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 WhispersThe dampness of the cellar did not smell of stone or rot, but of old ink and cold breath, a scent that clung to Brother Thomas’s wool robes and seeped into his pores as he hunched over the crumbling spine of the *Codex Lamentis*. He was forty years old, his hands steady despite the tremor in his knees, and the plague in the village below the abbey walls had claimed three more children since...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale FractureThe dream was always the same: a monolithic pillar of gray concrete, seamless and cold, splitting down the center to reveal not a hollow, but a throat. It was screaming a frequency that Elias Thorne could feel in his teeth but not hear with his ears. He woke at 4:00 AM, the sweat cooling on his skin, the clock on his nightstand glowing a sterile red. He was fifty-four, and his knees ached with...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant SummerThorne. The name was barked by the Warden, a sound dry as a twig snapping under a boot. Elias Thorne stood in the corridor of Blackwood Asylum, the air thick with the scent of boiled linseed and old sweat. He was there to inspect a confiscated uniform, a task that had cost him three days of travel and a month’s pay. The report of brutality against a patient had been filed by the night shift....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumMarch 14, 1998. The road to the Monastery of St. Jude is a ribbon of black ice that seems to stretch infinitely into the gray mist. I arrived at the gate with my equipment case, my tenure file, and the specific, aching hunger of a man who has been told he is finished. I am forty-two years old, a linguist of modest reputation, and I need this palimpsest. I need it to prove to the committee at...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CipherThe rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it settled, a grey, industrial fog that clung to the brickwork of the Blackwood Asylum like a second skin. Elias Thorne stood before the iron gates, his coat heavy with moisture, his hands trembling not from the cold but from the weight of the accusation that had hung over him for three years. He was not a killer, he told himself, though the...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThe engine coughed, a wet, rattling sound that echoed off the corrugated walls of the transport van, and Elias Thorne checked the timestamp on his notebook before writing the first line of the entry, his pen moving with the deliberate, heavy precision of a man who has spent two decades filling out intake forms in triplicate. It was 0400 hours, the date stamped in the margin as November 14th,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CartographThe ink refused to dry. I pressed the nib harder, scratching the parchment until the paper tore, but the black lines remained wet, glistening like fresh blood under the lamplight. Outside, the fog of the Hollows pressed against the windowpane, a thick, grey wall that smelled of wet iron and old rot. It was the third week of November, and my hands shook so badly I could barely hold the compass...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiThe seed is cracked, a pale fissure running through its shell like a dry riverbed, and your fingernails are digging into the plastic cup to keep the roots from tangling. The fluorescent light above your bunk buzzes with a low, persistent hum that vibrates in your molars, a sound that has become so constant you only notice it when it stops. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and you are...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdI have spent the better part of three hours counting the ledgers, tallying every shilling and pound that passed through Julian’s hands before the winter of 1890, my fingers numb from the cold that seeps through the floorboards of Blackwood Manor. The light in the study is failing, turning the dust motes into slow, grey specks that drift in the air like suspended ash, and I find myself checking...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek