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 MetropolisThe wool had rotted for the fourth time that morning, a fact Elias Thorne noted with the detached precision of a man counting stitches in a torn hem. He stood in the center of Oakhaven’s market square, the silver clasp at his throat catching the weak October light, a cold weight against his sternum. It was a relic of his late wife, Margaret, and the only object in the town that did not turn to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe mud of the borderlands did not just soak; it swallowed, a thick, anaerobic paste that pulled at Elias Thorne’s boots with the tenacious grip of a dying man’s hand. He stood knee-deep in the slurry, his uniform heavy with water and the scent of rot, staring at the river that cut through the valley like a vein of black oil. The water ran thick and dark, a viscous flow that the locals called...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ExileThe letter arrived on a Tuesday, sliding under the door of the St. Jude’s Community Kitchen with the same indifference as the rain. You unfolded it on the stainless-steel prep table, the paper crisp and white against the grimy metal, and read the words that had been dreading for three months. The grant committee had denied your application, citing "unverifiable operational anomalies" and a lack...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful Cipher14 October, 3:14 AM. The orchid was dying again, its petals curling into a dry, brown fist against the glass of the vase. Elias Thorne woke with the scent of rotting starch in his nose, a phantom smell that clung to the sheets long after the dream had dissolved. He lay still for a moment, listening to the rain lash against the windowpane of his university office, before the knock came. It was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale GardenThe ink in the well was black, but the parchment was white, and the silence in the scriptorium was heavy enough to crush a man’s lungs. Elias Vane, thirty years old and the last of his line, sat before the final testament of his father, Lord Aldric, whose body lay cold and stiff in the chamber above. He wanted only to copy the words, to secure the estate, to keep the Vane lands out of the hands...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe order lay on the wet stone of the bridge deck, a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper that Elias Thorne had been holding for three days. It was a commendation, signed by the Commissioner, promising the rank of First Sergeant effective immediately upon the successful apprehension of any fleeing subject. Elias, forty years old and wearing a uniform that fit him like a second skin of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe name hangs in the air, spoken by the clerk with the flat, bored intonation of a man reading a weather report. "Thorne. Elias Thorne." You step forward. The ink on your petition is still wet, drying on the parchment under the harsh gaslight of the High Judge’s office. You have spent twenty years in Oakhaven, twenty years of service, twenty years of keeping the books balanced and the peace...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RoadThe rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the slate roof of Ashworth Hall, a relentless, gray percussion that seemed to seep into the very stones. Sir Aldric stood by the window, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, watching the mud churn in the courtyard. He was forty years old, and his face was carved from the same hard granite as the hall itself. Inside, the air...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridArthur. The name was not shouted, but it hung in the air of the counting house, suspended between the ticking of the mantel clock and the rhythmic scratching of Mr. Vane’s pen on the intake form. It was a summons that carried the weight of the entire firm, a summons that Arthur Penhaligon, clerk of the third tier, felt settle into the marrow of his aching spine as he stood before the mahogany...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek