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 GreenhouseThe soil is cold. It is darker than the night. You dig. The trowel bites into the earth with a sound like a bone snapping. You are Elias. You are forty-two. Your hands are cracked, bleeding into the dirt. You want the fruit. The golden fruit inside the glasshouse. It glows in the fog. It is the only thing that can save Margaret. She is wasting away. The sickness eats her from the inside out....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale Garden"Thomas. You here?" The voice belonged to Chief Miller, and it carried the specific, hollow ring of a man who was already deciding how to discard you. I stood in the queue at the front desk of the Ashford Police Station, holding a form for a leave of absence, my fingers stained black with the soot of the textile mill where I had spent the last three nights. The station smelled of wet wool,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ClueThe frost did not come from the window. It came from Elias Thorne’s hands, a localized cold that defied the thermometer’s stubborn insistence on thirty degrees. He stood in the archives of the Municipal Library, a junior archivist of forty-two years, his face a mask of professional calm that cracked only when he looked at the seal on the basement door. The incident of 1998 was a ghost in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CampusThe leather glove is warm. It sits on your left hand like a second skin, tight against the knuckles, smelling of ozone and wet stone. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four, a junior archivist at St. Jude’s University, and you have until Friday to catalog the "Wistful Campus" collection. Your tenure hangs on this box. The glove does not belong to you; you have never owned a glove, let alone one that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TowerThe feast hall smelled of roasted boar and stale wine, a thick, cloying air that hung heavy over the heads of the monks and the visiting dignitaries. You sat in the corner, your hands folded in your lap, your knuckles white from the tension that had been building in your chest for weeks. You were twelve years old, the youngest apprentice scribe at St. Jude’s Abbey, and you wanted only to finish...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterThe iron-bound ledger weighed exactly four pounds, three ounces, and seven grains, a weight Elias Vane had memorized over the course of twenty years, counting the hours of his own decay against the cold, unyielding mass of Clara’s obsession. He sat in the cramped cabin, the rain lashing the single pane of glass with a frantic, percussive rhythm that seemed to mimic the wet, rattling cough that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded Photograph14th of October, 1348. My hand shakes as I press the quill to the parchment, the ink bleeding into the fibers like a wound that will not close. The cold has settled into my joints again, a persistent ache that mirrors the creeping darkness at the edges of my vision. I am forty years old, and the border warden’s life has taken its toll in ways the Crown’s pension ledger does not account for. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownThe mortar tasted of copper and old rain, a flavor that clung to the back of my throat long after I had spat the excess into the gutter. I am Elias Thorne, and for the past three weeks, I have been the only man willing to put my hands into the wounds of the Golden Downtown. The district is not merely old; it is alive, a sprawling organism of brick and iron that breathes with a low, golden hum...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeThe rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, cold sheet that turned the asphalt of the precinct parking lot into a black mirror reflecting the gray, weeping sky. I stood by the driver’s side door of my unmarked sedan, my hand resting on the cold steel, feeling the vibration of the idling engine through my palm, a low hum that matched the thrumming in my ears. My left knee throbbed, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek