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 GridMarch 12 I hold the brass buckle of my belt, the metal cold and smooth against my thumb, while the light from the hallway lamp cuts a sharp, yellow wedge across the linoleum floor. The room is silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, a low, mechanical drone that seems to vibrate in my teeth. I am forty-two years old, a Sergeant with the Border Patrol, and I am writing to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden FarceThe letter on the oak table was not a letter at all, but a ledger of debts, its edges soft and frayed from thirty years of handling, the ink faded to a brownish gray that smelled of iron and old dust. I sat in the scriptorium, the cold stone floor seeping chill through the wool of my robes, and watched the dust motes dance in the single shaft of light that pierced the gloom. My name, Elias...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CartographThe alarm in the Federal Bureau of Anomalies command center was not a sound but a vibration, a low hum that settled in the teeth and the marrow. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood before the glass containment unit, his reflection ghosting over the swirling, fleshy mass inside. The Cartograph. It looked like a tumor the size of a grapefruit, pulsing with a rhythm that did not match his own heartbeat....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe fog in the Oakhaven valley does not rise; it sits, heavy and damp, pressing against the stone walls of the border post like a living thing seeking entry. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, a border warden with a spine stiffened by twelve years of standing watch in the cold, and you hold a sealed letter in your hand that smells of lavender and fear. You want to deliver this letter...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AtticThe cold does not touch you, Elias, but it touches the air around you, a distinct, freezing vacuum that separates your body from the stone walls of the basement archive. You are thirty-four, a junior archivist with ink-stained fingers and a reputation for obsessiveness that the other clerks whisper about in the tea room, and you want, with a desperation that feels like a physical bruise, to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe beeswax smell is thick, cloying, settling into the creases of your collar. You press the petition onto the mahogany table, the paper crisp and white against the dark, worn grain. It is a small rectangle of hope, and it feels fragile in the cold air of the Boardroom. The candles flicker, casting long, dancing shadows that stretch toward the Director. He does not look at the paper. He looks...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SilenceThorne. The name hung in the wet air of the courtyard, called out by a guard whose voice was muffled by the downpour. Elias Thorne did not turn. He stood before the glass of the visiting block, his hand pressed flat against the cold pane, watching Marcus Vane. The judge sat in the chair on the other side, his posture relaxed, his eyes holding a familiarity that felt less like recognition and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestThorne. The word hit the back of your skull before the lantern beam did. You spun, your boots scraping against the cold stone of the basement corridor. The Head Warden, a man named Ashworth whose uniform was always pressed so sharp it seemed to cut the air, stood at the end of the hall. His face was a mask of gray pallor, illuminated by the flickering gaslight. In his hand, he held a ledger. In...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JokeThe wine was sour, and the Duke was shouting about the yield of the northern vineyards, his voice booming off the vaulted stone ceiling of the great hall. I stood in the shadows near the service door, my hands trembling not from fear but from the weight of the leather-bound folio tucked against my ribs. It was a heavy thing, bound in calfskin that had begun to rot at the corners, smelling of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek