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 Distant MetropolisChapter One Did Assunta Sabella truly believe that a coat could hold the weight of a debt? She stood in the cramped workshop, the air thick with the dust of wool and the heat of the Tuscan sun pressing against the single window. The client, a man named Vito, had vanished three days ago, leaving behind only the heavy velvet coat draped over the chair, a garment worth more than her rent for a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe ledger held three hundred and twelve hours of service, each entry scratched in ink that had long since faded to a bruised purple. You counted them again, the numbers blurring in the dim light of the barracks, your fingers tracing the rough grain of the paper as if it were the skin of a dying thing. You were Silas Vane, forty-two years old, and your knees ached with a persistent, grinding...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorLurdes Pinto had been a royal guard for twenty years, a fact that meant little in a town where the currency was memory and the rent was always due. The Weight of the Door The humidity in Porto was not a metaphor; it was a physical weight, swelling the wooden frames until they groaned like old men with bad knees. Lurdes stood before the Pale Door in the throne room, a space that felt less like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe ink on the page was still wet, or perhaps it was only the dampness of the cellar seeping into the paper, but Elias Thorne’s finger hovered over the marginalia of the 1894 census report, trembling with a cold that had nothing to do with the November air. He had been an archivist at the Holloway Institute for twenty years, a tenure that felt less like a career and more like a slow...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineChapter One "Did you see the blood in the ink, Jing Liu? Or was it just the rust from the pen?" I wiped my hands on the hem of my coat, the fabric already stiff with the damp that clings to the terraced hills of the Sichuan basin, a place where the air feels less like atmosphere and more like a liquid one must wade through. I was thirty-two, an archivist by trade, though my lungs had begun to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootThe sap was warm. Sakura Ishikawa pressed her thumb against the black ooze seeping from the base of the throne, the moisture cold and gritty under her nail like wet sand. It had been thirty years since the court’s stones began to bleed, a slow, fungal rot that no mason could patch and no priest could pray away. The King sat above her, a hollowed shell of authority, his eyes fixed on a point in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale AltarAct I Who keeps the ledger when the ink runs dry and the hand that writes it begins to shake? I asked this on the road out of town, where the spring flood had turned the canal into a roaring, brown throat that swallowed the last gas of the afternoon sun. I was Naveed Durrani, thirty-two years old, a border patrol officer whose uniform hung loose on my frame because I had not eaten a full meal...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale EchoChapter One I remember the weight of the medal before I remember the taste of the wine. Inspector Honoré Dugas, they called me, in the hush of the bayou hall, a title that sat on my tongue like a stone. Elise watched me from the edge of the room, her eyes hollow, a destructive intensity that signaled the first crack in my composure. I was forty-two, and the sun had broken after nine days of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenAct I "You are late by one second, Sarn," the glass said, though no mouth moved on the other side of the pane. Sarn Cirrus, a thirty-two-year-old clerk whose hands were perpetually stained with the blue ink of the mill ledgers, stared at his own reflection in the factory window of the reclamation yard. It was a cold morning, the kind where the light comes in low and grey, cutting across the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek