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 MirrorThe rain hit the wet stone of the Ministry courtyard with a sound like tearing cloth, a relentless, gray hiss that drowned out the distant hum of the city and the creak of the heavy oak doors behind Elias Thorne, who stood with his back to the wall, his fingers white-knuckled around a rolled map that felt less like paper and more like a living thing, pulsing with a heat that seeped through his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded Attic"Is it finished yet?" The voice came from the dream, thin and stretched like taffy, before the attic door creaked open in the waking world. Elias rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his fingers finding the cold, damp wood of the doorframe. It was 1348, and the air in the small room above the scriptorium smelled of mildew and old vellum. He was forty years old, a merchant of words who had traded in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CircuitJulian Hathaway. The name was spoken by the Abbot, a low rumble in the cloister that seemed to vibrate in the stone floor beneath Julian’s boots. It was a summons, not a greeting. Julian stood in the archive, the air thick with the dust of centuries, holding a ledger that weighed more than it should. He had come to audit the history of the Order, to write the definitive account of its founding,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MistThe brass key was cold in Arthur Vane’s palm, its teeth worn smooth by ten years of turning locks in the municipal archive. He held it up to the gaslight of the small office, watching the metal catch the flicker, a tiny, sharp geometry against the gloom. The smell of the room was stale tobacco and damp wool, a scent that had soaked into the floorboards of the Magistrate’s office long before...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiThe axe head was cold, a slab of rusted iron that bit into Elias Thorne’s palm with a damp, metallic chill that seeped through the leather of his glove. He stood in the courtyard of the barracks, a place that smelled of wet stone and the sweet, rotting scent of overripe fruit, and before him rose the Pale Bonsai, a tree of impossible whiteness whose roots had cracked the flagstones and twisted...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded Photograph"You are suspended effective immediately, Mr. Thorne. Do not touch the files. Do not speak to the staff. Do not, under any circumstances, leave the building until I say so." Elias Thorne did not move. He stood in the narrow aisle of the municipal records office, his hand still resting on the spine of a water-damaged box, the cardboard gritty and soft under his fingers. The woman who had spoken,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CartographThe pen was a steel-nibbed instrument, cold against the skin, and Elias Thorne held it with a grip that bordered on bruising. The gaslight in the office hissed, a thin, white flame that cast long, trembling shadows across the drafting table where the vellum lay stretched tight. He was thirty-two years old, and his left hand, the hand that had mapped coastlines from Bristol to the Black Sea, was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CampusThe ink was still wet on the ledger when the tremor started. I pressed the nib into the page, holding the line steady with my left hand, but the right hand would not obey. The paper felt slick, the fibers rough under the pressure of my palm. I was twenty-four years old. I was a junior inspector in the municipal sanitation corps. By the end of the month, I would be Chief Inspector. That was the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, grey sheet that turned the cobblestones of the precinct’s courtyard into a slick, treacherous mirror, and you stood there, Elias Thorne, your uniform soaked through to the skin, listening to the wet, rhythmic dripping from the eaves as the sound of your own breathing became a foreign, harsh intruder in the silence of the corridor behind...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek