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 Golden CellarThe vacuum nozzle was stuck again, wasn’t it? Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, senior archivist at the Meridian Institute, pulled at the hose with a strength that surprised him, his knuckles white against the rubber, while the golden fibers in the air seemed to pause, suspended in the stale, recycled air of the sub-basement. He had to get this done before the board’s audit on Friday; tenure...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe dream was always the same: a suspension bridge, rusted and groaning, snapping in the middle of a fog so thick it had the consistency of wet wool. Elias Thorne woke with his heart hammering against his ribs, the sweat cooling on his forehead, the ceiling of his bedroom staring back at him with the blank indifference of a sheet of plywood. He was fifty-two years old, a structural engineer who...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe wine was spilled on the velvet tablecloth, a dark stain spreading like a bruise under the chandelier light. General Silas Vane stood at the center of the Great Hall, his scarred hand resting on the pommel of his sword, watching the King’s gaze slide over him with the detached assessment of a merchant inspecting a damaged crate. The banquet was a spectacle of excess, forty-year-old Silas...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale LetterThe grain was rotting in the silo, and the elder’s voice was dry as the dust that coated the rafters. "You will not speak of it, Elias. The silence is the cure." Elias did not answer. He stood in the shadow of the archive door, his fingers stained with ink that would not wash out, a permanent dark web of lines beneath his nails. The air in the corridor smelled of wet stone and the sharp,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestThe parchment lay flat on the oak table, its edges yellowed and brittle as dried leaves. You traced the final line of the *Liber Mortis* with a calloused finger, the ink still wet from your own hand. It was the winter solstice, and the deadline for your permanent tenure was three days hence. You needed this book finished. You needed it more than you needed air. The scriptorium was silent, save...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThorne, you are bleeding. The voice was Arthur’s, though Arthur was lying on the cot in the corner, his ribs caving in like a crushed tin can. Elias Thorne looked down. His hands were slick, not with blood, but with a pale, viscous fluid that smelled of iron and wet chalk. It was the tincture. The vial had shattered in his grip, or perhaps it had shattered against his skin, for the pain was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe fog in Oakhaven does not lift; it waits. It sits on the cobblestones like a damp wool blanket, swallowing the edges of the world until the village is nothing more than a collection of shadows and the smell of wet slate. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two, a clerk who counts the hours until the rain stops, though it rarely does. For twenty years, I have carried the weight of my father’s name like...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe black sap had begun to seep through the lining of my sleeve, a cold, viscous tide that hardened against my skin like dark glass. I am Silas Thorne, a constable of the Oakhaven district, and for three days I have felt the architecture of my own body failing in the same way the city’s walls do when a soul is unjustly condemned. The Miller boy, Thomas, had been released on bail after my...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PhotographThorne, you look like a man who has swallowed a stone and is trying to pass it off as a coin. The voice cut through the hum of the feast, sharp and dry as the scrape of a flint wheel. Elias Thorne stood by the edge of the long table, his apron still dusted with white silica, the sweat of the kiln room clinging to his neck despite the summer heat. He was thirty-two, a master of the glass, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek