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 BridgeThe bridge hums at a frequency that eats the past. It is a low, wet sound, like blood moving through a blocked vein, and it has been the only thing I have heard for three days. I am Silvio Palermo, inspector of structures for the Ministry of Infrastructure, and I stand on the Pale Bridge in the industrial valley of Tuscany, where the terraced hills are stitched with dry stone walls and the air...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowRosario Valenzuela’s hand was deep in the mud, pulling a root from the earth that tasted of iron and old blood. He stood in the rain, the water hammering against the back of his neck, while the smog of the sugar mill hung low over the field like a wet blanket. He was thirty years old, and his stomach was a hollow thing, gnawed by a hunger that no meat could fill. He wanted to arrest Mayor...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SkylineAct I Who was the man who kept the glass birds? The question hung in the damp air of the housing estate on the city’s edge, a place where the wind turbines spun their slow, deafening circles against the bruised sky of the 1970s. Ravi Ganguly, a wind-farm technician by trade and a man by necessity, stood at the pawn counter, his hands roughened by years of climbing towers and tightening bolts....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MistThe tax carts rolled through the Anatolian plain, their wheels grinding against the dry stone, carrying the weight of the season’s harvest toward the distant capital. The air hung with dust, a physical fact that settled in the lungs and coated the tongue. Nazire Aslan, twelve years old and small for her age, stood at the edge of the quarry lake, watching the blue water stretch out unnaturally...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TowerSalvatore Marino was thirty-two years old and owed the temple granary four months’ rent, a debt that sat in his chest like a stone he could not swallow. He stood in the mud of Vercelli, the industrial town’s air heavy with wet coal and iron, clutching his brass badge so tightly his knuckles turned white against the cold. The badge was warm, a small, living thing against his palm, and he looked...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale CircusChapter One Lester Zorn drove the Route 14 school bus for twelve years, a tenure long enough to know the weight of every pothole on the scree slope before the brakes engaged. His left hand was pale, the knuckles fused into a rigid claw that had not bent in seven years, a price he paid for a duty he could no longer name. The haze over Melbourne was so thick that the far shore was merely a rumor,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridChapter One The East End moved with the heavy, rhythmic churn of a millstone grinding grain into flour, a mechanical pulse that dictated the hours for every soul within its shadow. In the cramped workshop at seventeen of NineElm Crossing, Lester Cavett, a border warden of thirty years, stood before the Iron Grid, listening to the low, rhythmic hum that vibrated in his teeth. The object did not...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustThe ink is getting into the pores, Arthur said, his voice flat and devoid of the panic that usually accompanied such a discovery. Mr. Halloway did not look up from his ledger, the quill scratching a dry, rhythmic screech against the paper that seemed to amplify the silence of the windowless basement. It is merely a stain, Halloway replied, his tone carrying the weight of a man who had long...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdChapter One "Notice to all translators: The winter audit is final. No exceptions. No appeals. Sign here." The ink was wet. Nils Hagen stared at the line, the nib scratching a sound like dry grass snapping underfoot. He was forty-two, though the cold in the northern cape made him feel older, as if the years had been scraped off him like rust from a hinge. His father had been a translator before...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek