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 Golden GreenhouseThe scale trembles under the weight of three ounces of dried foxglove, a precise, cold measurement in a room that smells of damp wool and old iron. You count the grains of sand in the hourglass, one by one, a ritual of patience that feels like a punishment for your own existence. This is the fourth day of the siege, and the Guild Master’s shadow falls across the threshold, blocking the thin...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe champagne was warm, tasting of iron and stale sugar, and the band played a waltz that seemed to drag its feet through the mud of the floor. I stood by the pillar, my baton heavy in my hand, watching Silas Vane laugh with the mill owners. He was a man of soot and silk, his white tie stained with the grey dust of the furnace room. I wanted his throat. I wanted to feel the give of the muscle...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden ScarThe biometrics are failing, Thorne. You are leaking. Commander Vane’s voice was a dry rasp, scraping against the sterile silence of the cell in Sector 4. Elias did not look up from his hands. They were white-knuckled around the grip of his service pistol, the polymer cold and slick with sweat. The air in the confinement unit tasted of copper and rot, a metallic tang that coated the back of his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WhispersThe silver locket hung from Elias’s thumb, swinging like a dead weight, its chain tangled in the wool of his sleeve. He held it up to the grey light filtering through the shop window, watching the tarnish catch the dull glow of the gas lamp. The metal was warm, uncomfortably so, pulsing against his skin with a rhythm that matched his own erratic heartbeat. Margaret Holloway stood on the other...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GhostThe escapement shattered with a sound like a small bone breaking, a crisp, dry snap that cut through the thick, soot-choked air of the workshop. Arthur Vane did not shout; he merely stood there, his hands hovering over the ruin of the balance wheel, trembling with a violence that had nothing to do with the apprentice’s clumsy error and everything to do with the sudden, visceral betrayal of his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden OathThe pen in my hand is splintered, the wood rough against the calluses that have formed on my thumb from twisting the iron bars of my cell. It is the third of November, and the air in Oakhaven State Penitentiary tastes of copper and wet earth. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a man who once sat in a judge’s bench in the town square, and I am writing this because the Governor arrives...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridThe ink was still wet on the parchment, a dark, trembling pool that Elias Ashworth stared at with the hollow, glazed focus of a man who has not slept in three days, his fingers stained black to the second knuckle, the cold damp of the fortress cellar rising through the stone floor to chill the marrow of his bones. He had been dreaming again, that recurring, viscous nightmare where he reaches...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongThe ink is wet and the candle gutters, casting long, trembling shadows against the peeling wallpaper of my cramped room in Blackwood, where the air always tastes of coal dust and regret. I am thirty years old, Arthur Vane, a junior clerk at the Halloway Ironworks, and I am drowning in debts that stretch back to my father’s foolishness and my own quiet desperation, yet tonight I feel a strange,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CartographThe tremor in Elara Vance’s left hand began as a subtle vibration, a hum like a plucked string that only she could feel, and it was there as she sat alone in the sub-basement of the Ministry of Cultural Heritage, the fluorescent lights humming in a low, indifferent drone that matched the rhythm of her anxiety. She was thirty-two years old, a senior archivist with seven years of service, and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek