of his chest. He was not a man...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek