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 Pale Fracture"Stop it, Harald. Put the iron down before you break your own hands." The voice was Elin’s, thin and reedy in the heat of the hall, but he did not hear her. He only felt the weight of the hammer in his grip, the cold bite of the anvil. He was thirty-two, a scribe by trade, a grinder of blades by necessity, and the man who had promised to fix this. The Pale Fracture hung in the center of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootThe dream was not of the dead, but of the heat. I lay in a bed that smelled of mildew and boiled wool, the sheets tangled around my legs like the roots of a strangled tree. In the dream, the radiator in my flat was roaring, a beast of iron and steam, and Clara was beside me, her skin flushed with a fever that I could not break. I reached for her, but my hand passed through her shoulder, and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BannerThe loom clacked, a dry, wooden heartbeat that filled the small, dust-choked room. Dalia Mansour pulled the white thread, her fingers slipping into the weave with a speed that made her breath hitch. She was weaving her own life out of her body, one strand at a time, to keep Youssef from the grave. The air in the attic was still, but the sound of the shuttle moving back and forth was a physical...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe smell hit me before the glass did: a sharp, metallic tang, like licking a nine-volt battery, mixed with the damp rot of over-ripe peaches. I was already inside the structure, my hands deep in the soil, trying to coax the roots of a dying fern back to life, when I realized the soil was warm. Not sun-warm, but body-heat warm, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic throb that matched my own heartbeat....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ShieldAct I The city held its breath, a heavy, wet thing that did not release its grip on the lungs. Rosalie Soileau stood at the window of her cramped apartment on the fourth floor, watching the storm strip the cypress knees from the bayou below, the water rising in dark, churning lines against the concrete embankment. She was thirty-four, and the weight of her father’s name sat on her chest like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden FarceChapter One "Seal it before the thaw breaks the road," the dispatcher’s voice crackled, thin and cold, cutting through the static of the handheld radio. Abena Bello adjusted the strap of her vest, the weight of the brass compass in her pocket pulling at her hip. It was a heavy thing, her brother’s, the only thing that had survived the fire at the temple. The rain in Lagos was not the gentle...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeRuth Muncy’s hands were already stained with ink when she reached for the final barrel of grain. The press in the workshop groaned under the weight of the day’s output, a sound like a man clearing his throat before a difficult confession. She was thirty-two, a border enforcement officer in a parish where the law arrived late and the mud arrived early. The smell of linseed oil and wet wool hung...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe notice lay on the desk, a small square of cream-colored cardstock that felt gritty under Elias’s thumb. It was not a letter, but a form, printed in the stark, sans-serif typeface of the Department of Archival Integrity. He read it twice, the words blurring slightly as the air in the stacks grew thick with the scent of ozone and decaying lignin. The text was brief: *Notice of Probationary...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden RitualAct I Homer Pell, fifty-two years old and a keeper of records for the Melbourne House of Corrections, had a left hand that was failing him in a way that the doctors called "premature senility" but which Homer knew was simply the slow, grinding theft of his own years. He sat in the signal box at thirty-one of Corvid Lane, the air heavy with damp oak and the metallic tang of the lever he had been...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek