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 FractureThe transfer request form sat on the desk, heavy with the damp weight of the Ministry’s recycled paper, and Elian Vance stared at the signature line until the ink seemed to bleed into the grain. He was twelve, small for his age, with hands that shook not from fear but from the sheer physical effort of keeping his eyes on the page. The form asked for a justification of transfer to the Archives,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful Silence"Did you see the ledger, Arthur? Did you look at page forty-two?" The voice was thin, brittle, like dry twigs snapping under a boot. Arthur Vane did not answer. He sat in the corner of the waiting room, his hands folded in his lap, watching the dust motes drift in the single shaft of afternoon light that cut through the heavy velvet curtains. The room smelled of floor wax and old paper, a scent...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CartographThe sawmill groaned under the weight of the morning’s labor, a rhythmic sawing that shook the dust from the rafters of the Persian city, where the ice on the logs had not yet broken despite the drizzle that had outlasted the coats of the men working the yard. I stood at the head of the line, my back aching with the familiar, dull throb that had become my constant companion since the war,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DanceChapter One Jian Lin’s hands were deep in the warp threads, pulling the taut lines of the loom until her knuckles whitened, the bone comb with its missing teeth tucked into her apron pocket where it pressed cold against her hip. She had been working for three hours, the rhythmic clack of the shuttle the only sound in the damp room, but her mind was elsewhere, fixed on the recurring dream where...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MythThe departure was less a journey than a severing, a clean cut made with the precision Concepcion Uribe had applied to steel beams for twenty years, though the weight of the cut only became apparent when the carriage doors shut behind him, sealing him into the rattling dark of the Andean transit. He was fifty-two, not forty-five as the firm’s files claimed, a discrepancy born of a clerical error...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerAct I The wind in Patagonia does not blow so much as it erases, scouring the red desert of iron and spinifex until only the bones of the earth remain visible. Concepcion Zamudio, forty-two years old and an archivist of middling rank, sat in the lamp room of the abandoned mine, his hands trembling not from the cold but from the weight of the promotion he sought. He was here to silence the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetAct I My hands were already black. I scrubbed them against the rough wool of the apron, but the ink-like veins only spread, tracing the map of my labor. The damp in the plaster of the crypt was a physical weight, pressing against my lungs as I ground the dried foxglove in the mortar. I was trying to save the parish, or so I told myself, believing the Bloom was a fever, a conquerable thing of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestMy hands were already buried in the damp, yellowed fibers of the ledger when the rain stopped, the sudden silence of the kampung hitting the tin roof like a physical blow. I had been there for nine days, counting the threads of a mill that no longer wove, trying to find the loose end that would save my pension before the audit. The air in the vestry was heavy with wet wool and old paper, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerI "Notice of Seizure: Contraband Cargo, Tide-Miller’s Keep. Item 4: One (1) Powder Horn, Carved. Owner: Aram Grigoryan." The paper was cold in my hand, colder than the damp stone of the kitchen floor where I stood, my boots muddy from the second rain that had finished the first. I was thirty-four years old, a security chief in a palace that smelled of wet wool and old ink, and I was trying to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek