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 Distant GardenThe letters moved again. I watched from the corner of the room, my coffee growing cold in my hand, as the ink on the parchment shifted, rearranging itself into a sentence that contradicted my thesis. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two, a historian at the University of St. Jude, and I want tenure. The path to it is clear: publish the definitive analysis of the Whispering Archives. The rule is strict....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe fog in the basement of the Whitmore University Archives did not merely hang in the air; it seeped into the bones of the building, a damp, gray presence that tasted of mildew and old paper. Elias Thorne, forty-two years old and trembling with a palsy that had no medical name, sat hunched over the desk, his fingers hovering inches above the leather-bound journal of Dr. Aris. The ink on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestThe soup was cold. It sat in a heavy ceramic bowl, the surface broken by a film of grease that caught the dim light of the corridor. Elias stared at it. He did not smell the rosemary, nor the thyme, nor the earthy depth of the root vegetables that had taken three hours to simmer. He only saw the grey skin forming on the surface. A barrier. A membrane between him and the warmth that should have...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestThe rain had not stopped for three days. It fell upon the town of Oakhaven in a grey, relentless sheet, blurring the edges of the cobblestones and turning the air into a thick, damp wool that clung to the skin. Elias Thorne walked with a limp, a condition he had borne since childhood, though he blamed it now on the weight of what he carried. In his left hand, he held a coat. It was a heavy...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey curtain that smelled of wet ash and rotting stone. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the crumbling Abbey of St. Jude, his fingers white-knuckled around the leather-bound ledger. He was thirty-four, an archivist of modest reputation, and he wanted only to burn the book. Inside, the ink was still wet, the entries shifting and rearranging...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe mist clings to your skin. It is cold. It is wet. It smells of iron and rot. You are walking. You have been walking for hours. The road is dirt. The sky is gray. You are in the Zone. Your father is gone. He is not dead. He is erased. The Ministry of Purity erased him. You carry his coat. It is heavy. It is wet. It smells of tobacco and fear. You wear it over your own thin shirt. The wool...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestThe fog did not clear. It thickened, swallowing the iron gates of Oakhaven until only the silhouette of Silas remained, a dark smudge against the grey void. Elias Thorne stood at the threshold, his hand resting on the cold iron of the gate, watching his mentor walk away. Silas did not look back. He had never looked back, not in the twelve years Elias had served under his watch. Elias turned his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe rain in the city did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones of the Old Quarter into a mirror that reflected only the underside of the eaves and the weary faces of those who had nowhere else to go. Elias Thorne stood in the doorway of the Municipal Archive, his collar turned up against the damp, watching the last of the commuters disappear into the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe fog that rolls off the black water of the Chesapeake does not merely obscure the horizon but consumes it, swallowing the salt air and the distant cry of gulls in a thick, wet shroud that presses against the windows of the old Victorian house like a living thing seeking entry, and you stand there in the kitchen, your hand resting on the cold iron of the doorframe, feeling the vibration of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek