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 ShowThe letter lay on the desk, the paper thin and yellowed by the damp. It was a notice of termination, effective immediately, for failure to account for the East Wing ledger. I read it twice, the ink smudging slightly under my thumb. Outside, the asylum grounds were dark, the only light coming from the sodium lamps that hummed like dying wasps. I was forty-two years old, and I owed the bank three...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ChronicleThe scrubland stretched out under a sky the color of old pewter, a flat expanse of dry grass and brittle shrubs that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Elias Thorne stood alone in the center of this desolation, his boots sinking slightly into the packed earth. He was forty-five years old, a border patrol officer with twenty-two years of service logged in a ledger that felt...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe dream is always the same, a heavy, blackened loaf of bread resting on a white tile floor, the crust cracked and weeping a dark, soot-like substance that smells of wet ash. I woke at four in the morning, my mouth dry as parchment, the taste of that charred grain still clinging to my tongue, a bitter reminder of the sustenance I can no longer swallow. I am Dr. Arthur Penhaligon, forty-five...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden FarceThe silver clasp in Elias Thorne’s pocket felt less like metal and more like a coal bank, radiating a heat that seeped through the wool of his trousers and into the bone of his hip. He stood on the crumbling threshold of Vane House, the great iron gates groaning behind him as they closed, sealing off the last of the twilight. Elias was thirty-two, a man who had spent the last decade chasing the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantThe bus smelled of wet wool and diesel, a pungent odor that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he clutched his leather satchel, knuckles white against the worn fabric. He was forty-two, a man whose life had been meticulously cataloged in footnotes and citations, yet the mirror in the bus window showed him a stranger, a face fractured by a faint, hairline crack running from temple to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe ledger had to balance, or the pension office in the county seat would flag the file, and Elias Thorne did not have the patience for a flag. He counted the ink cartridges, three red, two blue, and weighed them against the requisition form for the month of October, the paper thin and soft from being handled too many times. Twenty years he had served at Blackwood Penitentiary, twenty years of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden RitualThorne, you are summoned to the High Court before the sun clears the eastern ridge. The words were not shouted, but they carried the weight of a stone dropped into a well, echoing down into the quiet of his study where Elias Thorne sat with his hands resting on a table worn smooth by decades of gavel strikes. He was fifty years old, a magistrate in a rigid medieval-style manor, and he had spent...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe marble floor of the Chancellor’s antechamber was cold enough to seep through the soles of Elias’s boots, a chill that climbed the shins and settled in the belly like a swallowed stone. He stood before the High Chancellor, a man whose face was a landscape of bureaucratic precision, every line carved by decades of signing orders that did not require thought. In Elias’s hands, trembling with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden VisitThe candle guttered in the draft, casting long, skeletal shadows across the parchment. I dipped the quill into the inkwell, the liquid black and viscous, smelling of iron and old blood. My hand did not tremble, though my chest ached with a sharp, rhythmic pain that matched the fever I was describing. I was twelve years old, and I was dying, one word at a time. The *Codex Aureus* lay open before...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek