0 Comments
0 Shares
0 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Faded ParadoxThe fog rolled in from the coast, thick and grey, smelling of brine and rotting kelp. It swallowed the cobblestones of Whitby’s harbor street. It swallowed the gas lamps. It swallowed Thomas Ashworth. Thomas walked fast. His boots clacked against the wet stone. He did not look back. He could feel the eyes of the town on his heels. They whispered. They judged. He was a man with a secret. A heavy...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe bell tower of Oakhaven did not ring with metal anymore. It rang with a sound like wet wood splintering, a low, groaning crack that seemed to rise from the earth itself rather than fall from the sky. It was a sound that had been growing louder for three years, ever since the frost refused to melt in November and the shadows in the fields began to stretch toward the village regardless of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasYou are walking. The boots are heavy. They are wet. The mud is deep. It sucks at the heels. You do not look down. You look forward. The road is straight. It cuts through the grey fields. The air is cold. It bites the nose. It stings the eyes. You are a soldier. You are in uniform. The grey wool is damp. It clings to the skin. You carry a box. It is wooden. It is small. It fits in two hands. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleThe building does not breathe. It stands. Concrete and steel, rigid against the gray sky. You are inside. The air tastes of ozone and old paper. A hum vibrates in your teeth. Low. Constant. A frequency below hearing, felt only as a dull ache in the molars. You are the junior architect. You hold the blueprints. They are warm. Not from the sun, which is far away, but from within. The ink glows...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CipherThe house did not breathe, it wheezed, a low, rattling exhalation that seemed to come from the walls themselves, a sound so persistent and so intimately woven into the fabric of the silence that Martin had long since stopped hearing it as noise and had begun to hear it as the house’s own pulse, a steady, arrhythmic thumping that matched the frantic, erratic beat of his own heart which he kept...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetThe fire did not begin with a spark, but with a scream that tore through the night air of the manor, a sound so raw and animalistic that it silenced the wind in the elms and froze the very dust motes dancing in the moonlight. I stood in the doorway of my workshop, the heavy oak frame vibrating under the force of the shock, holding a pair of silver scissors that felt suddenly heavy and useless...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterThe feast was a riot of wax and wine, a blinding cacophony that shook the very stones of the High House. Candles guttered in iron sconces, throwing long, jagged shadows across the vaulted ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of roasting swan and heavy spiced ale. Margaret stood at the periphery of the grand hall, her hands clasped tightly before her apron. Her fingers were raw. The linen...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe rain hammered against the slate roof of the chapel, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that seemed to drown out the world outside. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool and old candle wax. Margaret stood by the altar, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles turned white. She looked down at the man kneeling before her. Thomas. Her husband. He was small for a man, unassuming,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MeridianThe sugar was gone, or rather, it had been reduced to a fine, grey powder that tasted of dust and old pennies, and it was this taste that lingered on the tongue of young Arthur Penhaligon as he sat in the shadow of the great brass astrolabe, a relic of a time before the smoke, before the engines, before the world had decided to become a machine that ground its children into dust. He was twelve...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek