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 GridThe letters arrived on Tuesdays. They were thick. Heavy with ink. Smelling of ozone and damp wool. Ellis read them at his desk. The wood was scarred. The desk sat in a room that did not exist in the maps. He was a Major. Or he had been. The rank felt like a coat that no longer fit. Tight in the shoulders. Loose in the soul. Outside the window, the sky was a bruised purple. The air hummed. A low...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetThe dream always began with the scent of wet stone and old blood. Thomas Wynn stood in the corridor. The air was thick. It tasted of iron. He held his sword. His hand trembled. Not from fear. From cold. The cold seeped from the floor. It bit into his bones. He looked down. His boots were red. The red was not paint. It was fresh. It was warm. He knew what this was. He had known for years. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden QuestThe mud on the road from the lowlands had turned to a slick, black slurry by the time Elias Thorne reached the iron gates of Blackwood Manor, a place that stood isolated against the grey November sky like a clenched fist. He was thirty-two years old, a scribe by trade and a refugee by circumstance, fleeing the plague-ridden villages where the air tasted of rot and the living moved with the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongThe chair at the head of the table is empty, and the dust on its surface has settled into a fine, gray powder that looks like ash. You are Elias, thirty-four years old, and you have spent twenty of those years in the shadow of the old mill, your life defined by the heavy, unyielding weight of a debt that was never yours to carry but was stamped into your flesh by your father’s silence. You want...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RuinThe train did not make a sound when it stopped, which was the first thing that felt wrong. We had been riding for three days through the grey, soot-stained hills of the Industrial Reach, a landscape where the sky was the color of a bruise and the air tasted of iron filings. My husband, Arthur, sat opposite me, his hands resting on his knees, pale and still as stone. He was a man of words, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe iron teeth of the gate shrieked against the rusted hinges, a sound that tore through the thick, sulfurous fog like a scream from a throat long dead, and Elias stood there with his back against the cold, weeping stone of the factory’s outer wall, his hands trembling not from fear but from the sheer, crushing weight of the reality that had just settled onto his shoulders like a shroud of wet...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe air in the Vane house in 1912 was always thick with the scent of machine oil and unwashed wool, a heavy, industrial tang that seemed to settle into the very fabric of the walls, but for twelve-year-old Thomas, the world was a bright, sharp board of sixty-four squares where every move had a consequence and every victory could be weighed in gold. He sat at the kitchen table, his fingers...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe air in the Magistrate’s office smelled of damp wool and old ink, a scent that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he stood before the heavy oak desk. He did not sit; to sit would be to accept the hierarchy, and Elias had come to dismantle it. Magistrate Vane sat behind the desk, his fingers steepled, watching Elias with the bored patience of a man observing a fly tap against a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ClueThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended gray curtain that turned the world outside the cottage into a smear of wet slate and dying ferns. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool and the sharper, metallic tang of blood that had long since dried into the fabric of Marguerite’s apron. She stood at the heavy oak table, her hands wrapped around a bowl of cold broth that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek