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 AtticThe rain hit the shingles of the White House with a rhythm that sounded like fingers drumming on a table. General Elias Thorne stood in the center of the East Room, his back to the massive fireplace, watching the water streak down the tall windows. He was seventy-two years old, and his knees ached with a dull, persistent throb that felt less like pain and more like a reminder that his body was...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CrownThe iron bit was cold. It sat in Godwin’s mouth, a slab of unyielding metal that tasted of rust and old blood. He chewed. The jaw ached, a deep, grinding pain that traveled down the neck and into the shoulders. The chains rattled against the stone floor. The sound was sharp, a rhythmic percussion that marked the seconds of his imprisonment. He was in the deep cellar of the keep. The air was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale EchoYou are running. The mud sucks at your boots. The rain is cold. It is the year of the Great Frost. The town is gray. The houses are gray. The people are gray. You are not gray. You are wet. You are fast. You are a boy of twelve. You hold a book. The book is heavy. The book is wet. The ink is bleeding. You do not care. You care only about the chase. Behind you is the sound of boots. Heavy boots....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainThe coat hung on the hook by the door. It was a long thing, heavy with the weight of the mountain air. Thomas stood before it. His hand hovered. He did not touch it. The wool was dark. It smelled of damp earth and old smoke. It had been his father’s. Before that, it had been no one’s. It was just a coat. Now it was a tomb. Thomas was a soldier. Or he had been. The uniform was in the closet. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale GardenThe tower stood. It did not breathe. It did not blink. It simply stood, a finger of stone pointing at the bruised sky, severed from the earth by the weight of centuries. I stood at its base. My hand trembled. Not from cold. From fear. I am Thomas. I am a clerk. I count ledgers. I ink columns. I do not climb. I do not fight. But I was here. I was here because of him. Because of Elias. Elias was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootThe house breathed. It did so with a wet, rattling exhalation that filled the hallway. Margaret stood still. Her boots sank into the dust. The floorboards groaned beneath her weight. They were old. They were tired. They remembered footsteps that were not hers. She touched the wall. The plaster was cold. It felt like skin that had been peeled away. She was looking for a root. A specific root. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CellarThe cellar did not smell of damp earth or rotting apple skins, as the old maps suggested, but of ozone and hot copper, a metallic tang that coated the back of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s throat with every breath he took while he stood there, suspended in the amber glow of the hanging lanterns. It was a feast, of sorts, though the guests were silent and the table was set for a single, invisible...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe dream began, as it always did, with the smell of ozone and wet wool, a scent that clung to the air like a persistent ghost, and in that suspended, timeless twilight, Elias Thorne stood before a mirror that was not glass, but a sheet of polished obsidian, dark and deep as the space between stars. He was a man of middle years, his hands roughened by the art of binding, his fingers stained not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a fine, gray mist that clung to the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat and seeped into the bones of the men who stood in the long, unheated corridor of the municipal detention center. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; time had lost its rigid architecture in the lower levels of the station, becoming a viscous, slow-moving substance that pooled in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek