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 Distant ThresholdThe letter from the Guild Master was thick, cream-colored, and smelled faintly of beeswax and old paper. Elias Thorne held it in his left hand, his right hand still stained with the black grease of escapement oil, and read the lines that determined his future. He was to repair the Great Chime of the Hall of St. Jude by dawn, or his master’s title would be revoked, and with it, the pension that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant LegendThe legend began the way all true things do — in the silence between heartbeats, in the space where a name dissolves into wind. Arthur Pendelton stood at the edge of the chalk cliffs of Dover and watched the sea eat the horizon, one grey wave at a time. He was fifty-four, with the lean build of a man who had spent too many years walking places that had no reason to be walked to. His coat —...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden EchoesThe rain in Manchester did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey curtain that smelled of coal dust and wet iron, clinging to the wool of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s coat as he stood before the heavy oak door of the Northgate Precinct. He was thirty-four years old, a man whose face had been carved by the trenches of Flanders and the soot of the industrial north, and his hands,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe alarm did not ring. The silence was the first warning, a heavy, woolen dampness that pressed against the windowpanes of the sanatorium room. Elias Thorne sat up, his chest a cage of rusted iron, and looked to the empty bed where Clara had slept. The sheets were cold. The air in the room was not air; it was the Mist, a translucent, viscous fog that had begun to seep through the cracks in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the approach to Blackwood Asylum into a slick, grey ribbon that wound through the dead pine forest. Elias Thorne pulled his collar up against the chill, the detective’s coat heavy on his shoulders, a weight that felt less like protection and more like a shroud. He was forty-two, a man carved from the same granite as his father, and he had come...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe Faded Frontier The road to Ashford's End did not so much end as fade — a grey ribbon dissolving into the Dorset chalk Downs like pencil smoke caught in a warm afternoon wind. Beatrice Ashworth drove her father's old Austin Princess along it every Tuesday and Friday, the leather seat creaking the same two-note complaint it had made since 1963, when Harold Ashworth himself had last navigated...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareThe fluorescent lights in the Ministry of Internal Affairs hummed with a low, persistent drone that Elias felt in his teeth. He sat at his desk, the wood worn smooth by decades of indifferent hands, and stared at the yellowed file before him. The date on the final order from the late Minister Vane was wrong. It was a small thing, a day’s discrepancy, but in a place where precision was the only...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden HarborThe damp in the basement of the Harwick Municipal Archive did not smell of mildew, but of old blood and wet chalk. Elias Thorne, a man whose knees ached with the specific, grinding pain of forty-five years of standing in cold places, wiped the condensation from his glasses and stared at the waterline rising on the stone floor. He was an archivist, a custodian of paper and dust, but in Harwick,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant SummerOlive Trenchard, the name was called out by the Bishop, sharp and thin as a wire snapped against a stone wall. It cut through the low hum of the crowd, forcing my head up from the altar stone where I had been kneeling for three hours. The lime dust in my hair had turned my scalp a pale, chalky white, a mask I had forgotten I was wearing. I stood, my knees popping with a dry, brittle sound, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek