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 FrontierThe cold had settled into the marrow of my left hand before I noticed the frost biting the leather of my glove, a sharp, stinging ache that reminded me I was still flesh and not merely a function of the uniform I wore. I was Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a border warden in the mist-shrouded valley of Oakhaven, and I was tightening the knot on the rope that held the King’s stag, a beast of...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridThe dream is always the same: a grid of white lines, infinite and humming, cutting the world into sterile squares. I wake with the taste of copper in my mouth, the sheets tangled around my legs like wire. It is March, 1942, and I am thirty-four years old. I sit up in the dark of my small apartment, listening for the sound of Thomas breathing in the next room. He is twelve. He is all I have left...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful WitnessThe letter lay on the desk, the paper thick and cream-colored, smelling faintly of the damp wool coat I had left in the hallway. I held it in my hands, the ink still dark and wet, as if Silas Vane had set down his pen only moments before I entered the room. The date at the top was not today. It was three days from now. I looked at the name written in Vane’s cramped, slanting script: Clara...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe eraser tip, a soft white cylinder of vulcanized rubber, grinds against the vellum with a dry, rasping friction that sounds like a small animal being skinned. You are forty-two years old, and your hand trembles, not from age, but from the specific, grinding fatigue of a man who has spent three months trying to make a lie look like a fact. The air in the City Surveyor’s Office smells of stale...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe rain hammered against the shattering glass of the annex, a rhythmic, metallic percussion that vibrated through the soles of my boots and up into the bones of my knees. I stood in the center of the rotting floorboards, my hard hat casting a small, artificial pool of light over the exposed rebar, and I waited for the concrete to buckle. It did not buckle. The load calculations on my tablet,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseMarch 12 The glass pane in the north corner of the Golden Greenhouse had developed a hairline fracture, a spiderweb of white stress lines that caught the weak afternoon sun and scattered it into painful shards. I pressed my thumb against the cold surface, feeling the vibration of the wind outside, and watched the ferns shiver in response to my touch. They were dying, or perhaps they were just...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe damp of the cellar seeped into Elias’s bones, a cold that no wool could keep at bay. He dreamed of Margaret, her face pale and serene, hovering just above the stone floor. In the dream, she reached out, her fingers brushing the frayed hem of his robe, a sign that his spirit was failing. He woke with a start, the air thick with the scent of mildew and old wax. The dream was gone, but the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootThe rejection letter sat on the kitchen table, its envelope still sealed with a wax stamp that looked like a dried blood clot. I held the paper in my left hand, the leather belt of my father’s resting tight against my right hip. The buckle was warm. Not hot, just warm, the way a stone is after sitting in the sun. I knew what it meant. Vance had spoken a lie to my face yesterday, and the metal...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestThe paper was cold, thinner than it should have been, and the ink smelled of iron and old damp. I held the preliminary agreement for the Blackwood Estate up to the window light, checking the seal, my thumb rubbing the crease where I had folded it the night before. It was a standard demolition permit, the kind that turned heritage into gravel, but the signature line was already filled with my...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek