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 AtticThe silver clasp was cold, colder than it should have been for a metal object sitting on a mahogany desk, and I held it between my thumb and forefinger until the skin whitened. It was a simple piece of hardware, tarnished and pitted, but it was the only thing left of the wedding dress, and the only thing left that mattered. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the air thick with the smell of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeYour hand is steady as you adjust the brass button on your tunic, the metal cool against the thumb, while across the square the morning light catches the fractured surface of Silas’s mask, throwing prismatic shards across the cobblestones. You are Elias Thorne, constable of Oakhaven, and you have twenty years of service to show for your pension, a sum that will keep you from the poorhouse, but...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ChronicleThe warehouse door gave way with a shriek of metal, and the floodlights cut through the dark like a blade through wet paper. "Freeze!" I screamed, my voice cracking in the cold air, though my hands were steady as they drove me forward. The man on the floor didn't freeze. He scrambled, boots slipping on the concrete, and I tackled him, the impact jarring my ribs as we hit the ground hard. He was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe rain slicked the cobblestones of Oakhaven, turning the market into a mirror of broken neon and mud. "It’s a curse, boy," the Guild Master said, his voice dry as old paper. He did not look at Elian. He looked at the withered stalk in the boy’s hand, a foxglove that pulsed with a faint, sickly green light. "We don’t buy rot. We don’t buy lies. And we certainly don’t buy your accent." Elian...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CircuitMarch 12, 1943. The wind does not howl here. It whispers. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-two, and I am standing on the northern ridge where the pine trees lean in like conspirators. My duty is simple: secure the perimeter before the snow melts. It is a task that feels less like work and more like a penance I owe to Clara. She died six years ago, slipping into the white silence, and I have not slept...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThe fog did not so much settle over the checkpoint as it grew out of it, a thick, gray wool that swallowed the headlamps of the waiting trucks and blurred the harsh white lines of the border into a watercolor smear. Elias Thorne stood alone in the interrogation room, his back to the heavy steel door that led out to the corridor, his hands resting on the edge of the table where the metal was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridThe rain lashed the windows of the Pullman car, blurring the passing countryside into a smear of grey and brown. Arthur Vance, forty-two, sat rigid in his seat, his hands clasped tightly around a leather briefcase that contained only deeds, tax records, and a list of real estate agents. He was traveling to Blackwood Manor to sell it. The house had been empty for three years, since Thomas died,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CipherThe ledger lay open on the desk, its pages thin as onion skin, the ink a faded, bruised purple. Elias Thorne held a magnifying glass over the first entry, his breath fogging the cold glass, the year 1893 pressing against the windowpane like a damp hand. The estate was failing, the accounts bleeding red, and the village whispered that the Thorne bloodline carried a stain that no amount of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JourneyThe needle in Elara Vane’s hand was bent, a thin steel hook that had given way under the tension of the black thread. She held it up to the grey light of the workshop, the metal cold against her thumb, before dropping it into the brass pin cushion that smelled of old iron and lavender. It was November, 1912, and the air in Oakhaven tasted of wet coal and rust. Elara was thirty years old, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek