0 Comments
0 Shares
1 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Distant GardenThe letter lay on the desk, its ink still wet, smelling of iron and urgency. "You will secure the deed to the Distant Garden," my father wrote, his handwriting shaky but the intent absolute, "before the month is out. The name of Penhaligon is not for sale, Arthur, and if you let it rot, you are no son of mine." I read it twice, the words blurring slightly as the weight of the demand settled...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale FractureVane. The voice came from the head of the table, low and gravelly, cutting through the clatter of silverware and the humid, stale air of the banquet hall. Arthur Vane straightened his tie, the silk itching against his throat, and turned to face Director Halloway. The room smelled of roasted duck and damp wool, a cloying mixture that coated the back of Arthur’s tongue. It was 1924, and the State...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineOctober 12 The pressure gauge on the municipal incinerator’s main boiler sat at a steady 120 PSI, the needle trembling slightly in the dim amber light of the control room. Elias Thorne held a wrench in his right hand, the metal cold against his palm, while he watched the clock tick toward three in the morning. He was forty-two years old, a foreman for the City Sanitation Department, and he had...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe frost had settled thick on the barley stumps of the north field, a white silence that hid the rot spreading through our grain stores. I am Elias, thirty-two, the warden of Oram, and I have spent the last three months sleeping in the cold watchtower to keep the silver-foxes from eating what little we have left. The village is starving, and the council has given me one week to secure the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe ink in your quill is not black but a bruised, violet grey, and it smells of wet ash and old copper. You hold the nib over the vellum, the tip trembling not from the cold that seeps through the stone floor of the scriptorium, but from the way your lungs have begun to rattle like dry leaves in a tin can. The year is 1240, and you are Elias, a scholar whose mind is a library on fire, and you...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CircuitThe pen scratches against the paper with a dry, gritty friction that feels less like writing and more like scraping rust from a gate. My hand is steady, though the ink blots where it pools in the grain of the cheap legal pad, and I am trying to recall the exact temperature of the wall in the East Wing. It was warm. Not the ambient warmth of a room heated by the old radiators, but a specific,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CampusThe air in the sub-basement of the Meridian Institute tasted of ozone and stale paper. Elias Thorne stood alone in the climate-controlled archive, the hum of the ventilation system the only sound in the vast, concrete silence. He was thirty-two years old, a junior archivist with six years of service and a tenure review looming like a guillotine blade. His task was simple, or so the Department...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe brass badge sat in your left palm, its surface cold and slick with the condensation of the morning, the engraved seal of the Dominion Enforcement Corps worn smooth by years of handling. You held it there, feeling the weight of the metal against the calluses of your thumb, while the sound of the magistrate’s office filled the room: the dry scratch of a pen on paper, the rhythmic clacking of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DanceThomas. Thomas, you lazy dog, get your hands moving. The shout cut through the damp air of the mine office. I froze. My hands were still. The ledger lay open on the desk, the ink wet and black against the yellowed paper. Mr. Hale stood over me, his face red with the heat of the coal dust that clung to his skin. He did not look at my face. He looked at the numbers. "Balance is off by four...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek