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 PetalThe static hummed in Elias Thorne’s teeth, a high-frequency whine that tasted of copper and ozone. He stood in the doorway of the master bedroom, his wristwatch ticking with frantic, arrhythmic desperation against the silence of the house. The estate was a decaying Victorian monstrosity, its timber bones rotting under a century of neglect, and Elias had come with a single, cold purpose: to sell...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale Mist"Put the vial down, Sergeant. Now." The command cut through the industrial fog that clung to the North York moors like wet wool. Elias Thorne did not move. His hands, wrapped in wool gloves that had lost their elasticity three winters ago, tightened around the glass cylinder in his left pocket. The glass was cold, but the liquid inside, a pale, viscous morphine solution, hummed with a heat that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful WitnessThe wind in the gatehouse does not howl; it rattles, a dry, metallic skittering against the rusted hinges that you have greased every Thursday for twenty years. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and you sit on the cold concrete floor, your back against the main door, watching the dust motes dance in the thin beam of light that cuts through the boarded-up window. The board meets in five days to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ExileThe mist did not rise so much as it remembered. It pooled in the cobblestones of the High Court’s square, a pale, breathing thing that smelled of wet wool and old iron. Sir Alaric stood at the center of it, his armor dented, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He was forty years old, a man who had held the northern pass for a decade, yet he felt hollowed out, as if the mist had already...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootThe brass lever was cold, slick with a condensation that felt less like water and more like the sweat of a dying animal, and Elias Thorne held it in his gloved hand with the grim certainty of a man who has already signed his own death warrant. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, in the sprawling, rain-slicked labyrinth of New Orleans’ underbelly, where the air hung heavy with the copper...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant BladeThe key is in the lock, Elias. You turn it, and the metal does not move, it sticks, a dry, gritty friction that screams in the silence of the hallway, and you stand there with your hand wrapped around the brass, feeling the heat of your own pulse in the wrist, knowing that the house is not letting you in, it is letting you stay. You are forty-two years old, and you have been standing in this...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraThe letter sat on the mahogany desk, the seal broken, the ink dry. Elias Thorne read it twice, then folded it into his breast pocket. It was a summons to the annual gala, a black-tie affair for the city’s elite and the officers who kept their secrets safe. He was forty years old, a captain in the moral code enforcement division, and he needed the promotion to Chief more than he needed air. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe rain in the Highlands did not wash things clean; it only made the mud deeper and the cold more biting. I left the cottage at dawn, my boots heavy with the slurry of the previous night, the small iron key in my pocket humming a low, dissonant note against my hip. I was forty years old, though my heart beat with the erratic rhythm of a man twice that age, a condition that had plagued me since...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe Guild Master’s shadow fell across the workbench, long and sharp as a blade, cutting off the light from the window. "Mabel Ellery, step away from the alembic." Mabel did not move. Her hands were stained with the residue of volatile essences, a dark violet that caked under her fingernails. She was twelve years old, small for her age, with the hollow look of a child who had not slept in three...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek