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 ScarThe ledger held four hundred and twelve names. I counted them twice, the pen hovering over the parchment, the ink drying on the nib before it could touch the page. The light in the Ministry of Memory was always pale, filtered through the high, grimy windows that looked out onto the grey spires of the capital. It was 1924, and I was twelve years old, a scribe in the lowest rank of the civil...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe tin of preserved apricot jam sat on the desk, its lid dented from years of being pried open and closed, a small, golden eye staring up at Elias Thorne. He was fifty-two years old, a municipal archivist of thirty years, and his hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the brass lock on the filing cabinet, the metal cold and indifferent against his skin. Outside, beneath the concrete floor of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe fog did not roll in; it descended like a verdict. Elias Thorne, Senior Cartographer of the Imperial Survey, stood at the edge of the Weeping Marshes, his brass compass trembling in a hand that had not shaken in twenty years. He was forty-two, a man carved from the same rigid geometry as the maps he produced, yet here, in the final unmapped sector, the world refused to hold its shape. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleThe stain is not rust, though it smells of iron and old blood, and it has soaked into the wool of your greatcoat so deeply that it has become part of the fabric, a dark, creeping map of your service. You wake in the narrow cot of your quarters with the taste of snow on your tongue, a phantom cold that lingers long after the window has been closed against the damp November chill of 1913. For...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CircuitThe looms of the silk town clattered in a rhythm that matched the pulse of the dying mule in the yard. Pietro Zito, thirty-two and the last scribe of the house, stood by the chain-latched window, his hand trembling over the vellum. He wrote to Abbot Benedict, his letters a confession of ambition. He would finish the Codex Aureus before the solstice. His skill, he believed, was divine favor, not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ExileThe letter from the Blackwood Textile Mill was thin, the paper so translucent that the ink of the return address bled through like a bruise. Elias Thorne held it under the harsh, flickering tube of the night shift office, his fingers trembling not from cold, but from the specific, grinding fatigue of a man who has not slept properly in three weeks. He was thirty-two, though the hollows under...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisChapter One Estrid Strand’s hands were cracked and bleeding, the skin peeling back from the knuckles like dried paint. She stood in the drafty office of the university archive, facing Marcus, her department head, who sat behind a desk cluttered with unpaid invoices and a cold cup of coffee. "The digitization grant is gone, Estrid," Marcus said, not looking up from his ledger. "The board cut the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale CircusThe debt is three winters, Sergeant Quimby, and the Warden’s ledger does not lie. Chapter One Mildred Quimby stood in the doorway of the gymnasium, his breath pluming in the stale, coal-damp air. The room was a hollow shell of a nearly-bank club, its walls sweating condensation that ran in dark rivulets down the plaster, pooling on the floorboards where the floor had warped from years of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant PromiseThe salt trader’s hands shook, not from the cold, but from the tremors that had begun to eat her lungs, and I, Mercedes Almodovar, sat in the shadow of the reclamation yard where dead machines rusted into the scree slope. I wanted to write a letter to my brother, but the ink blurred on the page, a black smear that looked less like words and more like the veins of a dying man. The first frost...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek