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 MasqueradeThe border at Medenine hummed with the static of a thousand unfiled complaints, a low-grade friction that rubbed the skin of the town raw. In the shadow of the customs post, where the salt wind scoured the paint from the walls, Ahmad Saleh stood guard over a sealed room, his hand resting on the cold steel of his sidearm. He was thirty-four, a man whose pension depended on the next arrest, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CampusAct I Can a building hold a grudge long enough to eat its own memory? I ask this because the ink is moving again. I am So-hee Kim, thirty-two, a senior archivist at the Seoul University Library, and I have four days left to complete the digitization of the 1990s faculty records if I am to secure my tenure. What stood against him is not a rival colleague or a lazy student; it is a low-grade...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownDanilo Gatchalian’s hands were already blackened with soot when he reached for the wisteria vine, its golden leaves curling inward like dried parchment. He was mid-stride across the rusted gantry of the foundry, the metal groaning beneath his boots as the drizzle began to fall, a fine mist that clung to the skin and settled into the pores. The air tasted of ozone and old iron, a flavor that had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden VisitMunicipal Notice No. 402: Structural Integrity Assessment. Site: Moravian Vineyard Complex, Sector 7. Status: Compromised. The light in the basement was the color of old bruising, a dull purple that clung to the dust motes suspended in the stagnant air. I checked my watch. 11:48 AM. The mill siren would test at noon, a shriek that vibrated in the fillings of my teeth, but here, beneath the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe smell of rotting apples and wet wool hit me before the gate even creaked open, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the back of my throat as I stepped off the muddy track. “Elias,” the voice boomed from the porch, not a question but a summons, sharp as a whip crack in the damp air. Lord Malachi stood there, his silhouette framed by the dying light of the October afternoon, a figure carved...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiDid she ever truly let go, or did she simply run out of self to hold on? The kitchen air was heavy with damp lime and rotting fish, a scent that had settled into the plaster over three generations. Anita Rao, forty-two, sat alone at the table, her hands trembling as she prepared the final dose of the white paste, a substance that had sustained their family’s unnatural longevity for as long as...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DanceChapter One "Can a man be innocent of what he cannot stop?" I asked the magistrate, though I knew the question was a trap. The air in the council hall was cold, sharp with the scent of wet wool and the metallic tang of fear. Outside, the gritters had been out before dawn, scraping the ice from the cobblestones, their rhythmic scraping a sound that had entered my bones during the long winter. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyAct I Bridget Hegarty, thirty-two, had bought the taxi medallion at the top of the market, a debt that bled into the linoleum of her workshop where the smell of old oil sat thick as a fog. I am a master clockmaker in a town that has forgotten how to keep time, working on the Great Clock for the Guild with a deadline that looms like a storm front over the terraced, bankrupt hills of Donegal. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AtticThe steppe wind howled through the keyholes of the Draff manor, a sound like tearing canvas that made the dust dance in the rafters. I sat on the floor, my fingers numb, holding a bent nail I had stolen from the village blacksmith. My father’s cough had become a rattle, a wet, hollow sound that echoed in the walls every time he turned in his sleep. I was twelve, and I was tired of watching him...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek