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 Distant TempleThe demolition permit lay on the kitchen table, its edges curling slightly in the dry air. Elara stared at the signature line, the ink still wet, reflecting the grey light from the window. It was a simple document, three pages of legalistic assurance that the Whitmore Estate would be reduced to gravel and timber by the end of the month. The debt was forty-two thousand dollars, a number that had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe pale sap was already seeping from the skirting board when you dropped the mop, the liquid thick and viscous, smelling of rotting lilies and old rain, a smell that clung to the back of your throat like a bad penny. You looked up at the nursery wall, where the stain was spreading in a slow, deliberate crawl, mirroring the lie Arthur Halloway had just told you about his late wife’s cause of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden ScarThe stone in the lower districts tasted of iron and old blood. Kaelen wiped his mouth with the back of a hand that did not fully belong to him, the fingers stiff, the knuckles swollen with a permanence that had nothing to do with age. He was thirty, a Warden of the Third Silence, and for twenty years he had served the High Priest in the city of Oakhaven. The rule was simple, carved into the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale EchoThe hand was warm. It was the only thing in the house that retained heat, a steady, biological fever against the November chill of 1893. I held Clara’s left hand in my lap, the fingers curled slightly as if grasping for a glass of water that had slipped away months ago. The skin was taut, the nails polished in a shade of violet that the cold had not yet faded, and beneath the epidermis, I could...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful WitnessThe silver goblet in Elias Thorne’s hand caught the candlelight, throwing a fractured prism across the banquet table where the Duke sat presiding over the autumn feast. Elias, a forty-two-year-old archivist with ink-stained cuticles and a tremor that had begun to dance in his left hand like a trapped bird, raised the glass to his lips. He was waiting for the speech. For six months, he had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe rain in the hollows never really stopped; it just changed its mind about how it wanted to fall. I was thirty-two years old in the winter of 1924, and the debt for my mother’s lungs was a weight heavier than the pickaxe I carried, a ledger of numbers that had no mercy for the man who owed them. The mine was not merely a hole in the earth, but a living thing, a vast, breathing organism whose...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CrossingThe vial is sealed with wax the color of dried blood, and the glass is thin enough to see the veins of the liquid inside, which pulses with a slow, rhythmic heat that has nothing to do with the ambient temperature of the room. "You are a fool, Master, and a coward to boot," Thomas said, his voice flat and stripped of all deference, standing by the workbench where the mortar and pestle lay...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe inspection report lay on the wet planks of the walkway, the ink still drying in the cold November air. Elias held the pen, the nib scratching against the paper as he tried to circle the defect in the main truss. He needed this signed. He needed the pension. The Ironworks Bridge was his life, his debt, his only hope of leaving this town with something left in his pockets. "Stop scratching,"...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ProtocolMargaret, come in here. The voice of the village elder cut through the smell of boiling sage and damp wool. I stood in the doorway, my hands trembling not from the cold, but from the stiffness in my knuckles. They were gray now, the color of old ash, and they ached with a deep, dull throb that the bitter tincture could no longer quiet. It was the fourteenth of March, 1892. I was forty-two years...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek