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 Golden MazeThe dream always begins with the smell of ozone and wet stone. I am standing in a corridor of gold, but it is not the yellow of coins or crowns. It is the sickly, pale gold of old teeth. The walls breathe. They expand and contract with a rhythm that matches my own failing heart. In the center of the labyrinth, on a pedestal of black basalt, stands a pillar. Etched into its surface, in lines so...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantElias, come down here at once. The voice of Master Aldous did not rise in volume, but it carried the specific, brittle weight of a man who had spent forty years measuring grams of arsenic and ounces of patience, and it cut through the damp silence of the cellar with the precision of a scalpel. Elias, twelve years old and small for his age, wiped his hands on his apron, which was stained with...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded Frequency14 November 1942. 03:14 hours. The pencil is cold in my hand, a shard of graphite that has broken twice already, leaving a jagged edge that catches on the fiber of the paper. I am holding a fragment of code. It is not paper, strictly speaking, but a scrap of heavy cream-colored cardstock, torn from a larger sheet, its edges ragged and dark with age. I have been staring at it for six hours. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeThe letter in Arthur Vane’s hand was torn at the edges, the paper soft and dark with age. It held the weight of seven years, a physical thing that seemed to pull his fingers down toward the gravel of the station platform. He stood alone in the grey drizzle of Oakhaven, the industrial town that had swallowed his family whole. The train had left him there, a deliberate choice to walk the final...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AlibiThe banquet hall of the Blackwood Palace smelled of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of ozone, a scent that Elias Thorne had grown accustomed to over his twenty years of service as the Duke’s chief archivist, a role that required a man to be invisible, precise, and utterly without sentiment. He stood in the shadows near the heavy oak doors, watching the Duke of Ashworth raise a glass of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsHollis. That was the first word spoken, not by me, but by the patient in Bed Four, a man whose throat was swollen shut with the taste of iron and coal dust. I stood in the doorway of the St. Jude’s Infirmary ward, my uniform buttoned to the throat despite the stifling heat of the boiler room leaking through the vents, and I watched the man’s lips move without sound. Then, with a wet, tearing...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant SummerThe pen was moving in a circle, a small, tight orbit around the inkwell. Elias Thorne watched the nib, the steel trembling slightly against the paper, as if the hand holding it belonged to someone else. It was high summer in 1893, and the basement office at the University of St. Jude’s smelled of damp wool and the sweet, rotting scent of mildew. He was thirty-two, junior archivist, and his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootYou are standing in the center of the room, the air thick with the scent of stale tobacco and the metallic tang of old blood that seems to seep up from the floorboards, a smell that has settled into the very grain of the wood, into the plaster of the walls, and finally, inescapably, into the lining of your own lungs, so that every breath you take is a small act of ingestion, a slow poisoning...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MeridianThe rain did not fall so much as it was pressed against the windowpane by a wind that smelled of wet stone and dying leaves. Inside the small, drafty workshop on the corner of 4th and Elm, Elias Thorne was arguing with a ghost. "You’re tight on the left," he said, his voice raspy, echoing in the hollow space between the walls. "You’re always tight on the left. It’s a bad habit, Arthur. A fatal...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek