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 Golden MirrorThe dream was always the same: a room of peeling yellow wallpaper, and in the center, a mirror framed in tarnished gold. Elias Thorne stood before it, his reflection solid, his eyes hollow pits of shadow. He woke in the cold damp of his boarding house in 1912, the sweat cooling on his skin, the weight of his father’s legacy pressing against his chest like a physical stone. He was thirty-two, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AshesElara stood before the gray door of Director Halloway’s office, her fingers trembling against the cold metal handle. She had been an archivist for six years, and in that time, she had inhaled enough burnt memory to make her lungs feel like they were lined with velvet and sandpaper. She wanted out. She wanted the rural archives in the countryside, where the air was thin and the memories were old...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden HarborThe coin was warm, gritty with sand, and heavy enough to bruise the palm if held too long. Elias Thorne turned it over in the lamplight of the lighthouse kitchen, the brass surface tarnished black in the recesses of the eagle’s feathers. It was a piece of his father’s debt, a tangible slice of the ruin that had swallowed the estate three years ago, and now it was the only thing left that felt...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe brass clasp of the ledger bit into Arthur Vane’s thumb as he hauled the heavy volume from the wet muck of the Leeds yard. It was 1904, and the air in the textile district tasted of iron filings and stale coal smoke, a flavor that coated the back of his throat like a bad penny. He was thirty-two, and his hands, usually steady enough to balance a quill, trembled against the cold metal...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThorne. The name hung in the air of the basement archive, sharp and bureaucratic, a summons that cut through the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of grey light from the high, barred window. Elias did not look up from the ledger he was balancing, his fingers slick with the dampness that seeped through the stone floor, but the sound of the Director’s heavy boots on the concrete signaled...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale GardenThe soil was wet and cold against your palm, slick with a slime that felt less like earth and more like the skin of a dead fish. You wiped your hand on your trousers, leaving a dark, greasy smear on the wool, and looked up at the east wing of Blackwood Asylum. The pale flowers were blooming again. They had not been there an hour ago. Now, a thick carpet of white petals covered the ground near...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustThorne. The word was not spoken so much as it was exhaled by the steam rising from the radiator, a dry, rattling hiss that seemed to curl into the shape of my surname before dissolving into the stale air of the office. I woke with the taste of iron and coal dust on my tongue, the phantom weight of a surveyor’s chain still coiled around my neck, pressing against the hollow of my throat. It had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RuinThe intake form was printed on thick, cream-colored stock, the kind that felt substantial under the fingertips, almost like the paper used for wedding invitations. You signed it with a steady hand, the ballpoint scratching against the fiber, the ink drying before the pen even lifted. Below your name, in block letters, was the diagnosis: Grey Syndrome, Stage IV. The room was white, not the white...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale EchoThe knife bit into the heel of the loaf, a dull, fibrous resistance that spoke of stale grain. I was twenty years into the service, my hands mapped with the white scars of lye and the rough grip of the constable’s baton, and yet the act of baking remained a quiet, necessary ritual in the cold of Oakhaven. The village had been silent since the accusation, a heavy, suffocating quiet that pressed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek