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 Wistful MirrorThe mirror in the Shattered Hall did not lie, but it did not tell the whole truth either. It showed me as I was, forty-two years old, a border warden with a stiff neck and a bad knee, but it showed me also as I had been, a child of eight, standing in the mud of the old city gates. The rule was simple, etched into the stone above the frame: bleed into the glass, and the truth will bleed back...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareThe scribe’s quill hovered, the ink glistening like a wet wound, as Lord Vane’s steward called my name from the other side of the great hall, a summons that cut through the damp chill of the morning. I am Elias, thirty years of age, a squire in name only, though my hands are stained with the dust of the mill and the iron of the forge, and I write this entry on the fourteenth of November, 1342,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden VisitI remember the sound of the rain hitting the zinc roof, a relentless, metallic ticking that matched the second hand of the clock on the wall. I was sitting in my office at the municipal building, the one on the corner of Rizal and Mabini, where the air always smelled of wet paper and old dust. My left hand was resting on the desk, and it was no longer flesh. It was gold. Not the dull, yellowish...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowChapter One Kwame Asante looked back on the five years he had spent in the mist-shrouded realm of Osei, not with the horror he expected, but with the weary recognition of a man who has finally paid a debt that was never his to owe. He had wanted only to return to his village, to the smell of wet cocoa husks and the sound of the river chained by locks, but the bureaucracy of the High Council had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale AltarThe brass badge sat heavy in Elias Thorne’s palm, cold as the iron rail he leaned against. It was a small, circular thing, stamped with the city seal, but to Elias it weighed more than the rifle he had carried in the trenches four years prior. He was thirty-four years old, and the metal felt like a debt he had not yet paid. The promotion to Captain was scheduled for the next morning, a reward...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MasterThe iron in this valley does not cool; it waits. It holds the shape of the lie that made it, and when the wind shifts through the Oaxacan highlands, the metal remembers. Crescencio Quintero stood before the master mold, his hand resting on the cold, soot-blackened curve of the steel. He was thirty-two years old, a sergeant in the industrial guard, and his pension depended on a signature he...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe ledger shows I spent fourteen hours stitching the hem of my tunic before I packed the bag. I counted every coin, seven silver marks and a few coppers, and placed them in the left pocket where my hand would find them if I panicked. Elara was asleep, or perhaps just too weak to move, her fingers resting on the quilt like dry twigs. I watched the blue line pulse beneath the skin of her wrist,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraCould a machine truly hear the lie in a man’s throat? Act I 14th of October, 1789. The wind off the plateau has a voice like tearing linen. It splits the skin on the fruit in the orchards and dries the mud in the cove until it cracks into shingles. I am Maria Delgado, and I am tired. Not the tiredness of sleep, but the heavy, sedimented weight of twenty years spent standing between the colony...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AlibiThe carts groaned on the cobblestones before the light broke, a rhythmic grinding that shook the dust from the eaves of the tithe barn. In the West African river town of Kente, the air smelled of wet clay and the sharp, metallic tang of the quarry lakes that fenced the settlement. Akosua Owusu, thirty-two, stood at the edge of the Shattered Line, a jagged scar of black glass that hummed with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek