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 GardenThe nib scratches the vellum, a sound like a mouse gnawing on a bone. Your hand moves in a steady rhythm, the goose quill dipping into the inkpot that costs more than your annual wage. You are Elias, forty-two, and the scribe of St. Jude’s Abbey, a place where the stone walls sweat with damp and the air smells of rot and old wax. You want the pension. You want the copper coins that will allow...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictAct I There is a specific sound that a building makes when it is empty, a low, structural groan that settles in the bones before the ears register it, and I have learned to sleep through it. I am Sofia Theodorou, the night auditor at the Hotel Ithaca, a place that exists in the off-season only as a skeleton of white walls and cold air, where the only heat comes from the boiler in the basement...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MistChapter One NOTICE: The Aethelgard Municipal Authority hereby declares the Pale Mist a state of emergency. All executions are suspended until the veil recedes. Non-compliance will be met with immediate arrest. Ingrid Richter read the paper until the ink blurred, then folded it into a square small enough to fit in her pocket. She was thirty years old, a captain in the city guard, and her hands...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareChapter One I remember the sound the kettle made before the rain did, a thin, high whine that cut through the silence of the infirmary at Saint Jude. We were in 1348, or what passed for it in the fever-dream of that winter, when the abbey walls sweated black water and the air tasted of copper and rotting lilies. I was thirty-two, an inquisitor by title, though my hands shook too much to hold a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdI, Samir Fahmy, was wiping the ink from my fingers with a rag that smelled of old camphor when the High Priest, Abu Tariq, kicked the chain-latched door of the caravanserai’s inner scriptorium. My hands were still stained with the black residue of the Codex Aeternum, the final glyph pulsing on the parchment before me like a wound that refused to close. I had been working for three days without...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AtticAct I The plains stretched out like a sheet of hammered slate, flat and unyielding under the dry, cracking sky where the wheat heads bowed in the wind that never stopped. In the shadow of the plantation house, the air smelled of dust and old paper, a scent that had settled into the walls of the overseer’s quarters. Ray Ledbetter stood before the Whispering Wall, his nineteen-year-old hands...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden ThreadThe Golden Thread Arthur Pendelton inherited a gold-smith's workshop on Porthmeor Steps, where the stairs dropped like a fractured jaw into St Ives harbour and the sea breathed salt through every crack in the stone. He had come from London with a suitcase, a letter of inheritance, and the vague notion that he might learn something about his grandmother Maud that the eighty-two years of their...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeAct I The orbital farm hands of the lower deck were already stripping the frost from the hydroponic racks, their breath pluming in the recycled air as the solar-system economy churned through another cycle of debt and harvest. The sound of the crowd leaving the stadium above was a dull, rhythmic thud that vibrated through the floorplates, a reminder of the world that had built the ship and then...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterI. In the port city, the air tasted of salt and diesel, and the silence of the house was a weight that pressed against the eardrums. Karim Farah sat at the desk, his fingers stained with black ink that was not his own. The walls wept. It was a slow, viscous bleed, dark and cold, trickling from the plaster joints onto the floorboards. He did not wipe it away. He was waiting for the voice. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek