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 MountainMount Rainier did not appear on any of Henry Ashworth-Cross's maps. It appeared, instead, in the margins of his aunt Marguerite's field notebooks—tiny, precise sketches of a peak that, according to the coordinates written in her neat copperplate hand, sat somewhere in the Cascades at an elevation no surveyor had ever officially recorded. Henry, a forty-two-year-old translator of Portuguese...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe rain against the windowpane was a relentless, rhythmic tapping that seemed to vibrate directly into the marrow of Elias’s bones, a cold, damp percussion that matched the hollow ache in his stomach where breakfast should have been, or perhaps where the memory of a decent meal had been, long since eroded by the grinding machinery of debt and the slow, suffocating pressure of a life that had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe rain did not fall. It hung. A grey curtain, woven of static and sorrow, trapped the town of Oakhaven in a perpetual, suffocating dusk. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his cramped office, watching the droplets vibrate in place, defying gravity, defying time. He was a clerk. A keeper of records. His job was to file the names of those who had passed into the grey. He held the ledger. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe dream did not begin with a fade, as dreams often do, but with the sharp, metallic snap of a button tearing. It was a sound so specific, so violent in its intimacy, that Elias Thorne woke with the taste of copper on his tongue and the phantom sensation of silk sliding off his shoulder. He lay in the center of his bed, a four-poster of dark mahogany that had been his wife’s favorite piece of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe porcelain plate is in your hands, and it is whole, and you are walking through the heather on the edge of the moor where the wind comes in from the sea and tastes of salt and iron and the cold, wet rot of last autumn’s leaves, and you are holding it up against the gray, bruised sky as if it were a shield, or perhaps a mirror, or perhaps just a piece of your own self that you have broken off...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe bell did not ring. It cracked. One moment, the great bronze tongue hung in the tower of St. Jude’s, swaying with the autumn wind. The next, a fracture split its center. A jagged line of ruin. The sound was not a tone. It was a scream. It shook the dust from the rafters. It shook the bones of the old mason, Elias. He stood on the scaffolding. His hands trembled. He looked down. The village...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe door burst open. It didn’t knock. It shattered. Glass rained onto the hardwood floor of the dining room. A cold draft from the November night rushed in, smelling of wet pine and diesel. It smelled like the outside world. It smelled like freedom. Mara stood by the window. Her back was to the broken door. She was holding a plate. The plate was white. It was empty. "Get out," said a voice. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SuspectThe rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the castle moat into a churning cauldron of mud and dead leaves, and I stood in the center of the great hall, my boots squelching on the wet flagstones, listening to the silence that was louder than the storm outside, my hand resting on the pommel of my sword not in threat but in a desperate attempt to anchor myself...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale LetterThe feast in the Hall of Whispers was a riot of gold and rot, a banquet of shadows that tasted of iron and old blood. I sat at the far end of the table, my hands stained with the grease of the forge, watching the light catch the edges of the crystal goblets until they looked like frozen tears. Lord Vane sat at the head, his face a mask of polite cruelty, carving a pheasant with a knife that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek