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 Faded AtticAct I Kostas Fotopoulos remembered the weight of the silence in the attic, a heaviness that pressed against his eardrums before he ever looked up at the vines strangling the roof beams. He was thirty-four, a temple accountant who had spent twelve years balancing the ledgers of the dead, and now he sat in the dust of his own inheritance, trying to sell the only thing left that was not a debt....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustMy hands were already stained black when the Archivist entered, the iron gall ink mixing with the dried blood from the cut on my left thumb, a wound that had not healed in ten years. I was grinding the pigment on the slate, the sound of the pestle against the stone a rhythmic, dull thud that matched the beating of my heart, which felt less like an organ and more like a caged bird thrashing...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetWho is owed the cost of a soul? I The question hung in the salt-air, sharp as a blade against the throat. Remy Dumas stood at the threshold of the granary, her boots sinking into the wet peat, the weight of her suitcase pressing a groove into her shoulder. It was the winter camp of the nomad confederacy, a settlement of salt pans that eroded into the sea like a spit of bone. The heat was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitAct I "You’re bleeding on the ledger, Struan." The words hung in the damp air of the citadel, sharp and cold. Struan Paisley looked down. His hand, wrapped in a rag, wept a dark, rusty line across the parchment. He was a captain of the Iron Guard, thirty-two years old, and he was shaking. The fog was not weather. It was a living thing, seeping through the stone walls of Aethelgard, feeding on...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleChapter One Silvio Rinaldi had worked the Rinaldi estate grounds for twenty-two years, a tenure that entitled him to a pension he was now certain he would never see, owing to the shifting of the old temple ruins in the courtyard. The snow was melting into the coal cellars, a slush that smelled of iron and old rot, and the single bell that structured the day had just struck the hour for the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdFatima Mahfouz knew that the Ministry of Archives did not smell of paper, but of cold, dry dust and the metallic tang of fear, a scent that clung to the wool of her coat as she stepped from the taxi onto the cracked pavement of the medieval quarter. She was thirty-four, her hands rough from the work of an animal control officer, and she carried in her breast pocket a single, withered plant from...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden ScarDEBT NOTICE Recipient: Yan Li Amount Due: 4,200 units Status: Overdue Consequence: Asset Liquidation The lorry outside the lane house reversed, a long, grinding whine that seemed to last longer than the day itself, its beacon strobing a dull amber against the grey morning. I sat on the leased out salon chair, the vinyl cracked and cold against my thighs, watching the golden scar on my forearm...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThe morning began with the weight of the ledger, a heavy, leather-bound tome that Elara Vane counted by the hour, each page turn a small, dry exhalation in the cold air of the Imperial Textile Ministry’s archive. It was November, 1893, and the building groaned with the settling of iron girders and the distant, rhythmic clatter of the looms in the production floor below, a sound that had long...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ParadoxAct I Did she really think the ink would hold? Rosaria D'Angelo stood on the porch of the ancestral villa, the stolen key cold and heavy in her fist. She was twelve, sharp-featured and pale, watching the dust settle on the cobblestones below. The village of Portici lay in the dry cold that preserved everything, a stillness that felt less like peace and more like a held breath. The D'Angelo name...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek