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 Wistful AtlasThorne. The name hung in the air of the outpost office, heavy and wet, before Major Halloway even looked up from his screen. You were forty-two, Elias Thorne, and your knees had begun to grind like rusted hinges every time you stood from the cot in the shared quarters, a pain so dull it felt like a second heartbeat. You wanted out. You wanted the pension, the quiet, the end of the watch before...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe Iron Gate did not look like a door, nor a wall, but a seam in the earth where the air itself seemed to thin. Elias Thorne stood before it, his hand resting on the cold iron, feeling the low-frequency hum that had become the second rhythm of his life. He was fifty-four, a border warden for thirty years, and his heart beat in a sickening syncopation with the gate’s vibration, a mechanical...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale LetterThe paper was cold, colder than the iron tongs I had been holding moments before, and it sat on my workbench like a small, pale wound in the center of the clutter. I did not touch it at first; I only looked, my eyes adjusting to the dim light of the workshop where the dust motes hung suspended in the air, catching the last weak slant of autumn sun. It was a single sheet of heavy stock,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThe wool coat sat in Margot’s lap, heavy and damp. It was a thick, charcoal thing, the kind that used to swallow her whole when she was twenty-four. Now the shoulders gaped, the sleeves hung like dead limbs, and the wool had pilled into rough, gray patches that felt like dried skin against her fingers. She clutched it tighter, her knuckles white. The Greyhound bus groaned as it hit a pothole,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden RitualMy hands were already moving, the burnishing cloth working the gold in tight, circular frictions, when the dream broke me open. It was not a dream of death, but of sound; a high, thin whine, like a wire pulled too tight, coming from the chalice itself. In the vision, Mara’s face was pressed against the metal, her lips moving in a silence that was somehow louder than the noise, begging me to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JourneyIt was the key, or it was the silence, I could not tell which one was heavier in my hand. You are asking why I am here, in the mud, with the water rising around my ankles. I am the ledger keeper. I have been the ledger keeper for twenty years. My father was the keeper before me, until the fire took him, and the mill, and the truth. The village says I am strange. They say I talk to the stones....0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootThe train ticket was in my left pocket, the one that had started to tear at the seam, and I was counting the seconds until the platform cleared. Silas was still there, standing by the departure board, his hands tucked into the pockets of his wool coat, watching the clock with the same detached intensity he used to watch the fungal hyphae under the microscope. I adjusted the strap of my satchel....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant PromiseElias. The name hung in the damp air of the study, spoken not by a living voice but by the settling of the floorboards, a sound like a dry leaf snapping under a heavy boot. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a botanist by trade and a caretaker by compulsion, and I want the last viable seed pod of the *Aethelgard* fern before the autumn frost kills it. The opposing force is the house...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MasterThe fog did not smell of rain, but of rust and old copper, a metallic tang that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he held the golden gear under the loupe. He was forty-two, though the lines around his eyes suggested a man who had lived two lifetimes in the cramped, ticking silence of his workshop in Oakhaven, and his hands, steady enough to balance a hair on a pivot, trembled now with...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek