0 Comments
0 Shares
2 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Distant CartographThe siren did not wail. It screamed. A high, thin shriek that tore through the morning air of the city, shattering the glass of the coffee shop window and the silence of the street simultaneously. Marcus dropped his mug. It shattered on the floor. He did not look down. He looked up. He looked at the sky. The sky was gray. Then it was white. Then it was gone. The building across the street...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale Fracture"Is it red?" "Yes." "Good. Red is honest." I held my left hand out to the light. The veins were dark, knotted things beneath the skin. Like roots of a dead tree. The fingers were stiff. They did not want to bend. They wanted to stay curled. They wanted to hold onto something. But they held nothing. Just the air. Just the cold. Margaret looked at me. She stood by the hearth. The fire was low....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ProtocolThe mortar grinds beneath your stone, a rhythmic, grinding friction that echoes in the hollows of your skull. You are not writing this to ask for mercy, for mercy is a currency that has not been minted in the Citadel for three centuries. You are writing this to record the texture of the end, so that if anyone ever finds these pages, they will know that the silence was not empty, but heavy with...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ProtocolThe letter arrived on a morning when the mist clung to the valley floor so thickly that the spires of the abbey seemed to float in a sea of grey wool, and I, the inquisitor appointed by the distant Crown to untangle the knot of heresy that had strangled this community, found myself standing before the locked door of the scriptorium, my fingers trembling not from the cold but from the terrible,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale EchoYou hold the letter in your hand. It is thin, brittle at the edges. The ink has faded to a ghostly grey. You are Professor Arthur Vane. You are a scholar of philology. You have spent forty years deciphering dead tongues in quiet rooms. Now you stand in the town square of Oakhaven. The air smells of coal smoke and wet stone. It is the autumn of 1912. The town is grey. The people are grey. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ExileThe rain does not fall so much as it hangs, a grey curtain drawn tight across the window of the station platform, blurring the iron lattice of the bridge into a smear of rust and shadow. You stand there, your boots caked in the red clay of the moors, your hands wrapped around the hilt of the sword that is no longer a weapon but a burden. It is a heavy thing, that blade, forged in the old ways...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareThe soup was thick, a bruised purple sludge that smelled of rot and iron, and I held the bowl in my hands as if it were a weapon, the heat searing my palms while the town watched from the window ledges with eyes like dead fish. We were not soldiers, not really, though the armor we wore was made of rusted sheet metal and the swords were sharpened hoes, and we called it the Guard because it...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeThe room was warm. It smelled of dust and old varnish. Candles flickered. Shadows danced. The air was thick. It pressed against the skin. Thomas stood by the door. He watched. He did not move. His hands hung at his sides. They were still. They were quiet. Across the hall, the dancers moved. They turned. They swirled. The music was loud. It was a grinding sound. A mechanical drone. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden RitualThe frost had a specific thickness. One point two centimeters. I measured it with a caliper. It was the only honest metric left in the valley. The rest was noise. Static. The town of Oakhaven was a machine built on a lie. They called it a sanctuary. I called it a trap. I was the engineer of that trap. Or so they believed. My wife, Sarah, stood by the window. Her back was to me. She was staring...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek