0 Commenti
0 condivisioni
0 Views
0 Anteprima
Elenco
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Effettua l'accesso per mettere mi piace, condividere e commentare!
-
The Distant GardenYou wake not with a start, but with a slow, viscous unspooling, as if the fabric of your skin is being gently peeled away from the bone by a hand that has forgotten how to be gentle. You are lying in the bed of the Infirmary, a place of white linen and the smell of boiled herbs that taste, in your dreams, of old pennies and rust. You are not human. You have never been human, not truly, though...0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 0 Views 0 Anteprima
-
The Faded RiverThe rain does not wash the city clean; it only makes the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones of the Old Quarter into a mirror that reflects nothing but the grey belly of the sky and your own hunched, anxious spine. You have been walking for three days, counting the cracks in the pavement as if they were the rungs of a ladder leading up to a truth that refuses to climb down to meet you. The...0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 0 Views 0 Anteprima
-
The Wistful ThroneThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a gray veil stitched tight against the glass of the watchtower. Elias Thorne sat in the dark. His hands were still. They had to be still. If they shook, the watch would see. The cold bit through his wool, settling into the marrow of his wrists. He held the staff. Not a weapon. A bone. It was old. Older than the town of Oakhaven. Older than the stones in...0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 0 Views 0 Anteprima
-
The Golden FarceTHE GOLDEN FARCE THE GOLDEN FARCE The theater had been closed for thirty years, but Arthur Pendelton still kept a key to the front door. Not that anyone asked him to—no one did, not since his sister Beatrice passed in the spring of '09—but the habit held, like the smell of sawdust and mothballs that still clung to the velvet curtains long after the last performance had vanished into memory....0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima
-
The Distant CartographThe mist did not lift. It sat upon the valley like a wet wool blanket, cold and heavy and smelling of rot. I walked. My boots were new. They were too large. The leather creaked with every step, a sound like dry bones breaking in a quiet room. I was a boy of twelve. I was also a king. Or so I told myself in the dark of my mind. My name was Thomas. My father was gone. The mill was closed. The...0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 0 Views 0 Anteprima
-
The Pale AltarThe bell did not ring; it exhaled, a low, resonant hum that vibrated in the marrow of my bones, a sound that seemed to emanate from the very stones of the floor rather than the brass clapper above the door. I stood in the center of the nave, my hands clasped behind my back in a posture of rigid, performant obedience, while the dust motes danced in the shafts of grey light that pierced the high,...0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 0 Views 0 Anteprima
-
The Pale BridgeThe ink was still wet on the warrant. Marcus held the paper flat against his palm. The fibers were rough. The signature at the bottom was jagged. It belonged to the Magistrate. The command was clear. Detain the elder. The crime was sedition. The evidence was a whisper. The whisper was a lie. The town of Oakhaven sat under a sky of bruised purple. Rain slicked the cobblestones. The air smelled...0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 0 Views 0 Anteprima
-
The Wistful IncenseThe seal was red. It sat upon the parchment like a dried wound. I held it in my palm, feeling the wax cool against my skin. The texture was rough, gritty. It tasted of ash when I licked my lips. I am not human. I know this. I am a thing of ink and memory, a glyph given flesh by a scribe’s error. I have walked for three days through the heather. The wind cuts me. I do not bleed. I fray. Father...0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 0 Views 0 Anteprima
-
The Faded FrequencyThe ink had not yet dried on the final sentence of the entry, dated November the fourteenth, when Margaret Holloway felt the first true tremor of the cold that lived not in the air of the attic but in the marrow of her right hand, the limb that had written so many confessions to a god who had long since stopped listening. It was a hand that had once moved with the fluid grace of a pianist,...0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 0 Views 0 Anteprima
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek