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 Golden HarborThe iron gate of Blackwood Priory shudders under your palms, the cold metal biting into skin that has forgotten how to feel warmth. You are Elias, thirty-two, a warden whose hands are stained not with ink but with the grime of a man who has spent too long digging for truth in damp stone. Your wife, Clara, sits in the debtors’ prison beyond these walls, her breath a fragile thing in the freezing...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeThe mist in the highlands does not rise; it presses, a cold, wet hand against the face, swallowing the world in a gray, suffocating blanket that smells of rotting peat and iron. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a border warden whose uniform is stained with the grime of a pursuit that has lasted three years, and you are hunting a ghost who wears the face of your dead sister, Clara....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ApartmentThe blood was dark, a rust-colored smear that had dried into a crust across the linoleum of Room 402, and you knew with a cold, mechanical certainty that if you did not scrub it away before the morning shift arrived, you would be gone. You were Clara, thirty-four, and the night shift at St. Jude’s Medical Center was not a job so much as a lifeline, the only thing standing between you and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful PetalThorne. The voice came from the shadows of the double-entry ledger, a sound like dry paper tearing. I looked down at my left hand, the one that was supposed to hold the fountain pen, and saw it twitching against the mahogany desk of the Dying House. It was a small, violent spasm, a rejection of the ink. The clock on the wall ticked, a heavy, wooden sound that seemed to drain the air from the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe shawl was heavy. It weighed three pounds, maybe four, stiff with the dried blood of a decade. You held it in your hands, feeling the weave tighten against your palms, the fibers humming with a low, subsonic vibration that you had learned to ignore. You were Mara, thirty-two, a textile inspector in Ostra, and you were tired in a way that sleep could not fix. The city of Ostra did not sleep....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe grease on the gate was old, a black smear that stuck to Elias Thorne’s thumb as he wiped it with a rag that had long since lost its utility, turning from white to a muddy gray that shed fibers onto the rusted iron. He was forty-two, three days from a pension that had been promised to him since he joined the force, and he needed one clean apprehension to make the paperwork look clean, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CellarIn the center of the table, Elias Thorne held a single, bruised grape, its skin taut and purple-black, trembling slightly under the weight of his thumb as he examined the tiny, white scar where the stem had been torn away. Around him, the cellar of Thorne & Sons Winery churned with the heat of bodies and the stench of fermenting must, a thick, yeasty fog that clung to the wool of his suit and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ApartmentThe coffee cup is white ceramic, chipped at the rim, and it weighs almost nothing in your hands, yet it feels as heavy as a brick. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, and for the last six months the tremor in your right hand has grown so violent that you can no longer pour water without spilling it, let alone hold a cup steady for more than three seconds. You want to sell the house on...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiThe ledger lay open on the potting bench, the ink still wet from the morning’s audit, listing the debts of the dead in columns so neat they looked like prison bars. You picked up the shears, the steel cold and slick with the oil you had applied an hour before, and you looked at the tree. It was not a bonsai, not in the way the tourists from the capital understood the word, but a twisted,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek