0 Σχόλια
0 Μοιράστηκε
1 Views
0 Προεπισκόπηση
Κατάλογος
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Παρακαλούμε συνδέσου στην Κοινότητά μας για να δηλώσεις τι σου αρέσει, να σχολιάσεις και να μοιραστείς με τους φίλους σου!
-
The Faded PortraitThe coat hung on the hook by the door. It was a heavy thing, wool and tweed, dark as a bruise. Margaret stood before it. She did not touch it. She watched the dust motes dance in the beam of the streetlamp outside. The light was orange. The room was cold. She had been here for three days. The war had ended a month ago. The papers said victory. The papers said peace. Margaret did not care about...0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση
-
The Faded RiverThe cellar smelled of wet stone and old iron. Elias stood on the cold flagstones, his breath misting in the dark. Around him, the bottles were not wine. They were glass jars. Each one held a sliver of the river that had once run through the valley. He had collected them. One by one. Over twenty years. He was not a man of many words. He was a man of hands. Hands that had held tools, hands that...0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση
-
The Wistful AshesThe air in the Foundry of St. Jude smells of ozone and scorched bone, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and refuses to wash away with the grey sludge you are forced to drink from the communal troughs. You are seven years old, or perhaps eight; time has lost its linear integrity in this place, measured only by the rhythmic thud of the Great Piston and the shifting of the...0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση
-
The Golden MythIn the dream, the room was not a room but a throat, wide and pale, swallowing the light before it could touch the floor. Margaret stood in the center of it, holding a spool of gold thread so heavy it dragged her spine into the earth. The walls breathed against her. She knew, with the bone-deep certainty of the sleeping mind, that if she let go, the thread would unravel into a snake and eat her...0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση
-
The Distant MetropolisThe dream did not begin with the roar of the cannons or the smell of the wet earth giving way to the churned mud of the trench, but with a sudden, terrifying silence that fell over the city like a heavy, grey wool blanket, smothering the distant hum of the tramlines and the sharp, metallic clatter of the blacksmiths on High Street, leaving only the sound of Cillian’s own breath, which seemed to...0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση
-
The Distant JokeThe road is not a straight line but a wound, jagged and red in the twilight, cutting through the dense, ancient forest that has held its breath for centuries. You walk it with the weight of your steel on your back, the leather of your armor creaking against the silence. It is an age before clocks, when the sun is the only judge and the moon the only witness. You are a soldier of the King’s...0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση
-
The Wistful VoyageThe wind did not howl. It whispered. A dry, rasping sound against the corrugated metal roof of the transport. Elias sat on the bench, his back against the cold iron. He was a man of forty winters, though his face wore the lines of a century. The uniform was ill-fitting, a testament to the hollowness that had settled into his frame over the last few weeks. Outside, the highway unspooled into the...0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση
-
The Wistful IncenseThe train cut through the fog. It was a grey, wet morning in November. The air smelled of coal and wet wool. Thomas Bradshaw sat in the corner. His knees were apart. His hands rested on his thighs. They were large hands. The hands of a man who worked with his body. He was a sergeant. He had served twenty years. His uniform was pressed. It was dark blue. It fit him well. He was going to the...0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση
-
The Distant WhispersThe hall of St. Jude’s was thick with the scent of boiled cabbage and stale beer, a pungent mixture that clung to the wool of my cloak and settled deep in the pores of my skin, but it was the sound that truly suffocated me, a low, rumbling chorus of voices that seemed to rise from the very cobblestones beneath the heavy oak tables, a cacophony of accusations and boasts that swirled around the...0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)