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 Faded GuestSheriff Thorne. The name was spat from the mouth of Deputy Miller, a young man whose jaw worked tight against the cold, as he and two other officers dragged the boy toward the center of the square. Elias Thorne stood under the awning of the general store, his raincoat heavy with water, watching the mud churn under the feet of the crowd. The smell of wet wool and iron filled the air, a metallic...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe wool of your coat is already half-gone, a grey ash that flakes from the shoulders onto the mud of the border checkpoint as you press your thumb against the trigger guard. You are Sergeant Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, and you have been waiting for six hours in the damp cold to arrest Kael Vane, the smuggler who has been bleeding the local economy dry with stolen timber and contraband...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThomas. The name was not shouted, but it carried the weight of a stone dropped into a deep well, echoing up from the cold floor of the scriptorium. Brother Thomas looked up from his desk, his fingers stained black to the second knuckle, and saw Abbot Silas standing in the doorway, his face a mask of institutional patience that was rapidly cracking. The air in the room was thick with the smell...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe letter lay on the oak desk, its edges soft from the damp air of the Cambridge office. Dr. Elias Thorne picked it up, the paper feeling slick and weak in his fingers. It was a standard form, printed in the dry, bureaucratic typeface of the Ministry of War, but the single line in the center made the room tilt. *Reported killed in action. Somme, 1916.* Elias set the paper down. He did not cry....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiThe ledger held forty-two pages of debt, and I counted them twice, the paper thin and brittle as the skin on my wife’s hands had been in her final week. I was fifty-two, an archivist for the county, and I was driving north into the fog with a specific, cold need to secure my pension before the legal fees ate it whole. Silas, my mentor for thirty years, had died, and his estate in Oakhaven was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MythThe gold was there, bright as a coin in the dirt, and the bird sang a song that sounded like cracking glass. I woke with the taste of copper in my mouth and the image of the wren’s feathers turning black in my mind. I lay in the dark of our bedroom in Oakhaven, listening to the radiator tick, and then I checked the phone. The bank balance was down another four hundred. Mara’s chemo cycle was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WhispersThe dossier lay on the mahogany table, its spine cracked from six years of handling. Elias Thorne stood at the gate of the High Court, his left hand trembling as he presented the final file to the clerk. He wanted to secure the conviction of the Minister of Trade, a man he had hunted for six years. The opposing force was the court’s visible bias; the judges exchanged glances that signal the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe mortar crumbles in your hands, a fine grey powder that slips through your fingers like wet sand, leaving only the smell of wet clay and the faint, rhythmic throb of the stone beneath your palms. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a master mason who has spent two decades of his life breathing the dust of St. Jude’s, the ancient sealed cathedral where the walls do not merely stand but...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CompassThe fog in the city of Valdris does not rise from the river, as fogs do, but seeps up from the cobblestones themselves, a grey, sentient membrane that presses against the windows of the Archive like a living thing seeking entry. I, Elias, scribe of the Third Order and son of the late Archival Custodian, find my hand trembling so violently that the ink blots upon the parchment, forming shapes...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek