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 Pale ShadowsThe rusted Ford of Sergeant Miller kicked up a rooster tail of red dust that hung in the air like a suspended judgment, slowly dissipating until the ridge was empty save for Elias Thorne and the relentless, grinding heat of the New Mexico desert. Elias stood with his hand resting on the butt of his service pistol, the metal hot enough to sear the skin, watching the taillights vanish into the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MythThe ledger lay open on the stone table, its pages swollen with damp, listing three hundred and twelve pounds in arrears, a sum that weighed heavier than the iron beam holding up the cellar roof. Ewan counted the days since his father’s arrest, not in weeks or months, but in the number of times the light had failed to reach the bottom of the well, twelve distinct failures that marked the slow...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SuspectThe leather strap of my holster cut into the callus on my thumb as I tightened it for the third time. I was checking the cylinder of my Colt, the metal cold against my fingertips, while the fog rolled off the valley floor like a tide of grey wool. It was November, 1912, and the air in the Blackwood Valley tasted of sulfur and wet iron. I wanted Silas Vane. I wanted him before the ice locked the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful VoyageThe dream is always the same. You are standing in a field of black frost, and the stag stands before you, its antlers branching like broken lightning. It does not run. It bleeds light, a cold, white luminescence that seeps from its wounds and pools on the ground, smelling of ozone and burnt copper. You wake with the scent still clinging to the sheets, a phantom that lingers until you scrub your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe fire on the eastern bank did not roar; it whispered, a dry, papery hiss that sucked the air from Margaret’s lungs as she stood at the edge of the Pale Bridge. It was the autumn of 1347, and the village of Oakhaven, which had sheltered her for three decades, was reduced to a skeleton of charred timber and ash, the smoke rising in a single, defiant column against the bruised purple of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe ink is running again. You watch it bleed from the page, a dark vein spreading through the white paper like a bruise under skin. It is the damp. It is always the damp. You wipe your hand on your trousers, the fabric already stiff with moisture, and look at the ledger. Twenty years of shifts, leaks, and repairs, now dissolving into a brown sludge. You are Elias, forty-two, and in three days...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CellarThe letter on the desk was thin, the paper cheap and yellowing at the edges, but the ink was fresh. "Mr. Vane. We cannot accept your valuation. The municipal assessment places your workshop at forty pounds. We expect the premises cleared by the first of the month. Signed, Alderman Halloway." Elias read it twice. The tremor in his left hand had started six months ago, a fine, electric buzz that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CampusThe rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the slate roof of the university, a relentless, hollow percussion that Elias Whitmore found more comforting than silence. He sat in the basement archive, the air thick with the scent of damp paper and decay, and opened the ledger. The Dean had forbidden this. The Dean, a man whose smile never reached his eyes, had told Elias that some...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongThe rain in the borderlands does not fall; it hangs, a grey curtain that smells of wet wool and old stone, and I have walked for three days through this dampness with the ache in my shoulder blades telling me that my body is already failing, even as my mind races to document the anomaly. I am Thomas Ashworth, inquisitor of the Second Order, and I have come to the isolated monastery of Saint...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek