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 GuestThe cold was not in the room; it was in Elias. It sat on his shoulders like a wet wool coat, a persistent, biting chill that no radiator could touch. He adjusted his tie, the silk slick and cold against his throat, and watched the clock on the wall of the immigration office. Three minutes. Mr. Vane was still looking at the previous applicant’s file. Elias’s hands trembled, not from fear, but...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden EchoesThe heavy iron key was cold, colder than the rain that had slicked the cobblestones of the Lower Ward for three days straight, and Elias held it in his palm as if it were a live coal, his fingers trembling not from the chill but from the sheer, suffocating weight of what it represented. He stood in the ruins of the Chapel of St. Jude, the roof long since collapsed into a tangle of blackened...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorTariq Amin knew the weight of a breath better than the weight of a word. In the third generation of the ship, air was not a gift but a subscription, and the smell of ozone always preceded the bill. He stood in the maintenance airlock, forty-two of the Rope Walk, his hand steady on the crank of the flashlight. The beam cut through the dust, illuminating the cracked seal of the door. Behind him,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AlibiI Lester Gault sat in the boarding-house dining room, his hands resting on the long scarred table, and watched the dust motes drift in the shaft of light that cut through the window. He was thirty-two years old, a long-haul dispatcher by trade, and he had just lost the good field on the western edge of the property to the road expansion project. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden RitualThe bell in the Archivist’s tower had a cracked voice, a sound like a dry twig snapping under a boot, and it was that sound, more than any other, that drew Elias Thorne’s attention to the window where the morning fog lay thick against the glass. "Elias," his mother’s voice came from the bed, thin as paper held up to a candle, "you are staring at the wall again, and the wall is not going to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CrossingThe carriage wheels groaned against the cobblestones, a sound that seemed to echo in the hollows of Elias Thorne’s chest as they climbed the steep, rain-slicked path toward the Abbey of St. Jude. It was the year of our Lord 1347, and the air tasted of wet stone and impending winter, a chill that bit through his wool coat and settled deep in his bones. Elias, a scholar of natural philosophy...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ChronicleChapter One My pen was already moving when the hum started, a low, grinding vibration that traveled up through the floorboards and into the hollow of my wrist. I was balancing the rye accounts for the Duke’s audit, the ink wet and black against the parchment, when the millstone beneath us began to sing. It was not a sound the ear was meant to catch, but a pressure in the teeth, a rhythm that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownDownriver, the salt pans mirror the low sun, reflecting the orbital loading docks where the air tastes of ozone and rust. In the union office at fifty-eight of the Ferry Slip, Joséphine Thibodeaux sits before the cold light of a grav-lamp, her hand steady as she opens the drawer. The gold-plated badge rests on the velvet, its surface now a matte, bruised black. II Two years prior, the badge was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MistMy fingers were already black with grease when the light failed in the reclamation yard. I was wrestling a rusted valve from the carcass of a dead generator, the metal biting into my palms, trying to free it before the dark took the rest of the afternoon. The air in the Burren was warm, heavy with wet stone and rotting kelp, a night so mild I could have slept in the dirt if the work had been...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek