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 MistThe mist does not roll in so much as it materializes, a thick, woolen shroud that swallows the black stone of the Keep before the sun has fully cleared the eastern ridge. You are Elias, thirty-two years old, your knees aching with the damp cold that seeps through your wool tunic, and the concrete want is clear: you must secure your brother Thomas’s release before the noon court. The opposing...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseThe ash was already on her neck. "Thomas, look at me," Elara said. Her voice was thin, scraped raw by the cold air that seeped through the drafty window of our bedroom. "It is not spreading." I looked. The grey dust clung to the skin below her jaw, a fine, dry powder that smelled of burnt wood and wet earth. It did not look like a disease. It looked like neglect. It looked like the city. I am...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JokeElias. The name hung in the air, wet and heavy. Elias Thorne pulled his collar tighter against the chill. He stood in the mud of the valley floor, his rifle split down the center of the stock, useless wood and iron. The rain had stopped, but the ground remained a slick, sucking brown. He wanted the bounty. Two hundred dollars. That was what the notice said. Two hundred dollars for the head of...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale EchoThe blood had a metallic taste that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s teeth, a cold, coppery film that no amount of swallowing could clear. He pressed the rag against his side, the fabric already dark and slick, while the damp stone of the corridor seemed to suck the heat from his bones. The raiders were gone, driven back into the mist by the garrison’s cannons, but the silence that followed...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful WitnessThe letter lay on the desk, its edges curling slightly in the dry autumn air, the ink still wet where the Ministry’s seal had been pressed, a bureaucratic bruise of red wax that seemed to pulse in the dim light of the office. Elias Thorne, thirty-two and already wearing the dust of the archives in his hair, read the directive three times, the words *immediate surrender of foreign-origin texts*...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant BladeThe rusted blade lay heavy in Elias Thorne’s grip, its iron hilt cold against his palm, a weight that seemed to anchor him to the wet cobblestones of the Ironworks District courtyard. It was a relic from the old forge, a thing of jagged edges and dark metal, yet as Thorne stood in the driving rain, he felt a low, localized hum vibrating through the steel, a sound that was not quite sound but a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SuspectThorne. The name hung in the air of the department office, heavy and accusatory, spoken by Dr. Arthur Halloway with the precise, clipped cadence of a man who had long since stopped speaking to Elias Thorne as a colleague and began speaking to him as a specimen. The room smelled of old paper and the metallic tang of the radiator, a scent that had permeated the wool of Elias’s cardigan over...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SkylineAssunta Sartori, fifty-two, stood at the window of her cramped apartment in Vela, watching the sky bleed a bruised purple that mirrored the cracked porcelain of her late husband’s teacup, the only object she refused to discard. The air in the room smelled of damp wool and the faint, acrid tang of the fires burning in the distant hills, a haze that had settled over the town like a second skin. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded Alibi"Sign it, Silas. Or don’t. I’m leaving in ten." The foreman’s voice was flat, stripped of anything that might be mistaken for warmth, and the overtime request lay on the scarred desk like a dead thing. Silas Vane, forty years old and wearing the stiffness of a man who had spent the night listening to the walls breathe, stared at the paper. The ink was still wet. It was 1912, and the air in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek