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 Distant GhostThe black veins crept up Elias Thorne’s forearm like ink in water, pulsing with a cold, rhythmic hunger. He paused, the chisel hovering over the limestone block, his breath shallow in the thin air of the scaffold. The Grey Wither had taken three years of his life in the last month, turning his hair white at the temples and etching deep trenches into his cheeks. He was forty-two, but he felt...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ChronicleThe frost bites the brass of the tuning key, a cold that travels up your forearm and settles in the marrow. You are Elias, a clockmaker of forty years, and your hands tremble not from the winter of 1348, but from the debt that hangs over the Guild like a noose. The Black Death has taken your apprentice, Thomas, three days ago, and now it has taken the rhythm of the city, leaving only the debt...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale FractureThe white ash fell in sheets, coating the tongue with the taste of old paper and iron. I woke with my hands clenched, the sheets twisted tight, the dream’s residue clinging to my skin like a second, colder layer of reality. My name is Elias Thorne, and I am thirty-four years old, a writer in the employ of the Bureau of Narrative Control, a man who has traded his history for a heating quota and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AshesThe black ash was already in my hair when I woke, a fine, cold powder that tasted of iron and old stone. I wiped it from my lips with the back of my hand, leaving a streak of charcoal across my palm, and turned to the empty side of the bed. Elara was gone. The sheets on her side were cool, uncrinkled, as if she had evaporated into the walls rather than simply left. I sat up, the medieval timber...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineMarch 12, 2024 The air in the Palace of State tastes of copper and old dust, a metallic tang that coats the back of my throat before I can swallow. I am forty-two years old, a senior officer in the Royal Security Corps, and I am writing this from my desk in the east wing, where the ventilation shafts hum a low, persistent note that feels less like machinery and more like breathing. My request...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridThe current was holding at twelve amperes, which was precisely the amount of tension required to keep the asylum’s west wing in a state of manageable, low-level agitation. I have counted the hours since I last touched the main switchboard, and the number has grown to four, a span of time that feels less like a duration and more like a weight settling onto my shoulders, pressing them down into...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RuinThe silver brooch sat in the velvet tray, its surface dull with a patina that no amount of polishing could remove, and Elias Thorne stared at it with the desperate, hollow hunger of a man who has forgotten the taste of water but remembers the thirst. It was November of 1924, and the air in the Ministry of Memory’s sub-basement tasted of ozone and old paper, a dry, electric scent that clung to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe locomotive coughed its black breath into the grey morning of 1912, and Elias Vane clutched his leather satchel as if it contained the heart of the world. He was forty years old, a man whose face had been sculpted by the long, silent hours of grinding herbs and measuring drops, and he was traveling to Oakhaven for a reason that felt less like a medical necessity and more like a penance. His...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AlibiThe truck idles in the dirt, the engine a low, rattling growl that shakes the dust from the corrugated tin roof. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a border patrol sergeant with twenty years of service and a name that is currently being scrubbed from the Bureau’s honor roll. You want to clear your name before the tribunal, to prove that you did not abandon your post during the storm, but the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek