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 Distant PromiseThe winter wind did not merely blow through the corridors of St. Jude’s Infirmary; it hunted them, a grey, hungry thing that found the chinks in the stone and the gaps in the woolen cloaks of the night watchmen. Elias Thorne stood at the threshold of the infirmary, his hand resting on the cold iron of the door handle, watching the last of the winter’s light bleed out of the sky. He was a man...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe ledger was wrong. Elias Thorne knew it before he finished the third page. The numbers did not add up, but not in the way a careless clerk might slip. The mortality rates in the lower wards were higher than the official reports admitted, a discrepancy that sat in the margin like a stain that would not wash out. It was 1912, and the St. Jude Industrial Sanatorium hummed with the low, steady...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MirrorThe nightmare always begins with the sound of shattering, a crisp, violent explosion of gold that seems to peel away from the air itself, leaving behind a jagged, glittering void where my reflection should be; I wake with the taste of copper in my mouth and the phantom weight of a brass candlestick in my hand, the autumn chill of October 1893 seeping through the thin walls of my boarding house,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MirrorThe rain has not stopped for three days, and in the low, damp cellar of the Whitmore estate, where the air tastes of wet stone and old dust, you are holding the shards of the golden mirror in your hands, feeling the cold bite of the glass against your calloused palms, a sensation that is so sharp and immediate it feels less like an object and more like a wound that has just been reopened, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CellarThe dream was always the same, a suffocating labyrinth of gold leaf peeling away from damp stone, and Elias Thorne woke with the taste of copper in his mouth and the brass key clutched so tightly in his right hand that the metal had bitten white crescents into his palm. He lay in the dark of his apartment, the silence pressing against his eardrums, listening to the rain tap a frantic rhythm...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleThe ink is wet. You look at the page. It is blank, yet the surface glistens with a fresh, oily sheen that catches the fluorescent hum of the office. Your left hand twitches. The scar tissue there pulls tight against the bone, a reminder of the minor discrepancy in the Q3 logistics report. You are Elias Thorne. You are forty-two years old. You have six months until mandatory retirement. You want...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe red fox sits on the rusted fire escape, its tail curled tight around its paws, watching the city breathe. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and you are holding a folder that contains the end of your life. The paper is thin, the ink dry, and the words inside are a bureaucratic eulogy for a man who tried to do his job. You want to clear your name, to prove that the assault you...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe black sap of the Ironbark cut into my palm, a hot, viscous line that did not bleed but burned. I held the jar against my chest, the glass sweating with a rhythmic, internal heat that matched the failing throb of my own heart. Outside, the sirens of Oakhaven wailed, a mechanical moan that tore through the industrial fog, signaling that the Purity Act had finally reached my door. I was Elias...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe banquet hall of the Grand Meridian Exchange did not smell of roasting pheasant or spiced wine, as the brochures had promised, but of ozone and heated copper, a metallic tang that clung to the back of the throat like a forgotten promise, a scent that was the very residue of the machine, the great brass-and-glass leviathan that dominated the center of the room, humming with a low, subsonic...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek