0 Kommentare
0 Geteilt
2 Ansichten
0 Bewertungen
Verzeichnis
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Bitte loggen Sie sich ein, um liken, teilen und zu kommentieren!
-
The Distant MachineThe ink is still wet on your hand. You can feel it, a cold, black slickness, like a bruise forming under the skin of the night. You are sitting in the small, drafty cell of the abbey’s lower scriptorium. The stone is damp. It weeps. You know this because you have been here for three days, and the damp has seeped into your bones, into the marrow, making you heavy. You are heavy. You are...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Pale DanceYou are asleep, but you are also waking. The dream is a gray static. It hums against your eardrums, a low frequency that tastes like copper and old pennies. You are in the hall of the station. The floorboards are warped, bowing under the weight of history. You are not alone. There is a shape in the corner. It is made of brass and shadow. It is the lantern. It has been with you for forty years....0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Faded SutraThe mortar lands three feet from your left boot, kicking up a plume of wet, black earth that smells of iron and rot. You do not flinch. You have been in the mud for six hours, and the mud has become part of your skin, a second layer of grime that protects you from the cold and from the memory of who you were before the enlistment papers were signed. You are Sergeant Elias Thorne, or at least...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 36 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Pale TaleSheriff Doug said, "You were out in the marsh again tonight," and I told him yes I was, and he set his coffee mug down on the desk so the sound of it against the old tin was loud in the room, and he looked at me with that particular patience he had perfected in thirty years of wearing a badge, which was the look of a man who has watched a hundred other men lose their grip and has learned to...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 4 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Faded ParadoxThe rain in the industrial valley did not wash things clean; it merely slicked the grime onto the cobblestones, turning the world into a smear of charcoal and rust. Elias Thorne stood on the platform, his coat heavy with the damp, and watched the steam from the locomotive curl into the grey sky like the spirit of a dying man refusing to dissipate. He held the case in his hands, not because he...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Faded GuestThe banquet hall smelled of roasted pheasant and old dust. Candles guttered in the silver candelabras, their flames trembling as if caught in a breeze that did not exist. Sir Thomas Ashworth stood by the window, his hand resting on the cold glass. He was a man carved from stone, a soldier who had worn medals until they were just another layer of skin. Tonight, the air felt thick. It pressed...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 33 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Faded PortraitThe fog rolled in from the river, thick and white, smelling of iron and rot. I walked. My legs burned. The pain was a constant companion, a dull throb in the knee that had never quite healed. I had broken it years ago, falling from a ladder in the cellar. I had hidden it. I had always hidden things. The road was muddy. The wheels of the cart groaned overhead. I was not running. Running implies...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Faded QuadrantThe silence in the parlor was not empty, but thick, a heavy woolen blanket that suffocated the air and the breath of the woman standing by the window. Margaret Holloway stared at the rain lashing against the glass, her fingers white-knuckled around the hem of her dress, a fabric of deep, mourning purple that had once been a vibrant violet. The house, a sprawling Victorian manor on the edge of...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
-
The Distant ThresholdThe dream was of iron. Cold iron. It pressed against the back of Thomas’s throat. Not a blade. A bar. The kind they used to seal the barns in winter. He woke with the taste of rust on his tongue. The air in the cabin was still. The silence had weight. It sat on his chest like a stone. He rose. His joints popped. The sound was loud in the small room. He looked at the hands on the bed. They were...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek