0 Comments
0 Shares
1 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Distant JourneyThe coffee machine hummed. A low, mechanical drone that filled the small, windowless room where Margaret sat. She was alone. The fluorescent lights buzzed in a frequency that made her teeth ache. She pressed her thumb against the red button. Nothing. She pressed it again. Nothing. "System failure," she whispered. Her voice sounded thin. Distant. Like it was coming from the other side of a...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineThe letter began not with a salutation, but with the smell of wet stone and the taste of iron in the mouth, as if the ink itself had been drawn from a wound in the earth. It was written by Elias Thorne, a man who had spent the better part of his life shaping bronze into shapes that could not hold water, in the shadow of a debt that grew like a moss on the walls of his soul. He wrote to no one,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden HarborThe salt air in the high gallery of the Blackwood Palace did not smell of the sea, but of wet iron and old dust, a scent that had settled into the very limestone bones of the tower where Dr. Elias Thorne had spent the last forty years cataloging the kingdom’s forgotten relics, a man whose hands were stained permanently with the indigo of his ink and whose eyes, behind the thick, clouded lenses...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale CircusThe fog did not roll in from the harbor, as it should have in any sensible coastal town; it erupted from the cobblestones themselves, a thick, sulfurous miasma that tasted of iron and old dust. It swallowed the gas lamps of Blackwood Hollow one by one, extinguishing the orange glow of the streetlights until the world was reduced to a monochrome of grey and shadow. In the center of the square,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WhispersThe feast was held in the belly of the old textile mill, a cavern of dust and steam where the air tasted of iron and wet wool. Lanterns swung from rusted beams, casting long, trembling shadows across the stone floor. Elias Thorne sat at the edge of the long table, his hands resting on the wood, palms flat, knuckles white. He was a mender of coats. Not a tailor, but a mender. He fixed what was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsThe house smelled of wet wool and stale air. We had gathered to say goodbye to my father, though he was still breathing. The room was too full. Candles flickered against the heavy curtains, casting long, trembling shadows that seemed to stretch beyond the walls. My mother sat in the high-backed chair by the fireplace, her hands folded in her lap like a bird with broken wings. I stood near the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a grey curtain drawn tight across the window of the counting house, blurring the cobblestones of the lane into a smear of charcoal and mud. Thomas Bradshaw stood with his back to the door, his hand resting on the cold iron of the ledger, feeling the tremor in his fingers that he had long ago decided to ignore. He was a man of numbers, a merchant of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SuspectYou wake with the taste of iron on your tongue. The air is thick, heavy with the scent of ozone and old stone. It is the Hall of Whispers, or so the texts call it, though here it feels less like a place and more like a memory of a scream. You are not in your bed. You are not in your office. You are in the dream, the deep dream that has been pulling you under for months, the one where the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe soup was still warm when I poured it into the drain, watching the amber liquid swirl and vanish into the dark throat of the basement sink. It smelled of thyme and iron, a scent that had become my entire world, my only compass in the fog. I had brewed it for three days straight, boiling the roots of the bitterroot fern that grew in the shadow of the old mill, straining it through linen until...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek