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 ParadoxThe basement of the Ashworth estate did not smell of rot, as one might expect of a cellar sealed for decades, but rather of old paper and the metallic tang of copper coins, a scent that clung to the back of Elias’s throat like a persistent cough. At twelve years old, Elias was a creature of precise calculation and quiet, obsessive devotion, his eyes wide and dark behind spectacles that were...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe silver needle of the compass trembled in its glass dome, a faint, mechanical shiver that seemed to resonate in the hollows of my chest. I sat in the cramped office of the Ministry of Records, the stone walls pressing in with the cold, damp weight of centuries, and I polished the tarnished metal until my thumb bled against the rim. I was forty-two, a man who had spent twenty years cataloging...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustThe air in the war room of the Ironclad Ministry tasted of ozone and stale sweat. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood before the mahogany desk, his uniform stiff with the damp of the November morning, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table. Across from him, Director Vane adjusted his spectacles, the lenses clouding his eyes into pale, unblinking discs. Between them sat the Ledger of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraThe ink on the page is still wet, a dark, viscous smear that refuses to dry, much like the stain on my left forearm that has grown since last Tuesday. It is the winter of 1924, and the air in the St. Jude’s Asylum for the Mentally Deficient tastes of boiled cabbage and antiseptic, a thick, suffocating perfume that clings to the wool of my dress. I am thirty-two years old, and I am here to watch...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe empty chair at the head of the table is the first thing you see. It is oak, polished to a dull, dead shine, and it sits in the morning light like a missing tooth in a jaw. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, Warden of Oakhaven’s Old Prison, and you have served there for nineteen years. You want the permanent tenure by the winter solstice, a title that will secure your name in the city’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseI counted the coins in my palm, three times over, until the edges bit into my skin. Twelve silver marks. Not enough for the rent, not enough for the bread, not enough for the silence in the room where Mara sat, staring at the wall. The fog in Vael was thick that morning, a grey wool that choked the streets and smelled of wet ash and old pennies. I wiped my hands on my trousers and looked at the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful VoyageThe rain drummed a monotonous, hollow rhythm against the tin roof of the temporary survey office, a sound that seemed to erode the very bones of the structure. Elias Thorne sat at the warped wooden desk, his hands resting on the topographic maps of the Blackwood Line, the ink still wet on the final segment he had drafted that morning. He was forty years old, and for the past decade, his life...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JokeThe gate of the Abbey of St. Jude did not stand so much as it loomed, a monolith of grey stone that seemed to swallow the light of the autumn afternoon. Elias, forty years old and worn thin by a decade of wandering, stood before it with a lever of iron in his hand, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He was a scholar of sorts, though the title had long since ceased to mean anything to the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseThe letter sat on the table, its wax seal unbroken, smelling of sulfur and old paper. I did not open it. I knew what it said. The Guild always sent the same words when the debt was due, and my debt was the iron collar around my neck. It was a heavy thing, cold to the touch, fused to the flesh of my throat. For ten years, I had worn it at Oakhaven Keep. For ten years, the ash of the dying had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek