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 Golden HarborThe rain struck the stone like a drum. I held my shield high. The iron groaned. My arms burned. Across the courtyard, the King’s men advanced. They were many. I was one. My breath came in short, sharp gasps. It tasted of blood. It tasted of rust. I knew they would kill me. I had always known. I am Sir Julian Thorne. I was the Captain of the Guard. I was the sword that did not bend. But today,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe feast in the Great Hall of the Abbey of St. Jude was not a celebration of joy but a display of endurance, where the tallow candles burned with a sullen, yellow ferocity that cast the stone pillars into long, trembling shadows, making the assembled monks and visiting dignitaries look like figures carved from dark wood and anxiety, and it was in this suffocating atmosphere of roasted meat and...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe dream began, as it always did, with the sensation of a hand closing around a throat, not to strangle, but to hold in place, as if the dreamer were a bird pinned to a corkboard for the inspection of its plumage. In this lucid, waking sleep, Dr. Elias Thorne stood before the Great Hall of the Ministry of Internal Stability, a room that existed simultaneously in the brutalist concrete of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsThe clock on the mantel ticks. It is a wooden box. The hands are gold. They move with a slow, deliberate weight. You are standing in the parlor. The air is thick with the smell of beeswax and old dust. Your husband, Arthur, sits in the wingback chair. He does not look up. He is reading a newspaper. The ink is black. The words are small. You hold a silver tray. On the tray is a glass of water....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CircuitThe ink was still wet when the first arrow struck the parchment. Captain Elias Thorne did not flinch. He had learned long ago that flinching betrayed the heart, and the heart was the only thing that mattered in the Gilded Circuit. The arrow, fletched with feathers dyed the color of dried blood, thumped softly against the table. It had pierced the seal of the letter he was writing. Elias picked...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JourneyThe wind did not merely blow across the high moors of the Scottish Highlands; it tore at the very fabric of the sky, a ragged and relentless force that seemed to carry the weight of centuries of accumulated grief in its howling throat, and through this tumultuous veil, Sir Alistair Thorne pressed forward, his body a conduit for the storm, his mind a fortress of fractured glass where every shard...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MirrorThe rain against the windowpane of your study in London does not fall; it strikes, a relentless, percussive rhythm that mirrors the frantic, arrhythmic pounding of your own heart, a sound that has become the only true companion to the silence that has swallowed your wife, Eleanor, since the funeral three weeks ago, leaving you in a house that feels less like a residence and more like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale Bonsai"Look at you." Mom’s voice was sharp. It cut the air in the living room. I stood there. I held the box. It was small. It was red. It was velvet. I looked down. I saw my hands. They were shaking. I was twelve. My name is Arthur. I lived in a house with tall windows. The glass was always dirty. We never cleaned it. It felt like the house was watching us. It felt like the house was breathing....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MeridianThe jar sat on the counter. Amber glass. Thick walls. It caught the gray light from the window and held it, refusing to let it go. I watched it. I didn't touch it. Touching it would mean admitting it was still there. Admitting it was still mine. My name is Thomas. I make clocks. Small ones. Pocket watches. Things that tick. Things that keep a rhythm so you don't have to count the seconds...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek