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 Pale TowerThe room smelled of wet wool and stale coffee, a thick, suffocating scent that clung to the back of Marcus’s throat as he sat in the corner of the open-plan office, watching the rain streak down the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was the annual end-of-year gala, or what passed for one at Sterling & Associates, a sterile function where the partners in their charcoal suits moved through the air...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ClueThe rain fell like static on the city’s skin. Gray. Endless. Detective Elias Thorne stood in the alley. His knuckles were split. Blood mixed with the wet concrete. It did not stop. He leaned against the brick. Breathed. The air tasted of rust and old fear. Across the street, a camera flashed. Then another. Then a crowd. They pressed against the curb. Faces blurred by water. They wanted a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ExileThe first thing I remember is the blood, not the wound. It was a bright, arterial red, slicking the wet cobblestones of the town square, contrasting violently with the grey drizzle that had been falling since dawn. I was twelve years old, standing on the steps of the old stone church, watching my own shadow stretch and distort in the mud. The shadow did not move as I moved. It lingered, a dark,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe Great Chime stood in the corner of my workshop like a sleeping beast, its brass face dark with the dust of thirty years, and I confess that in this autumn of 1347, when the first frost bit at the walled town of Oakhaven, I felt a desperate, almost violent urge to repair it, a desire so sharp it cut through my daily routines like a blade through wet cloth. I had spent three decades studying...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareYou wake with the taste of iron and old dust on your tongue. The air is cold. It cuts through your wool. You are in the cellar. The stones are wet. They weep. You are the Keeper. You are the lock. You are the key. You are the bone in the throat of the house. The door above creaks. A shadow falls. Long. Thin. Like a blade. You do not look up. You know who it is. Sir Elias. He wears the grey...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe champagne was cold and the music was loud, a thumping bass that vibrated in Elias Thorne’s teeth. He stood by the marble column, a glass of sparkling water in his hand, watching Marcus Vane move through the crowd like a shark through kelp. Vane was smiling. He always smiled. It was a tight, thin thing, stretched over a mouth that had forgotten how to be anything else. Elias needed the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainThe dream was not of a mountain, though it felt like one. It was a ceiling of rusted iron, ribbed and breathing, suspended above a floor of wet coal dust. Margaret woke with the taste of smoke in her mouth, a metallic tang that coated her teeth like old blood. The room was small, a single pane of glass trembling in the wind outside, and the air was thick with the smell of damp wool and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AtticThe dream was not of sleep, but of the cellar. It was a recurring architecture in the mind of Julian Thorne, a structure built of damp stone and the slow, rotting sweetness of overripe fruit. In the dream, he stood before a table laden with jars of preserved plums, their skins taut and black as midnight, suspended in a syrup that shimmered with an iridescent, oily sheen. He reached for one, his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TowerThe rain in Vane did not fall so much as it hung, a gray curtain that smelled of coal dust and wet iron. Elias Thorne stood on the corner of Blackfriar Street, his coat damp and heavy, watching the soot-stained windows of the workshop that had once been his father’s. He was thirty-two, a man who had spent a decade in quiet, provincial towns, fixing timepieces for men who could not afford to be...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek