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 SongThe cellar was damp, a cold that settled in the bones and refused to leave, and Elias found the tuning fork wrapped in oilcloth where Arthur had hidden it, a small, tarnished silver instrument that looked less like a tool of science and more like a relic from a forgotten age, yet when Elias struck it against the stone floor, the sound that followed was not a clean, pure tone but a dull,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenChapter One Why does a thing that is dead still demand to be fed? I ask this to the glass, but the glass only shows me the hollows under my eyes, deeper than the salt pans outside the window. I am Reza Rahimi, forty-two, retired stagecoach guard, and I have spent the last three days trying to identify the black orchids that have erupted in my wife’s garden. They do not open to the sun. They...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden Scar14 March 1942 The warrant lay on the desk, the paper brittle and yellowing at the edges, smelling of stale tobacco and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. I held the pen, my hand a traitor to my will, trembling so violently that the ink bled into the fibers, creating a dark, weeping blotch where my signature should have been. I needed this pension. I needed the security it promised for the years...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundFingers bled from the cold metal of the relay housing. Zoran Gevorgyan twisted the bolt, the wrench slipping against the rusted thread. The smell of ozone and old grease hung heavy in the signal tower, thicker than the dusting outside. He needed tenure. The quarterly review was in three days, and the mine was closing. If he lost his post here, the colony would eat him alive. He thought of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathGiuseppa Aiello remembered the weight of the bread long after the hunger had left her, a phantom heaviness in her wrists that persisted through the warm, unsettling spell of November. She was twelve, small for her age, and the Pale Path was not a road but a causeway of white stone that drowned twice a day in the mist rising from the rice valley below. The village elders called it the throat of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JourneyAct I Walter Dobbs wiped the soot from his eyelids, the grit grinding against the skin as he watched the eviction notice, dated 1932, pinned to the back of the company store door, a date that seemed to bleed out of the paper and into the fog that clung to the cliffs of Cornwall. He was twelve, though the mill had aged him into a man of forty, and his sister, Elsie, stood behind him, her hands...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RuinWhat is the cost of a name? Chapter One The question hung in the grey air of the reclaim dome, a physical weight that pressed against the back of my neck as I scrubbed the grime from the intake valve. I am Otto Krause, a junior archivist in the Ministry of Memory, and I have thirty-two years of life and six months of grace before my sister Elara’s medical debts expire, a countdown that ticks...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundChapter One The date on the entry is the fourteenth of November, 1348. Marlene Schulz writes from the attic of the Schulz farm, where the air is thin and the cold bites through the wool of her tunic. She is thirty-two years old, a woman who has spent her life hauling grain and mending fences, but her hands shake as she dips the quill. Below, in the village square, the surveyors from the King’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumAct I The border town of Neu-Wien churned under the weight of the harvest, a place where the air tasted of wet silt and diesel, and the only things moving with any certainty were the crabs skittering through the mud flats and the men walking to their shifts at the steel mills. Liesel Schulz, thirty-four years old and stiff with the kind of discipline that does not bend, walked from the estate...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek