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 Pale TaleElias. The name hung in the air of the sorting room, dry and sharp, spoken by Mr. Halloway with the casual disdain one might use to shoo a fly. Elias did not look up. His hands were deep in the morning’s intake, fingers slick with the damp cold of the coastal mail, sorting envelopes that smelled of salt and old paper. The linoleum floor was worn smooth in the center, a pale oval of use where...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BannerThe coffee in the mug is cold, the surface a dull, oily mirror that reflects the ceiling fan spinning in the stagnant air. You are Elias, thirty-two, and you are alone in the kitchen of the house your father left you, a house that feels less like a home and more like a held breath, waiting for you to make a mistake. The silence is not empty; it is pressurized, a physical weight that pushes...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe tallow in the sconce had burned down to a thick, white nub, casting a light that felt less like illumination and more like a physical weight pressing against my temples. I counted the hours by the drip of the water clock in the antechamber, a slow, metronomic tapping that measured out the silence of the tower. Forty-two years I had served the Duke, forty-two years of ink-stained fingers and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe departure was not marked by the tearing of a suitcase zipper or the dramatic slamming of a door, but by the slow, agonizing contraction of the hand that had held the child’s for the better part of a decade, a tightening that felt less like a gesture of farewell and more like the gradual, inevitable closing of a fist around a stone that had been swallowed long before the throat could...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden FarceYou hold the ring. It is heavy. Gold. Warm. It burns. Not with heat. With shame. You are a soldier. You are a ghost. The hall is large. The air is thick. It smells of wax. And blood. Old blood. The floor is stone. Cold. Your boots are silent. You do not want to be here. You want to be gone. But you are here. The light is low. It comes from candles. Hundreds of them. They flicker. They dance....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestThe dust of the road coats your tongue with a gritty, metallic taste that tastes of dry earth and impending judgment. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four, a veteran of the border wars, walking with a limp that has become your second heartbeat, while your wife, Mara, walks beside you with a feverish, obsessive devotion that has burned in her eyes for twelve years. You carry a sealed letter from...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongThe glass jar sat in your hands, heavy and warm from the basement’s damp heat. You were twelve, alone in the cellar of Harrow & Sons Bakery, and the hunger was a physical weight, a stone lodged in your throat that made your knees buckle. The air smelled of yeast and mildew, a thick, stale tang that coated the back of your tongue. You had been down here for three hours, hiding from your uncle,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CipherThe parchment lay on the oak table, its edges curled like dry leaves, bearing the seal of Lord Vane. Elias Thorne, Magistrate of the city, read the summons. It was not a request. It was a command to attend a feast, to witness the "reconciliation" of debts, and to bring his daughter, Elara, as a guarantee of good faith. The ink was still wet, smelling of iron and vinegar. Outside, the wind...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe ledger lay open on my knee, its pages stiff with the cold that had seeped through my wool trousers, and I watched the ink of the last entry smear as my thumb pressed down, the weight of the paper feeling suddenly heavier than the iron bar I had hauled into the boiler room that morning. I was Elias Thorne, a constable of the Blackwood Coal Company, and I was thirty-four years old, though the...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek