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 Pale MeridianThe ledger was open, and the ink was wet. "Arthur," the chairman said, his voice dry as the dust motes dancing in the shaft of afternoon light that cut across the mahogany desk. "You are aware that the board is reviewing your tenure." Arthur Vane did not look up from the columns of figures. He was forty-two, a man of precise angles and quiet habits, a senior actuary who had spent nineteen years...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CrossingThe fraying edge of the gold-threaded sash cut into my left hip as I hauled the heavy oak drawer across the scriptorium floor, the wood groaning under the weight of twenty years of accumulated silence. My fingers, stained black from the ink that seeped from the pages of the *Codex Vacui*, trembled not from cold but from the deep, marrow-level ache of the rot that had begun to spread beneath the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ChronicleThe ink on the ledger was still wet when Elias Thorne noticed the tremor in his hand, a subtle vibration that mirrored the wind rattling the single pane of glass in the office window. He was thirty-two, a clerk of modest ambition and precise arithmetic, and for the first time in his life, he held the power to unmake the man who sat across from him. Lord Vane did not look up from his tea, his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ShieldThe rain had stopped, but the gutters were still weeping a thick, brown sludge that coated the cobblestones of Oakhaven in a slick, unappealing film. Elias Thorne stood in the doorway of the municipal building, his collar turned up against the damp chill, and watched a pigeon peck at a discarded receipt on the step. He was thirty years old, a detective who believed that arrogance was just...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CellarThe dream was always the same: a vault of solid gold, humming with a low, tectonic vibration, where the air tasted of copper and old blood. Arthur Vane woke with the taste still on his tongue, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. It was November, 1912, and the frost lay thick on the windowpane of his small cottage in Harrow. He was thirty years old, a mine inspector for the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe obsidian was cold, a chill that bypassed the skin and settled directly into the marrow, and you held the frame with both hands, your fingers white-knuckled and trembling against the smooth, black surface that seemed to drink the dim light of the scriptorium. You are Elias, forty years old, an archivist of the Order of the Veil, and you have spent the last decade cataloguing the sins of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongThe clay tablet was warm in Elias’s palm, the heat of the kiln still trapped in its porous surface. He turned it over, his thumb tracing the cuneiform script that had been pressed into the wet earth only an hour ago. The characters were sharp, clear, and unyielding, a record of the grain shipments from the northern provinces that the King’s scribe had dictated with a bored, rhythmic tapping of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe porcelain was cold, a weight of dead clay that did not fit the warmth of my palm, and the hairline fracture running from the north marker to the center pin caught the light of the truck cab like a scar that refused to heal. I adjusted the mirror, checking the rearview for the stretch of highway that had just swallowed the last of the city lights, and then I looked down at the compass again,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainThe pencil tip snapped against the paper, a small, sharp crack that echoed in the silence of the archive. Elias rubbed the bruised end of his thumb, watching the graphite dust settle on the card catalog box. The dream was still clinging to him, a cold residue on his skin. In it, the mountain had not been stone, but a wall of erasing white, and every step up the slope had taken a year from his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek