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 PhotographThe chandelier above you is a cage of glass and wire, catching the light of the faculty gala in sharp, stinging shards. You stand near the edge of the ballroom, holding a glass of wine you have not sipped, watching the Dean’s mouth move as he addresses the assembled staff. He is smiling. It is a polite, thin smile that does not reach his eyes. He speaks of the future of Antioch University, of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe road to Oakhaven is red mud and silence. You are Elias. You are forty-two. Your hands are shaking. They have been shaking for three years. You are a baker. You are the best baker in the walled town. You want the Royal Loaf. You want it for the King’s coronation. You want it to pay the debt. The debt is heavy. It sits on your family like a stone. The opposing force is time. It is in your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ClueThe name hit the air before the man did, a sharp crack of sound that split the quiet of the archive room. "Elias Thorne." It was not a request; it was a verdict, spoken by a voice that had once sounded like a father’s, now stripped of all warmth, cold as the steel shelving that lined the walls. You stood by the reading table, your hands clasped tightly to hide the tremor, the early palsy that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe snow on the drive to Harrowgate Manor had not melted since the first week of December, packing into a hard, white crust that bit into the tires of Elias Thorne’s sedan as he navigated the final, winding switchbacks up the hill. He was forty-two years old, a man whose face had been carved by twenty years of service in the state police and a decade of solitary confinement in the mind’s own...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale LetterThe ink was wrong. It did not smell of oak gall and iron, as it should, but of copper and wet earth. I stood before the scriptorium’s great oak table, the quill trembling in my hand, the vellum stretched tight and pale as a corpse’s cheek. Outside, the wind howled against the stone, a sound like the dying groans of the abbey’s forgotten dead. I am Elias, thirty-two, a scribe of no particular...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe ink was still wet when the Moss flared, a cold blue pulse against the skin of my wrist that burned like ice. I stared at the document, the forged release order for my sister, Clara, her name scrawled in a hand that was not mine but had to be perfect. The Ministry of Aesthetics does not care for art, only for the shape of compliance, and I am a clerk who shapes paper into silence. Outside...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe stone of Aethelgard did not merely hold him; it breathed. Elias woke with the taste of iron dust on his tongue and the distinct, vibrating hum of the walls settling against his skull. He was forty-two, a scribe whose hands had begun to betray him a decade prior, a tremor that started as a flutter and ended as a claw. He was here because the Codex of Silence required a final chapter, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AshesThe parchment bit into the side of Elara Vance’s cheek, a dry, hot scorch that smelled of burnt sugar and old iron, and she did not pull away because Director Halloway stood behind her with his arms crossed, his eyes fixed not on the page but on the silver locket hanging at her throat, which was already turning the color of bruised plums. "Three minutes, Miss Vance," Halloway said, his voice...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe ledger had forty-three pages. Arthur Penhaligon counted them twice, his thumb dragging over the cracked leather spine, feeling the grit of dust that had settled there over a decade of neglect. He was forty-five, and his hands, once steady enough to calibrate steam valves, now trembled with a fine, persistent vibration that no amount of whiskey could quiet. He had come to St. Jude’s Asylum...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek