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 GardenAct I "Asset Valuation: St. Jude’s Institute. Final Audit. Authorized: B. Bagheri." The ink on the ledger line was still wet, smelling of iron and rot, as I signed my name at one hundred and nine of Corvid Lane, the address scrawled in the margin by the postman who read postcards for a living. I was thirty-four, an ex-banker now working the pawn counter, and I needed the money from this audit...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThorne. The name hung in the air of the archive, sharp as a snapped twig, before the head archivist’s shadow fell across my desk. I looked up from the ledger, the ink still wet on the page, and watched him turn away without a word. The silence that followed was not empty; it was full, a low vibration that pressed against the fillings in my molars. I am Elias Thorne, and I have been listening to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful Mirror"Three pence for the glass, two for the breath, and your soul for the calibration." The Duke’s voice was dry, like old parchment tearing. Conceicao Zuzarte stood in the cellar, the stone trough cold against his shins, the damp seeping into his bones. He had built this place on one client, one contract, and now the contract was a cage. The work bell of the rival yard rang three times, a sound...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleThe champagne was warm, which was the first sign that the party had already failed, and Arthur Vane, standing near the potted fern in the corner of the Meridian Insurance Group’s executive suite, felt the liquid warmth of the glass seep into his sweating palms as he raised it to his lips. The room was a cacophony of overlapping voices, the clatter of crystal against porcelain, and the low,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsThe brass badge hangs in your pocket, heavy as a stone in a riverbed. You are Elias Thorne. You are thirty-two. You are a constable. You are also the man who killed Arthur Hale. Or so the city says. The fog rolls in off the canal, thick and grey, smelling of wet brick and coal smoke. It settles into the cracks of the old police station, a building of soot-stained red brick that has stood here...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ParadoxI. Marguerite Girard was a detective, and in three days the institution would force her into retirement, a fact that tasted of copper and old dust in her mouth. The moss in my office was not merely growing; it was feeding. It crept up the radiator, a velvet tongue thick as a man’s palm, pulsing with a slow, green hunger that matched the guilt I carried for leaving the file open. I had spent...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MasterThe list was written in charcoal on a scrap of oilcloth, the ink smudged by damp fingers. It was not a poem, nor a prayer, but a ledger of debts: *Elias Thorne, son of the dead. Status: Indebted. Labor: Indefinite.* You read it twice, the paper trembling against your palms, the cold seeping through the wool of your sleeves. It was 1904, and the air in the Black Mountain camp tasted of sulfur...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseAct I "Notice of Requisition: Archive Section 4, Sub-ledger 12. Status: Pending Review. Signature: Kuznetsov, M. (Archivist)." The ink on the form was still wet, a dark pool spreading across the heavy cream paper, and Mikhail Kuznetsov stood at the head of the long oak table, his hands trembling not from fear but from the sheer, electric weight of the moment. The banquet hall in the old...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorAct I Eugene Yancey drove the chisel into the pale, rotting door, the steel biting deep into the grain as if cutting through wet clay. The courtyard of the abandoned mill was slick with rain, the cypress knees of the inland empire rising from the mud like the joints of drowned giants. He was forty-two, a master carpenter in a ship society that ran on oxygen subscriptions and recycled paper, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek