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 RiverThe stone in Elias Thorne’s pocket was cracked. It had been cracked for three days, a jagged fissure running from the smooth, river-polished top to the rough, salt-encrusted base. He sat alone in his office at Blackwood Penitentiary, the only light coming from the flickering fluorescent tube above his desk, and he watched the crack widen by a millimeter. He was forty-two. He wanted to retire....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RoadThe letter lay on the rough-hewn table, its ink still wet and smelling of iron and vinegar, and Elias Thorne read it for the third time, his thumb tracing the jagged line of the signature that had cost him his pension, his rank, and the respect of every man who had ever served under him. It was the fourteenth of October, 1342, and the light through the single window was thin and gray, falling...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CrossingThe ink in the well was not black but a viscous, liquid gold, and it smelled of ozone and burnt copper. You stood before the high desk of the Duke of Ashworth, your spine rigid with the effort of keeping your throat from closing, for the air in the court had thickened into a suspended haze that clung to your skin like wet wool. You were Elias Vane, a clerk of twenty years, and you wanted only a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden VisitThe damp in the cell seeped through Elias Thorne’s wool uniform, a cold that settled deep in the marrow. He sat on the iron cot, the gold watch in his palm ticking with a rhythm that felt less like time and more like a heartbeat. It was Clara’s watch. She had pressed it into his hand three days before the fever took her, her fingers ice-cold against his skin. "It holds the deed, Elias," she had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CrownEntry 402: The pressure seal is failing. Do not open the hatch. Etienne Marchand read the line twice, his fingers trembling over the cold metal of the pressure suit patch, the third repair holding together by thread and stubbornness. The scriptorium smelled of ozone and old fish, a pungent mix that clung to the back of his throat as he adjusted his magnifying glass. He was fifty-two, and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorAct I "Does a man owe his past to the future, or does he owe his future to his past?" The question hung in the humid air of the hill-country estate, a heavy, unanswerable thing that settled over the heads of the guests gathered for the annual gala of the Sri Lankan Records Office. Rajesh Joshi stood near the rice mill’s old canal, the water black and still, reflecting the gaslight from the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CrownAct I Every machine, given enough time, forgets its purpose. Gustave Chevalier knew this because he had spent twenty years repairing them, his hands blackened by the grease of dead engines in the reclamation yards of the Seventh Arrondissement. Now, at forty-two, he stood in the sealed archive of the Ministry, the air thick with the dust of paper and the faint, metallic tang of rust. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden VisitThe market square of Torremolinos moved with the heavy, rhythmic churn of commerce, a sea of wool and bronze where the air hung heavy with heated metal and unwashed bodies, and I stood at the edge of the crowd, my fingers stained with the residue of mercury and gold, watching the sun strike the salt pans that mirrored the sky in a blinding, white sheet. I am Jose Herrera, and I am the only man...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisWho pays the price of the ink when the paper refuses to dry? The rain in the processing ring did not fall so much as it leaked, finding the hairline fractures in the hull plating with the patience of a debt collector. Folake Owusu stood before the hydroponic tray of struggling greens, his fingers hovering over the leaves that had turned a sickly, bruised purple, the oxygen subscription for his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek