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 GuestChapter One Mhairi Sutherland had thirty-two years of age and a job that smelled of wet wool and rust, and she stood in the office of Mr. Vane, waiting for a signature that would change her life. The room reeked of stale tobacco and the damp wool of his overcoat. On her desk lay a ledger, its spine cracked and wired with copper tape, a repair she had made herself last winter when the binding...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CrossingThe tremor begins not in the wrist, but in the soul, and it is there, in the deep architecture of the intent, that the gold first notices the flaw. You hold the filigree piece under the candlelight, the metal thin as a breath, and your fingers, which have hammered the Doge’s crest for thirty years, now spasm like the legs of a dying sparrow. The year is 1347, and Venice is a city of stone and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorChapter One The canal town of Vardar was waking up, the barges shuddering against the wooden pilings as the turnpike gates creaked open for the morning traffic, and the air smelled of wet wool and coal smoke. Radmila Markovic stood at the edge of the quay, her hand resting on the hilt of a sword that felt heavier than the iron it was made of. She was thirty-two, a debt collector with a limp...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RuinThe ferry queue was a slurry of wet mud and waiting bodies, and I was counting the hours until my hands stopped trembling, a task I had been performing with grim diligence for the better part of a year. My name, Chinedu Darko, was stamped on the quarantine ledger in ink that had begun to blur, a bureaucratic erasure of the man who had once held a scalpel with the steadiness of a mason’s trowel....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe harbor at Vík-in-the-West was a place of rusted iron and wet wool, where the air tasted of brine and the damp plaster of the distillery walls wept with the constant, physical fact of the sea. Ketil Hagen stood by the window of the watchman’s booth, his hands steady on the railing, watching the men haul nets onto the jetty with the mechanical precision of men who knew the price of a missed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe light in the distillery came up slow, a grey smear on the linoleum that never quite turned white. Antonio Figueroa stood by the still, watching the condensation bead on the glass, knowing that the quota board on the wall had already marked his brother as a deficit. Mateo’s cough had been a wet, rattling thing for three days, a sound that cut through the hum of the machinery like a blade...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenSoledad Zepeda was already three steps into the Ministry of Agrarian Corrections when the red clay floor beneath her heels began to pulse, a wet, rhythmic thud that matched the frantic beating of her own heart, which she had been counting since the pawnshop counter at sixty-three of Widow's Landing, where the landlord had demanded the deed by sundown or the foreclosure notice would be served...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MythThe Ministry of Records did not keep time; it ate it. Seamus Joyce stood in the archivist’s antechamber, the smell of damp wool and old paper thick in his nose. He was forty-two, a junior clerk with piece rates cut without notice, and his hands were stained black to the wrist. The ink from the Golden Myth ledger did not dry. It bled. It sat in the creases of his knuckles like a bruise that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CampusThe ink was warm. That was the first thing Elias Thorne noticed as he pressed his thumb against the spine of the ledger, a heavy, oily heat seeping into the skin of his hand like a bruise forming in reverse. He stood in the alley behind the Municipal Archives, the rain from the previous night still slicking the cobblestones, the air thick with the smell of wet stone and rotting paper. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek