0 Comments
0 Shares
26 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Golden EchoesWe stood in the center of the room, the air thick and stale as the breath of a dying animal, the walls of the secure containment facility pressing in on us with a physical weight that seemed to distort the light, a high-security black site buried deep beneath the granite ridges of the Adirondacks where the concept of time had long since surrendered to the relentless, humming rhythm of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenYou are sitting in a room that does not exist. The walls are made of damp paper, soft and yielding under your fingertips. The air smells of wet wool and old ink. It is a small space. A closet. A cupboard. You are trapped inside it. You have always been trapped inside it. Your hands are the room. This is the truth you cannot deny. Your left palm is the floor. Your right palm is the ceiling. Your...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CircuitThe dream had no edges, only a suffocating, copper-tasting darkness that pressed against the eardrums like the deep sea pressing against a diving bell, a pressure that was not external but internal, a slow hemorrhage of memory where the distinct lines between the man he was and the man the institution required him to be began to blur and dissolve into a single, unrecognizable smear of grey wool...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CampusThe spoon shatters in your hand. Not with a bang. A whisper. A cold, wet crack, like ice breaking on a frozen lake. You are holding it in the mess hall of the Ninth Division, but the mess hall is not where it should be. The walls are made of grey stone that breathes. The air smells of wet wool and old blood. You are wearing your uniform, the olive drab canvas stiff with sweat. Your name is...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden EchoesThe rain did not fall. It pressed. Elias Thorne stood at the threshold. The door was oak. Heavy. It smelled of wet wool and old iron. He was a soldier. Not a captain. Not a general. A man who held a rifle. The rifle was in his hand. His knuckles were white. The wood bit into his palm. He did not feel it. He looked up. The building was a tower. Stone. Grey. It rose against the bruised sky. No...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe ink on the ledger bled into the fiber of the paper like a bruise spreading under pale skin, a slow, viscous hemorrhage that marked the boundary between the known and the impossible, that terrible, humming threshold where the machinery of the soul began to grind against the gears of the world. I stood before the great oak desk in the administrative office of the Blackwood Textile Mill, my...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseThe smoke did not rise. It hung, a thick, grey woolen blanket woven from the lungs of the dying. Arthur stood in the center of the room. He was a large man, built like the iron bridges he had guarded for thirty years. His uniform was crisp, starched white against the dim, industrial gloom of the house. The buttons shone like cold eyes. He held the censer. It was heavy, a brass beast with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantThe soup was thick. It sat in the black pot on the stove, bubbling low. I stirred it. The spoon scraped the bottom. It smelled of iron and old bone. I had made it for Elias. He liked the broth heavy. He liked the meat gone to the marrow. I put a ladle into his bowl. The steam rose. It curled in the cold air. The room was quiet. The house was quiet. It was always quiet here. The walls were...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CrossingThe bridge was a wound. It hung over the gorge, thin as a razor’s edge, rusted brown against the grey sky. Elias stood at the edge. He held the coin. It was heavy. It was warm. It was gold. He had crossed before. He knew the rules. The water below did not wash. It ate. The air did not cool. It burned. He adjusted his grip. His fingers bled. The pain was sharp. The pain was real. "You’re...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek