0 Comments
0 Shares
1 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Pale TaleAct I "Entry 402: Balance due to B. Santoso. Status: Pending verification." Yusof Santoso stared at the ink, which was still wet, glistening in the amber light of the oil lamp that flickered against the damp stone wall of the archive. The smell of the room was thick, a mixture of mildew, old paper, and the sharp, metallic tang of the harbor mud that seeped through the floorboards, a constant...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareThe champagne in your glass is warm, a mistake you note with the same detached precision you apply to escapement wheels. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and the room is a suffocating cage of silk and perfume. The auctioneer’s voice drones, a metronome set to a frantic tempo, hammering the price of a pocket watch up to a number that makes the other bidders flinch. You raise your paddle. It is a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenThe ink on the form was still wet, a dark smear against the beige paper, when the Magistrate’s shadow fell across your desk. You were calculating the interest on your brother’s medical bills, the numbers bleeding into one another, when a hand tapped the wood. "Thorne," the Magistrate said, his voice dry as the dust in the archive. "We need to talk about the Garden." You looked up. He stood...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainChapter One "You cannot afford to be sentimental, Afonso, not with the vote tomorrow." The voice belonged to Dr. Henrique Salgado, the Department Chair, who stood by the window of the faculty lounge, his back rigid against the glass, watching the heat shimmer distort the cobblestones of the square below. The air in the room was stale, heavy with old paper and the metallic tang of the radiator’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ApartmentChapter One Yan Sun, forty-two, a senior archivist in the Imperial Court, and I want to restore the faded portrait of my late master, Lord Kael, to its original vibrancy; what stood against him is the persistent, cold dampness in the archive that smells of wet ash, a supernatural residue that refuses to dry despite the hearths, which I initially dismiss as mere structural decay. I have spent...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownKourosh Zare wiped the dust from his forehead with a sleeve that had once been white, the fabric now a greyish smear against the heat of the caravanserai’s stone walls. He was halfway through counting the silver coins left by the last client, a minor lord whose falcon had been lost in the peat bogs three days prior, when the static began, a low hum that vibrated in the molars of his jaw and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe silver brooch hummed against Elias Thorne’s palm, a low, persistent vibration that felt less like sound and more like a toothache in the bones. He sat in the dim workshop of the scribe’s house in Oakhaven, the candlelight flickering over the intricate metalwork, trying to ignore the Guild’s final decree pinned to his door. The winter solstice was three days away, and if he did not surrender...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe letter from the government was waiting on the counter, its seal broken by the damp, and the old woman behind the glass, her face a map of the vine slopes above the drowned valley, tapped her finger against the wooden ledge where the medicinal receipt lay, the formula for the fever lost to the water, its ink bleeding into the grain like a bruise. Marco Caruso stood in the hallway of coats...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownThe winter solstice was nine days away, and I had copied forty-two folios of the Golden Codex. My hands shook, a fine tremor that turned the elegant gothic script into a jagged mess of ink blots. I counted the hours like coins, each one a debt I could not pay. The scriptorium was cold, the kind of damp chill that settles into the marrow and refuses to leave. I was forty years old, a Royal...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek