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 Wistful WitnessThe rain hammered against the high, narrow windows of the distillery, a relentless drumming that seemed to vibrate in the very bones of the stone floor, and I stood over the body of Samuel, my hands slick with the cold condensation of the copper still, watching the life drain from his eyes as the last breath hitched and died in his throat. It was the fourteenth of October, 1912, and the air in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MasterThe hammer rested on the workbench, its head cold to the touch, waiting for the final strike. Elias Thorne counted the seconds between the ticks of the shop’s other clocks, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, until the silence became a physical weight in his chest. He was forty-two, but the face staring back at him from the glass of the "Golden Master" chronometer was sixty, the skin drawn...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AshesElias. The name rang out across the archive, sharp and metallic, cut from the hum of the ventilation fans. It was not a call of greeting but a summons, the kind that precedes a reprimand. I looked up from the ledger, my fingers still stained with the iron-gall ink that marked the dates of the old wars. The room smelled of damp paper and the faint, sweet rot of decaying bindings. I am forty-two...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant LegendElias. Say that again. The wind did not howl. It screamed, a high, thin sound that tore at the flaps of my parka and rattled the teeth in my skull. I stood in the doorway of the outpost, the cold biting into my cheeks, and I looked at the deputy. He stood ten feet away, his face pale, his eyes fixed on the ground. The radio in my hand was dead. The static was gone. The silence was worse than...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterThe quill was a splinter of raven bone, sharp enough to slice the tip of a finger, and Thomas Vane held it in a grip so tight the knuckles had gone the color of old parchment. He stared at the vellum, which smelled of wet iron and rot, and knew that if he dipped the nib into the ink pot, the black liquid would hiss against the page, demanding a confession before it would dry. It was the year of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe clock on the archive wall ticked with a heavy, wooden thud that Elias felt in his molars. He had counted three hundred and forty-two minutes since he had arrived, and his fingers, stained with the grey dust of old vellum, were slick with sweat. He needed the deed to the mill property, the one dated 1842, to prove to Clara that he was not a man who squandered what was given to him. If he did...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AshesThe brass key in Elias Thorne’s hand was warm, not from the sun, which had not yet cleared the smokestacks, but from the friction of his own grip. He stood in the corridor of the Correctional Annex, a place where the air tasted of sulfur and old pennies, and watched the gauge on the atmospheric dampener shiver into the red zone. It was 1942, and Thorne, thirty-four years old with twelve years...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe glass was not clean; it was merely waiting. Elias Thorne held the pane up to the light, his thumb tracing the microscopic grain of the sand that had been fused into its heart. It was a perfect square, twelve inches by twelve, polished until it seemed less like a material object and more like a hole in the air. In the year 1347, perfection was a currency more volatile than gold, and Elias, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful PetalThe red stamp hit the mahogany with a wet, finality that shook the dust from the ceiling tiles, a visceral slap that echoed in the hollow chambers of my skull as Director Vane’s voice, a low grinding rasp that vibrated in my molars, accused me of sedition while I sat frozen, my hands trembling on the edge of the desk, the rejection order for my tenure correction regarding the 1998 Purge lying...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek