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 OathThe ledger lay open on the workbench, the ink in the well turned to a fine, black ash that crumbled at the slightest touch of the nib. You counted the hours remaining until dawn, seven in total, and weighed the debt against the trembling of your hands, a calculation that had long since ceased to be arithmetic and become a matter of survival. The palsy had taken your fine motor control three...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ChronicleThe rain in Chicago did not fall so much as it was driven horizontally into the face of the sedan, blurring the neon signs of the Loop into streaks of red and blue that smeared across Elias Thorne’s windshield. He was forty-two years old, a federal marshal with twenty years of service etched into the lines around his eyes, and he was driving with a desperation that made his hands shake on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe letter lay on the cold iron table, its paper thin as onion skin, the ink already fading into the grey light of the basement. Elias read the words three times, his fingers hovering over the signature line, the pen in his hand heavy with a weight that had nothing to do with the brass. He was fourteen, small for his age, with a face that looked older because it had spent more hours in this...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsCan you hear the foghorn? It cuts through the ice like a knife through cold fat, and the dog in the squatters’ camp answers it with a bark that sounds like a bone breaking. I am Folake Achebe, and I am thirty-two years old, though the damp in my joints makes me feel a century older. I work the docks, handling the animals that come off the river boats, a job that smells of wet wool, blood, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe silk bit into my wrists, cool and unyielding against the sweat-slicked skin. I was in the basement. The air was thick, cloying with the scent of rotting lilies, a perfume that seemed to seep from the very stones of the ancestral estate. Three days. That was how long Clara had been gone, and in that span, the house had become a labyrinth of shadows and whispers, a place where time did not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale Protocol12 November The mortar is dry, but the silence is not. I have spent the last three hours on the scaffolding of the St. Jude’s bell tower, watching the stones shift in their sleep, a slow, tectonic grinding that vibrates through the soles of my boots and settles in my teeth. Clara is downstairs, asleep in the blue chair by the stove, her breathing a thin, reedy whistle that I can hear even from...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineThe garrison at Fort Vane does not merely exist; it grinds. I write this from the infirmary, the air thick with the smell of iodine and stale sweat, my left hand resting on a pillow of straw, the bones beneath the skin twisted into a shape that no longer belongs to the man I was three weeks ago. It is 1912, and I am Sergeant Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, and I have learned that the human...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SilenceChapter One In the damp stone halls of the border town, silence was not an absence of sound but a heavy, breathing thing. Vernon Aldridge sat in the scriptorium, the cold biting through his thin tunic, his quill trembling over a sheet of parchment that smelled of wet earth. He was thirty years old, a scribe by trade and a brother by instinct, and he needed to finish the final document for his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CampusThe coffee in the cup had frozen solid, a puck of black ice that clinked against the ceramic rim with a sound like a bone breaking. I counted the cracks in the ice, three distinct fissures radiating from the center, and thought of the pension application lying open on the desk, the ink still wet on the signature line. Thirty-four years old, twelve years on the border, and the only thing I had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek