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 Wistful AshesThe needle pierced Elias Thorne’s thumb, drawing a bead of dark blood that fell onto the sterile white tile. He wiped it with a rag that smelled of bleach and old copper, then turned back to the recruit standing in the corner. Mara Holt was twenty-two, her uniform ill-fitting, her eyes wide and fixed on the air scrubber humming above them. Elias checked his watch. Thirty-four years old. Twelve...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantThorne. The name hangs in the air, heavy and wet, spoken by the night shift officer who is leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a border patrol agent who has spent six years in this muddy, lawless frontier post, and you want out. You want the internal affairs desk in the capital, a place where the files are dry and the coffee is hot, and where...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasChapter One Kourosh Salehi remembered the weight of the dust before he remembered the light. He was thirty-two, an archivist for the eastern sector, and he woke in the dim, recycled air of his berth with the taste of rust on his tongue. The dream was always the same: the eastern wall, crumbling, the mortar flaking away like dead skin. He sat up, the springs of the cot creaking in the dark. His...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TowerThe wind did not howl in the unfinished tower; it simply filled the hollow spaces with a low, continuous thrum that seemed to vibrate in the teeth of Elias Thorne, a sound that was less an intrusion and more a resident, settling into the gaps between the exposed lath and the bare timber framing of what was meant to be his sanctuary. It was the winter of 1912, and the air in the industrial town...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridThe first entry is dated October 1st, 1924, written in a hand that trembles only slightly, the ink blotting where the nib hesitates over the word "grid." I am Elias Thorne, and I am dying by inches, not from sickness but from the relentless, grinding failure of the Halcyon Tower’s main mechanism. The firm’s survival hangs on this repair; without the contract, the debts will swallow us whole,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe parchment lay flat on the oak desk, the ink still wet and glistening like a bruise, and I stared at the list of requisitions Brother Thomas had just thrust into my hands, my fingers trembling not from cold but from the sudden, violent silence that had fallen over the scriptorium. The smell of the room was thick, a cloying mixture of stale wax, damp stone, and the sharp, metallic tang of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetThe candle flame in my study does not dance; it trembles with a rhythmic, arrhythmic shudder that mirrors the pulsing of the dark veins now visible beneath the translucent skin of my left hand, a physiological anomaly that defies the cold logic of the fourteenth-century medical texts I have spent forty years compiling. I am Elias, a scholar of the monastic order, and I sit before the *Codex...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden OathThe letter lay on the mahogany desk, its seal unbroken, the ink faded to a rusty brown. I had kept it for forty years, folded into a square no larger than a playing card. It was from my father, dated 1893. It said only that I was to take the train to the coast, that the air would help my lungs, and that I was not to return until the cough was gone. I signed the receipt for the storage unit...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseAct I Nitin Iyer scraped the black sludge from the roots of the Golden Greenhouse with a spoon that had been bent by years of use. The cellar air was thick, wet with the humidity that swelled the doorframes until they groaned against their hinges, a physical weight pressing against his lungs as he worked. He was thirty-two, a clerk in the glassworks, but here, in the dark below the parish...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek