0 Comments
0 Shares
2 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Distant NightmareThe ledger was open on the desk, the ink still wet on the final entry, and Halloway didn’t look up as Elias entered. "Thorne, you’re late," Halloway said, his voice flat and dry as the dust that coated the windowsills of the station office in Ashworth. "The freight manifest for the night shift is missing a signature. I assume you forgot to file it." Elias set his cap on the shelf, the smell of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JokeThe air in the East Wing tasted of copper and wet rot, a smell that clung to the back of the throat like a bad penny. "You left the door unlocked again, Mara." The voice was low, coming from the shadows of the corridor. I did not turn. I knew it was Elias, the night orderly, his footsteps soft on the linoleum. I tightened my grip on the lantern, the glass sweating in my palm. "It was a draft,"...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ChronicleThe rain in Blackwood had a texture, a gritty, industrial weight that slicked the cobblestones of the mill yard into a mirror of gray and black. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood alone in the center of the yard, his shoulders hunched against the cold, his fingers wrapped tightly around the brass casing of his compass. It was a relic, a gift from his mentor, Major Halloway, who had died three winters...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe fog did not merely obscure the valley of Keth; it consumed it, a gray, viscous tide that swallowed the rusted skeletons of the old ironworks and the black, jagged teeth of the coal seams, erasing the boundary between the earth and the sky until the world was nothing but a hollow, breathing drum. Elias Thorne, a historian whose mind had been a pristine, ordered library for forty years, stood...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterOctober 14, 1893 The fog in Blackwood does not roll in; it settles, a heavy, grey wool that chokes the lungs and erases the horizon. I am Silas Thorne, thirty-two, a constable with twelve years of service and a name that is currently rotting in the mouths of the men I serve. I want my pension, I want my name cleared, and I want to prove that the "madman" who killed my sister, Elara, was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful PetalThe gear is fractured, Elias, and if you do not replace it by Thursday, the pension committee will view your negligence as a precursor to incompetence, which is a word that carries a specific, brittle weight in this office, a weight that will crush your savings before the ink dries on the denial letter. I stood before the Loom 4, a massive cast-iron beast of the 1890s, its flywheel hanging...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ExileThe ledger showed forty-one hours of unpaid labor. Thomas Ashworth counted them again, his finger tracing the ink lines on the damp paper. Forty-one hours. At the union rate, that was three hundred and twenty-seven dollars. He had not seen a cent. The cellar of the manor house smelled of wet stone and old copper, a cold that seeped into the marrow of his bones despite the heavy coat he wore. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended gray mist that soaked through Elias’s jacket in minutes. He stood at the border crossing, the mud of the parking lot sucking at his boots, clutching a small, velvet box in his trembling hand. Inside lay his father’s gold watch, its face cracked, its hands frozen at the moment of his death. Elias wanted in. He needed to cross before the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe ledger did not close; it bled. Arthur Penhaligon, forty-five years old and stiff with the particular ache of a spine that had bent over insurance policies for two decades, watched the ink on page forty-two smear into a shape that was not a number, but a face. It was the face of the Grey Man, that spectral auditor who lived in the margins of the Blackwood Exchange’s accounts, whispering that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek