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 Wistful ShowThe fog does not smell of water. It smells of ozone and burnt paper, a scent that clings to the back of the throat like a bad penny. I am Elara, thirty-two, and I am standing in the Ministry of Records, watching the cold creep up the marble columns of the atrium. My husband, Thomas, is in a cell three miles east, accused of embezzling the Crown’s gold. The only proof of his innocence is his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe fog did not drift into the library of Blackwood Manor so much as it seeped through the pores of the stone, a thick, grey wool that smelled of wet ash and old ink. Elara Vane, thirty-two and sharp-featured, sat at the heavy oak desk, her fingers trembling not from the cold but from the rhythmic, wet cough that echoed from the room where her brother Julian lay. She had been the junior...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe first tremor in the foundation stones of the Imperial Exchange did not arrive as a sound, but as a vibration that Elias Thorne felt in the marrow of his teeth, a sub-audible hum that synchronized with the rhythmic clanging of the pile drivers and the rising tide of insolvency that had swallowed the city’s laborers whole. Elias, forty years old and already a legend for his rigid, unyielding...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant BladeThe bus groans as it pulls into the station, a low, metallic complaint that vibrates through the soles of your boots and settles heavy in your chest. You step off onto the wet asphalt, the air thick with the smell of diesel and damp wool, and you feel the eyes of the commuters on you. They do not see a man; they see a uniform. They see the stiff collar, the brass buttons catching the gray...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CircuitMarch 12, 2024 The pain in my left knee is not a sudden arrival but a slow, grinding intrusion, a dull ache that has settled into the joint like sediment in a stagnant pool, refusing to dissolve even when I apply the ice packs Mr. Sterling’s assistant recommended for "office ergonomics." I sat in his glass-walled office this morning, the light from the high windows reflecting off the polished...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant PromiseThe ink was cold. I counted the drops falling into the well, one, two, three, watching the black liquid spread across the parchment like a bruise. Forty years I had served the Abbey of St. Jude, forty years of grinding pigments and copying psalms, and now my hands shook so badly I could not hold the quill steady. Mara was coughing in the next room. The sound was wet, a heavy, ragged tearing...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe air in the Great Hall of the Citadel of Aethelgard did not smell of dust or decay, as one might expect of a place where centuries of silence had calcified into stone, but rather of the thick, cloying sweetness of overripe pears and the metallic tang of old blood that had long since dried into the grain of the oak floorboards, a scent that clung to the back of Lord Julian Vane’s throat like...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootYou wake with the taste of iron filings on your tongue, a metallic tang that clings to the back of your throat like a secret you have sworn never to tell. The dream is already fading, dissolving into the gray, fluorescent hum of the breakroom at Kestrel & Sons Accounting, a firm that deals in the quiet, sterile arithmetic of other people’s failures. You are Arthur Penhaligon, or at least that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe autumn of 1924 brought a chill to Blackwood Asylum that seemed to seep through the stone walls and settle into the marrow of the patients, a coldness that Elias Thorne, a forensic botanist of forty years and a father of a daughter he had failed to protect, felt as he stepped over the threshold of the head gardener’s cottage, where the smell of rotting lilies and damp earth hung heavy in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek