0 Commentarios
0 Acciones
1 Views
0 Vista previa
Directorio
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Faded AlibiThe dream always began with the sound of wet gravel crunching under boots that did not belong to me. I stood on the porch of a house that smelled of lavender and old paper, watching the rain blur the streetlamps into halos of amber. It was a contemporary suburb, pristine and sterile, but the air felt thick, charged with a static that made the hair on my arms stand up. I was twelve years old...0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1 Views 0 Vista previa
-
The Faded SutraThe glass jar sat on the counter of the community center, its surface clouded by decades of condensation and fingerprints, a vessel that had once held something precious but now held only the heavy, wet air of a Tuesday afternoon in suburban Ohio. Inside, suspended in a thick, amber-colored gel that smelled faintly of lavender and old money, was a single, perfect human eye, wide open and...0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1 Views 0 Vista previa
-
The Pale TowerThe rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of Millhaven into slick, reflective pools where the streetlights bled their orange glow into the wet dark, and you stand there in the doorway of the precinct, your uniform pressed and cold against your skin, the wool heavy with moisture that smells of ozone and old iron, watching the figure walk...0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1 Views 0 Vista previa
-
The Pale CircusThe rain did not fall so much as it hung suspended in the air, a fine, grey mist that clung to the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat and seeped into the marrow of his bones as he walked the muddy track toward the edge of the moor. It was a landscape devoid of distinct seasons, a place where the boundary between earth and sky had long since eroded into a uniform, damp indifference. Elias had been...0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1 Views 0 Vista previa
-
The Faded AtticThe rain did not fall so much as it pressed against the world, a heavy, industrial curtain that blurred the distinction between the street and the sky. You stand at the edge of the cliff, your boots sinking into the mud that smells of iron and rot. The air is thick, saturated with a fog that seems to have a weight of its own, pressing against your chest, filling your lungs with a cold, metallic...0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1 Views 0 Vista previa
-
The Wistful MirrorThe dream was of a forest made of glass. It shattered. Not with a crash. With a sigh. Margaret woke with the taste of copper in her mouth. She was in the tower. The old stone tower. The one they called the Eye. It stood on the cliff. Above the sea. The sea was gray. The sky was gray. Margaret was a clerk. She kept the records. The records of the dead. The records of the lost. The records of the...0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1 Views 0 Vista previa
-
The Faded AtticThe air in the Hall of Records did not smell of dust, as one might expect of a place where history was stored, but of wet iron and the faint, cloying sweetness of decay that rises from deep earth, a scent that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat like a second skin. He stood before the Great Ledger, a monstrosity of leather-bound volumes that stretched from the floor to the vaulted...0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1 Views 0 Vista previa
-
The Faded RootThe banquet hall of the Whitmore estate was a cavern of gaslight and velvet, a place where the air hung thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of old blood, and it was here, amidst the clinking of silverware against porcelain that had been passed down through seven generations of men who believed they owned the very concept of time, that Arthur Penhaligon stood as a...0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1 Views 0 Vista previa
-
The Distant JourneyThe rain lashed against the high, arched windows of the manor house, a relentless drumming that seemed to vibrate through the very stones, a constant reminder of the wet, gray world outside that Peter Ashworth could no longer escape from. He stood in the center of the grand hall, his hands trembling slightly at his sides, not from the cold, though the heating had failed an hour ago, but from...0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1 Views 0 Vista previa
English
Arabic
French
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek