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 CircuitThe brass astrolabe weighed three pounds and four ounces. You knew this because you had weighed it that morning, twice, on the scale in the inventory room. You knew it because you needed to know exactly how much of your life was currently sitting in your left hand. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a senior archivist at the St. Jude’s Institute, and you have thirty-seven years of service to your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownThe deed to the property, rolled tight and bound with a strip of leather that had cracked from the damp, sat in my hands like a dead bird. I stood in the center of the hall, the floorboards creaking under the weight of my boots, and watched the light from the high window slice through the dust, illuminating the motes that danced in the still air. It was the hour before noon, the time when the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale LetterThe pension review is in three days. You count the hours on your fingers, knuckles stiff with the damp cold that seeps into the Ministry of Records from the stone walls. Fifty-two years old. Twenty-eight years of service. You need to clear your name, or at least keep the stain from spreading to your pension. The opposing force is not a rival, but your own mind, which has begun to fail you in a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootThe letter was yellowed at the edges, the ink faded to a brown that looked like dried blood, and Elias Vane read it for the third time, his thumb tracing the signature of a man who had been dead for six years. He sat in the high-backed chair by the window, the light of late afternoon cutting a sharp, dusty diagonal across the floorboards, illuminating the grain of the oak and the dark, creeping...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe light in the basement was the color of old dishwater, a grey that clung to the damp stone walls. You counted the hours by the way the single bulb flickered, a stuttering pulse that matched the thumping in your ears. Fourteen hours since you left the station. You had packed a bag with the essentials: a change of clothes, a tin of sardines, a pen, and the logbook. The logbook was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe brass badge sat heavy in your palm, the metal cold and rough against the skin, its surface scratched by years of use in the pocket of a uniform that no longer fit your shoulders. You were Elias Thorne, sheriff of Harrow County, and you had exactly forty-eight hours to secure the budget for the new jail wing before the board vote on Friday. The opposing force was not the budget line, but the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainI held the brass escapement in my palm, the metal cold and slick with the condensation of the cellar, turning it over and over until the edges bit into my skin, a small, sharp pain that grounded me in the present moment where the air was thick with the smell of oil and decay. It was the autumn of 1893, and I, Elias Thorne, a clockmaker of forty years who had spent the last decade polishing the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SkylineThe ink in the pen was drying in the well, a dark, viscous bead that refused to flow, and you held the stylus with a grip that had gone white-knuckled over the last decade, the plastic casing slick with sweat against your palm. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two, a senior corrections officer at St. Jude’s, and you wanted nothing more than to sign the daily log for the quiet wing, secure your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootThe ledger counted three hundred and twelve years of service, a number that weighed more than the iron desk beneath Elias’s hands. He was twelve, though he looked older, his face thin and drawn in the way of those who spend their days hunched over vellum. The air in the Bureau of Eternal Records tasted of dust and dried blood, a dry, gritty film that coated the back of his throat. He wanted...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek