0 Commentarii
0 Distribuiri
1 Views
0 previzualizare
Director
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Vă rugăm să vă autentificați pentru a vă dori, partaja și comenta!
-
The Pale TaleThe train hummed a low, monotonous note as it cut through the gray mist of the industrial district, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of my bones rather than in my ears. I sat by the window, watching the blurred streaks of factories and tenement blocks slide past, each one a variation on the theme of decay that had defined my life for the last thirty years. In my lap, resting on my...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe smoke tastes of copper and burnt sugar. You cough. Your lungs burn. It is a bad feeling. Like swallowing hot iron. You are in the garden. No. Not a garden. A greenhouse. Glass. Thick glass. Stained with grime and age. The air is thick. Heavy. You cannot breathe right. You try. Your chest heaves. In. Out. In. Out. It does not help. You see the table. It is long. Oak. Dark. Polished until it...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Faded FrequencyThe radio sat on the floor. It was a heavy thing. Bakelite and brass. It hummed with a low, brown note. Thomas held the cord. He was twelve. He stood in the yard. The gate was open. The train was waiting. It was a long engine. Black iron. It breathed white steam into the cold air. The year was 1912. The factory had taken his father. The regime had taken his voice. "Thomas." The voice came from...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Distant PromiseThe morning fog sat heavy on the cobblestones of Whitmore Institute, a gray shroud that clung to the iron gates and swallowed the lower branches of the ancient oaks until only the skeletal fingers of the canopy remained visible against the pale, indifferent sky. Arthur Penhaligon walked through it, his boots making no sound on the wet stone, for his footsteps had long since ceased to belong to...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Faded ChronicleThe frost bit deep into the roots of the blackberry brambles, cracking the earth with a sound like dry bone snapping, and I stood there, my breath a thin ghost in the air, watching the last of the berries turn to black leather. It was the third winter since I had crossed the sea, leaving behind the warm, red clay of our home to seek a life in this cold, iron-grey country where the laws were...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Wistful DinnerThe train did not stop at the station, but rather seemed to bleed into the mist that clung to the platform like a damp, gray shroud, and from this suspended, liminal void, Silas Vane stepped out onto the cold, wet cobblestones of a city that had forgotten how to sleep, his lungs burning with the metallic taste of iron and old regret, a sensation that was not merely physical but a profound,...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Wistful ShowThe frost had come early this year, settling into the crevices of the old mill like a secret kept too long. I remember the cold in my hands, the stiff, aching cold that told me my time was short. My name was Silas Vane, and I was the last of the Vane line, a weaver of cloth in the town of Oakhaven. The air in my workshop smelled of lanolin and damp wool, a scent that had become as familiar to...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Distant ThresholdThe feast hall of Blackwood Hollow smelled of roasted lamb, stale beer, and the heavy, cloying perfume of dried lavender hanging from the rafters. It was a celebration of the harvest, a time when the lord of the manor, Lord Ashworth, opened his granaries and his purse, and the village of hollowed-out faces feasted on the excess of his wealth. In the corner, near the drafty window where the...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Distant WhispersThe wind did not howl so much as it negotiated, a low and persistent friction against the corrugated steel of the barn that had once housed the harvest, now serving only as a mausoleum for the rusted husks of a life that Edward Ashworth had spent forty years cultivating and then, in a single, feverish night, dismantled. He stood at the threshold, his fingers white-knuckled around the rough...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek