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 HarborElias Thorne’s hand shook as he tried to unlock the heavy oak door of the station house, the brass key cold and slick in his palm. He was forty-two, a sergeant with the State Police, and he had driven six hours through fog that clung to the windshield like wet wool to arrest the man inside. The town of Blackwood was a place of damp stone and silence, a community that had not changed since the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BannerThe key was warm. Seamus Kilbride, twelve years old and a lighthouse keeper’s son by trade, held the rusted iron object in his bleeding hand while shrapnel tore through the clay wall of the trench. He wanted to reach the command post to prove his uncle’s loyalty, but the mud sucked at his boots and the air tasted of copper. The key hummed with a low, rhythmic vibration that matched his own...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustThe list of requisitions lay on the stone floor, a long strip of parchment stained with grease and old blood. I read it three times, my finger tracing the indented letters: *Plaster, lime, gold leaf, gesso, marble dust, charcoal, vinegar.* The ink was smudged where the scribe had pressed too hard, as if he were trying to burn the words into the paper rather than write them. I was twelve years...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe mist off the cliffs was thick enough to chew on, and Angus Sempill could taste the salt of it on his cracked lips. "Are you certain, Master Sempill? The spirit does not take the willing, only the guilty." Angus looked down at his apprentice, young Callum, whose hands were wrapped in rags that had long since turned the color of dried blood. They stood at the edge of the lowlands, where the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainThe ink on the petition was still wet, a dark, spreading bruise on the pale blue paper, when Colonel Harker’s finger tapped the desk, a dry, rhythmic sound that seemed to vibrate through the linoleum floor and up into the soles of Elias Thorne’s boots. He stood at attention, his left hand clenched into a fist at his side, the knuckles white and trembling against the sudden, sharp throb that had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WhispersAct I Hendrik Terpstra was forty-two years old and had not slept in three days. The gas meter in the corner of the staff room ticked, a dry, mechanical heartbeat that counted down the hours until the winter solstice. I was a master mason, or at least I had been, before the polder land swallowed my guild and left me with a debt and a vision. The charter for the new settlement was due by the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsChapter One In the industrial fog of 1912, the air tasted of copper and wet ash, a flavor that stuck to the back of the throat and refused to wash away. Inspector Ama Owusu stood before the open wardrobe, his hands steady as he folded the wool of his uniform into a tight square, a ritual he had performed a hundred times but which felt heavier today, weighted by the silence of the room and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful VoyageThe fluorescent lights of the conservation lab hummed at a frequency that seemed to vibrate directly against the bridge of your nose, a low, persistent drone that had become the background noise of your life for the last six months. You adjusted the magnifying loupe, the glass blurring the edges of the room into a soft, grey smear, and focused your attention on the sapphire set in the center of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe canal traffic moved through the Atlas valleys with the slow, grinding inevitability of mill races, a brown tide of cargo boats carrying walnut oil and coffin timber toward the treaty ports where the prices were falling faster than the water level. I am Dalia Othman, and I have served in the Archive of Whispers for twenty years, watching the ink eat the vitality from my right index finger...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek