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 SilenceThe envelope was thick, the paper heavy and cream-colored, smelling faintly of the dust that always seemed to settle on the floor of the waiting room. I held it in my left hand, the one that trembled slightly from the cold seeping through my coat, and turned it over to read the date on the stamp. It was November the fourteenth, three days before the winter freeze that would close the border...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful Letter14 November, 1898. The ink is still wet on the requisition form, a dark smear against the cheap, yellowed paper, and my hand does not stop shaking as I fold it into the envelope. Outside, the wind is stripping the last leaves from the poplars that line the border fence, that long, rusted wire that defines everything I am allowed to be and everything I am forbidden to want. I am writing to you,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe silver tongs, heavy and tarnished with the patina of twenty years of service, lay in Elias Thorne’s palm, cold as the iron of the mill gates he had guarded since he was a boy. He held them not to serve the roast pheasant, but to steady his hand, which had begun to tremble at the first whisper of the mist that curled beneath the banquet table. The room was thick with the smoke of coal gas...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ShieldThe arrow struck the center of the shield, and the sound was not a clang but a wet, heavy thud, like a sack of wet grain dropped from a height. I stood in the breach of the outer wall, the mud sucking at my boots with a sound that matched the rhythm of my own bleeding. The year was 1348, and the air smelled of wet wool, iron rust, and the sweet, cloying rot of the plague that had already taken...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe stone bit into my palm, cold and jagged, as I pressed it against the damp wood of the floorboards. I was twelve years old, and my fingers were stained with the rust-brown of my father’s blood. The Lord of the Hollow lay in the high bed, his chest rising in shallow, wet hitches that sounded like a bellows failing in a blacksmith’s shop. I wanted to cross the river. I wanted to buy the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineThe iron is cold, but the air in the forge is thick with the smell of sulfur and old blood. I am Elias, and I am thirty-two years old, a blacksmith in Oakhaven. My hands are shaking. They have been shaking for three days. I hold the hammer, but it feels like a dead thing in my grip. Across the anvil, the bell sits. It is not a bell in the way you think. It is a mouth, sealed shut, waiting to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongThe glass in the miller’s shop window was still wet when you arrived, the shards mixing with the mud in the gutter. "You’re late, Constable Harrow," said the drunk, a man named Silas, slumped against the brickwork with a bottle of gin in his hand. He smelled of yeast and old sweat, a stench that clung to the damp air of Harrowgate. You wanted to arrest him, not for the window, but because the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TowerThe letter lay on the stone floor, its ink still wet, smelling of iron and dried blood, and I read it three times before the chains on my wrists began to hum with a cold, rhythmic pulse that matched the beating of my own terrified heart. It was a simple note, written in Elara’s steady, slanted hand, the same hand that had once held a quill over our marriage ledger and now held the power to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThe silver ring bit into the flesh of Margaret Vane’s finger as Elias tried to turn it, his small hands slick with the sweat of a fever that had no name. The smell of the bedroom was thick, a cloying mixture of boiled starch and the metallic tang of old blood that seemed to rise from the linoleum itself. He pulled harder, his breath hitching in a chest that felt too narrow for his lungs, while...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek