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 MasqueradeThe dust in the main hall of St. Jude’s Orphanage does not settle; it hangs in the stagnant air like a suspended judgment, a fine gray powder that coats the tongue and stings the eyes. You stand in the center of the room, Arthur Vane, forty years old, your hands resting on the cold iron railing of the mezzanine, watching the shadows lengthen as the afternoon light fails. Your heart is a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DanceThe heavy brass key felt cold and heavy in Elias Thorne’s palm, a dense, physical thing that seemed to drain the warmth from his fingers before he could even turn it in the lock. He stood before the door of the restricted archive, the metal handle slick with the dampness of the cellar below, and for a moment he simply stared at the wood grain, waiting for the trembling in his hands to subside....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe badge was cold in my palm, colder than the glass that hung suspended in the air outside the precinct window. I set it on the desk, the metal clinking against the wood with a sound like a dropped coin. The rain was falling, but it did not fall. It hung in the grey air, thousands of droplets frozen in mid-descent, a jagged, beautiful prison that stretched from the street to the sky. I looked...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RiverThe iron chain slipped from my fingers, the links clattering against the wet stones with a sound like broken teeth, and I watched it sink into the black water without a ripple. "You missed," Magistrate Halloway said, his voice flat and dry as the dust that coated the highland air. He stood on the bank, his coat buttoned to the chin, his face a mask of bureaucratic disapproval. "The river is not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden OathThe mist in the valley of Aethelgard did not smell of rain, but of ozone and old iron. Sergeant Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old and twenty years into a service that had eaten his youth, gripped the haft of his rusted pike until the wood splintered under his palms. He was not fighting for the kingdom, nor for the abstract concept of duty that the high priests spoke of in their gilded halls....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterThe letter lay on the oak desk, its parchment surface stained with a dark, viscous fluid that smelled faintly of copper and old meat. Brother Thomas picked it up, his fingers slipping on the wet skin of the page, and read the Abbot’s final instruction in a hand that trembled with an authority he did not possess. The decree was simple: the illumination of the *Book of Hours* for Bishop Ashworth...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale AltarDecember 12th. The telegram arrived before the coffee had cooled, a stark black rectangle on the white tablecloth that seemed to swallow the light in the kitchen. Mother is gone. The words were simple, bureaucratic, yet they carried the weight of the entire house, collapsing inward like a lung. I am forty-two years old, and I have spent my life cataloging the decay of other people’s histories,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AtticYour fingers, stiff with the cold that seeps through the floorboards of the *Herald* composing room, hover over the lead type, each letter a cold, heavy tooth in the mouth of the machine. The Linotype sits before you, a beast of iron and steam that breathes out a hot, sulfurous mist, and you are forty-two years old, a senior typesetter who has spent three decades setting type by hand, yet you...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden OathThe heavy oak doors of the Iron Gate swing open on hinges that scream against the frost, admitting a cold so sharp it feels like a blade pressed against the back of the neck, and you stand at the threshold of the war room, the ledger in your hand heavy as a corpse, the air thick with the scent of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the metallic tang of fear that always precedes a reckoning. You are...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek