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 Wistful WitnessThe wool coat was red. Not the bright crimson of a fire engine, but the deep, arterial red of dried blood. It sat on the back of the chair by the stove, waiting. I have worn it for forty years. It is the only thing I own that does not fade. I dreamed of the river last night. The water was black and thick, like oil. My daughter, Elara, was walking on the surface. She did not sink. She looked...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale FractureThe banquet hall smelled of roasted duck and stale beer, a cloying sweetness that clung to the back of the throat and settled in the lungs like fine dust, masking the sharper, metallic tang of the fear that had been building in Silas Thorne’s chest for the past six weeks, a fear that had turned his bones hollow and his hands into trembling instruments of uncertainty. He sat at the far end of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale GardenThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended gray curtain that blurred the edges of the city into a smeared watercolor of slate and rust, and within this damp suspension, Elias Thorne stood in the center of his workshop, his fingers stained with the black dust of lead and the white chalk of geometry, holding in his left hand a sphere of polished obsidian that seemed to drink the weak...0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterThe rain against the windowpane is a rhythmic, wet drumming that you have learned to count, each drop a tiny, cold coin paid into the ledger of your confinement. You are alone in the upper room of the old estate, a space that feels less like a bedroom and more like a reliquary for a saint who died of boredom and damp. The air is thick, heavy with the scent of beeswax and the faint, sweet rot of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThe room is a tomb, but a loud one, filled with the clinking of crystal and the low, rumbling hum of a party that has forgotten the concept of sleep, and you are sitting in the corner with your back against the cold plaster of the wall, watching the dust motes dance in the beam of a single, dying spotlight, while the sound of your own breathing feels like the rasping of dry leaves being dragged...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CrossingThe soup is warm. You taste it. It tastes like copper and burnt sugar. You are sitting at the long table in the great hall. The chandeliers are dim. They are old glass. They buzz. They are heavy. You are a soldier. You are a guard. You are the man who holds the door. You are the man who keeps the peace. But the peace is broken. The peace is a lie. You look at your hands. They are red. The red...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CipherThe rain has been falling for three days. It slicks the cobblestones of Harrowgate until they shine like wet obsidian. You stand at the gate. The iron bars are cold through your gloves. Inside, the old chapel waits. It is a stone box, gray and silent, perched on the edge of the moor. The wind whistles through its broken rose window. You are the Warden. You carry the ledger in your chest. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenThe bone in your left forearm is not what it appears to be. You know this with a certainty that bypasses reason, a visceral truth that sits heavy in your gut like a stone swallowed whole. It is the third day of the audit at the Meridian Processing Facility, a sprawling institution of grey concrete and humming fluorescent lights that smells permanently of ozone and stale coffee. You are an...0 Comments 0 Shares 30 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AtticThe rain hammers the corrugated tin roof of the warehouse like a thousand angry fists, a relentless, deafening percussion that vibrates through the soles of your boots and rattles the loose teeth in your jaw, drowning out the distant, siren-like wail of the city outside. You are on your knees in the muck, the wet concrete biting into your shins, your fingers clawing at the frayed hem of a silk...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek