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 Faded PortraitThe silver sap is the only thing left that smells of iron. "Drink it," Silas said. His voice was a wet, grinding sound, like gravel shifting under a boot. "Drink it, Elias. Before the cold sets in." I looked at the vial in his hand. It was small, no larger than my thumb, filled with a liquid that shimmered like oil on water. The air in the tent was thick, heavy with the scent of rotting canvas...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineThe iron was cold, but the handle was slick with the sweat of a man who had held it too long. You, Elias, are sitting at the kitchen table in the mill village, the wood warped by damp and the grain rough under your knuckles, and you are writing to Silas. It is November of 1893, and the wind off the river is stripping the leaves from the elms with a sound like tearing cloth, a sound that has...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant SummerThe dream was always the same: a left hand, shattered not by bone but by light, the metacarpals splintering into white dust that smelled of ozone and old copper. I woke with the phantom pain still radiating up my forearm, a dull, grinding ache that felt less like injury and more like a warning. It was November, 1893, and the air in my rented room above the apothecary shop was thick with the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleThe ledger lay open on the oak table, the ink still wet, smelling of iron and old rain. I traced the line for "Silas Vane, Seal-Carver, Grade IV," my finger hovering over the debt column, a sum that had grown fat over ten years like a tumor in the belly of a man who eats too much and works too little. The Guild Master, Thorne, sat across from me, his double chin resting on his collar, watching...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant PromiseThe mud on the road to St. Jude’s was a thick, sucking thing that seemed to pull at my boots with a malice I could not name, and I walked through it with the heavy, leaden certainty of a man who knows he is already dead, having crossed the threshold of the monastery grounds in the year of our Lord 1342 to seek a copy of the lost Gospel of Thomas, a task I had undertaken not for the glory of God...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiThe pot chipped against the table edge. You caught it, your fingers white-knuckled around the clay, the soil shifting with a wet, granular sigh. It was a bonsai, pale as bone, its branches twisted into a rigid, stunted shape that mocked the wildness you were supposed to enforce in Oakhaven. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a constable with a badge that weighs more than your dignity, and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe ink was still wet on the signature line when the door to my office swung open, the brass latch clanging against the wood with a sound that felt too loud in the quiet afternoon. I did not look up from the ledger. I was tallying the final quarter’s municipal receipts, the numbers aligning with the satisfying click of a pen nib scratching against paper, when the shadow of Mr. Hale fell across...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe ledger weighed four pounds. I knew this because I had carried it from the basement archive to my desk, up three flights of stairs, in the damp chill of November 1912. It was a standard Meridian Insurance Exchange bound volume, leather cracked at the spine, smelling of mildew and old dust. I set it down. The sound it made was a dull thud, heavy and final. I am Elias Thorne. I am forty-two...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MeridianThe ink in your pot is thick with rust, Elias, and the compass needle has begun to spin like a drunkard at the corner tavern, refusing to point north, refusing to point anywhere that matters. You stare at the brass instrument, the way a man stares at a broken clock, waiting for the hands to stop their meaningless twitching, while the wind outside your rented room in Blackwood howls against the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek