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 Pale DoorThe rain did not fall so much as it descended, a heavy, grey curtain that erased the boundary between the earth and the sky, wrapping the village of Oakhaven in a shroud of wet silence. I was seven years old, though I felt ancient, my bones aching with a hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the cold that had settled into my marrow. My name was Elias, and I was the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant Affair12 November 1904. The skin of my wife, Clara, had not yet turned the color of old parchment when the first mark appeared. It was a curve, glowing with a faint, cold luminescence, situated just below her left collarbone. I sat by the bedside in the dim parlor, the air thick with the scent of camphor and the distant, rhythmic thud of the mill looms. My hands trembled as I reached for the pen. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CrownThe torchlight in the Great Hall of Aethelgard did not so much illuminate the room as it consumed it, casting long, trembling shadows across the polished oak floor where thirty years of Captain Elias Thorne’s service were being celebrated with a violence of sound and flavor that felt grotesque in the presence of his own failing lungs. He stood at the center of the dais, his uniform pressed to a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale FractureThe rain in the city of Aethelgard did not wash things clean; it only made the grime slicker. Elias, a scribe of thirty years with ink permanently stained into the whorls of his fingerprints, walked the cobblestones toward the Palace of Ashes. He was not there to pray. He was there to find the Crown of St. Jude, a relic rumored to be hidden in the palace crypts, and by finding it, he would...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ClueThe train hissed into the station, a long exhalation of steam that fogged the platform and obscured the face of the man waiting with his valise. Elias Thorne stood still, his fingers white-knuckled around the leather handle, feeling the dampness seep through the grain. He was a man who had spent forty years cataloging the architecture of minds, a professor of cognitive linguistics at a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe wind smells of iron and wet loam. You stand at the edge of the property line, the rifle heavy in your hands, watching the treeline advance another inch. It was not there yesterday. Now it is. You check your watch. It is Thursday. You have until Friday to reach the station and sign the pension papers, or the debt collectors take the house, and Mara leaves. She is already packing. You see the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CampusThe ink in the 1998 water ledger did not dry. Elias Thorne had counted the pages forty times, his fingers slick and black against the brittle paper, knowing that the municipal budget for digitization depended on the integrity of these records. He was thirty-four years old, a man whose life was measured in hours of archiving and the slow, grinding weight of tenure, and the smell of wet earth...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantThe low-frequency hum had been building in the plaster of the fourth floor for three weeks, a sound less like noise than like the pressure of deep water against the eardrums, and Elias Thorne sat at his desk with his back rigid, staring at the estate settlement documents for his late wife, Clara, while the autumn deadline loomed with the inevitability of a reaping. He was forty-two, a senior...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AlibiThe leather-bound ledger lay open on the rough-hewn table, its pages brittle with age and the damp of the moor. Elias Thorne held a quill, the ink dried to a black crust in the nib, while the light from the single tallow candle flickered against the stone wall. Outside, the wind stripped the last leaves from the ash trees, a sound like dry bones rattling in a sack. He was forty years old, his...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek