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 JokeThe rain did not fall; it hung in the air like a grey curtain, thick with the soot of the Ironworks, until Elias Thorne woke to the sound of breathing that was not his own. He was thirty-two years old, a clerk of fifteen years’ standing at the Blackwood & Sons Foundry, and he lay rigid in the narrow bed, his heart hammering against his ribs as he watched the figure standing by the open window....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden FarceThe summons lay on the dressing table, the wax seal broken and the paper creased from where I had folded it into a square to hide it from the maids. It was not an invitation to the midnight feast, as I had hoped, but a directive to present myself before the King at the third bell. I read it three times, the ink blurring as my hand trembled, a palsy that had settled into my fingers like wet sand...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful PetalThe heating vents in the basement of the municipal library do not blow air; they blow sound. You know this because you have spent the last three hours pressing your ear against the cold iron grate, listening to the static that hums your name in a frequency just below hearing. It is a low, wet buzz, like a fly trapped in a jar of honey. You are Mara, thirty-two, and you are holding a dried petal...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe year was 1348, and the air in the tower room tasted of iron and old dust. Sir Alistair stood before the cracked glass, his reflection fractured into a dozen jagged shards. He was forty years old, a man whose face had been mapped by the long wars of the north, yet his hands trembled now with a fine, persistent vibration that he could not still. The mirror did not show his face clearly; it...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe blade was cold, heavier than iron, and it hummed against your palm like a tuning fork struck in a vacuum. You did not look at it. You looked at Thorne, who stood behind the desk of the High Archivist, his hands folded neatly over a stack of parchments that smelled of dust and dried blood. "Captain Vane," Thorne said. His voice was soft, the voice of a man who had long since stopped...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ChronicleThe champagne flutes in the crystal bowl are filled to the brim, trembling with a faint, seismic vibration that seems to originate not from the music drifting out of the atrium, but from the very foundation of the house, a subtle tremor that you feel in your teeth before you see it in the liquid, and you stand there, holding your glass with a grip that is perhaps too tight, perhaps too loose,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe dampness in the infirmary of the Abbey of St. Jude was not merely a condition of the air but a living thing, a thick, rotting presence that clung to the stone walls and seeped into the marrow of anyone who lingered too long in the shadows. Brother Elias stood by the bedside of Abbot Thomas, his hands trembling not from fear but from the sheer, crushing weight of the pain that radiated from...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe date on the ledger is 14th October, 1912, and the ink is still wet, glistening like a fresh wound in the center of the page, while the heating pipes behind the wall of my office emit a low, rhythmic hum that vibrates in the marrow of my teeth. I am Arthur Vane, senior archivist at Blackwood Asylum, and I have spent the last three years trying to convince the world that my sister, Elara, is...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ExileThe smell of boiled turnip and rendered fat hung heavy in the air of the cellar, a thick, cloying mist that clung to the wool of Elara’s shawl and settled in the creases of her knuckles, which were cracked and bleeding from the cold. She sat on a wooden stool that had seen better centuries, her back pressed against the damp stone wall, and watched the single tallow candle sputter in the draft....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek