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 GardenThe iron cuff on my wrist had been cold for three days, but it was the weight of the velvet shawl draped over my shoulders that truly crushed me. It was not merely a garment; it was a shroud of crimson silk, woven with threads of gold that seemed to pulse with a faint, malevolent life in the dim light of the ancestral hall. I stood in the center of the marble floor, the polished surface...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden Circuit14 October 1893 The damp here is not merely a quality of the air; it is a weight that settles into the marrow, a persistent, cold hand pressed against the skin. I write this by the guttering light of a tallow candle in the small office allotted to me, the paper damp and soft, the ink blurring as if it weeps. My desire is singular, and it has grown into a hunger that eclipses all other needs: I...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe rain hits the pavement like static. You hold the key. It is small. It is iron. It feels heavy in your palm. You are running. Your lungs burn. The city is a blur of gray and black. You do not know where you are going. You only know you must not stop. The building is old. Brick. Red, but faded. The windows are dark. You push open the door. It creaks. The smell is dust and cold stone. You are...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SuspectThe ink on the letter was still wet when you wiped your hands on the rag, the black smear running down your wrist like a fresh bruise. You read it again, the parchment stiff and smelling of the magistrate’s office, of dried blood and old paper, the words arranged in that cold, bureaucratic script that turned your son’s life into a line item in a ledger of debts. Thomas was to be executed at...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThe radiator clanked. One, two, three times, a rusted heartbeat against the cold brick. I counted the pages. Four hundred and twelve. The index was due Friday, or I lost the job, and without the job, I lost the apartment, and without the apartment, I lost Elise’s memory, which was the last thing I had left that didn’t smell like damp wool and old paper. The St. Jude’s Municipal Records Office...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful VoyageThe document on the kitchen table was thin, white, and smelled faintly of the toner used to print it. Eleanor Fairchild smoothed the corner where the paper had curled from the humidity of the previous week. It was the purchase agreement for the Fairchild farm, forty-two acres of bottomland and scrub oak, offered to a development group from the city for a sum that would cover Thomas’s hospice...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ApartmentThe first thing Elias Thorne did when the rain began to hammer against the corrugated tin of the shop roof was to check the seals on the jars. He did not look up to see who was standing in the doorway, dripping mud onto his worn linoleum floorboards. He was too busy ensuring that the glass held its breath, that the scent of dried lavender and crushed chamomile did not escape into the damp, cold...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestThe ledger had three hundred and forty-two pages, each one thin as onion skin and heavy with the dust of a decade. I had counted them twice, once in the morning when the light was gray and flat against the study windows, and once in the evening when the shadows lengthened and the house began to settle into its nightly creaks. My tenure at the Harrowgate Estate depended on this catalog, a final...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe white moth rested on the ledger, its wings a patch of stark, bleached cotton against the yellowed page. I held the pen, the ink still wet, the smell of the office thick with the dust of dried paper and the faint, metallic tang of the radiator’s stale heat. My father, Thomas Vane, had been an inspector for thirty years, his career a quiet accumulation of stamps and signatures that now...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek