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 Wistful AsylumThe bread is stale. You know this. You do not taste it. You hold it in your palm. The crust is hard. It cracks under your thumb. Dust falls. It is dry. It is dead. You are in the kitchen. The walls are stone. The light is grey. It comes from high windows. The glass is old. It distorts the world. You are the warden. You are the keeper. The house is a body. You are its eye. You see the rot. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey mist that clung to the brickwork of the district, turning the gaslights into smeared halos of amber and sickly yellow. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood in the doorway of the precinct’s intake station, his hand resting on the cold iron of the doorframe, his knuckles white not from the cold but from the sheer, grinding weight of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden RitualThe air in the vault of the Whitmore estate did not smell of dust, as the world outside believed, but of wet iron and the sweet, cloying rot of ancient lilies that had been pressed into the foundations of the floor centuries ago. Elara, a woman whose hands were mapped with the silver scars of a life spent shaping copper and glass, stood before the Great Furnace, her breath visible in the chill...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale CircusThe fire in the hearth roared like a beast waking from a long sleep. Sparks flew upward, catching the dark rafters of the great hall. It was a feast. Or so the lords said. They sat at the long table, their hands red with wine, their faces swollen with greed. But to Elias, it smelled only of ash. Elias stood in the corner. He was not a man. Or rather, he was a man, but the kind they called a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AshesThe train smelled of wet wool and rust. Elias sat by the window, watching the gray fields blur past. He was a man of few words. His coat was brown. His eyes were tired. He held a ticket to the Capital. The ticket was stamped. The stamp was red. He was an investigator. The Ministry called him that. He found things. He found people. He found faults. Today, he sought the Spire. The Spire stood in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsThe iron kettle sang a low, dying note. It hung from the hook by the stove, its surface etched with the dark stains of decades. Elias sat at the table, his hands resting on the cold wood. He was a large man, built like the ships he had once served on, but his shoulders were curved now, weighed down by a fatigue that sleep could not lift. The room was small. It smelled of coal dust and wet wool....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MirrorThe mirror sat in the corner of your chamber, a tall, vertical slab of polished obsidian that seemed to drink the light from the single beeswax candle you held in your trembling hand, and you knew, with a certainty that settled into your bones like winter frost, that the thing was not merely glass or silver or metal but a living eye, a hungry mouth, a silent judge who had been waiting for you...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe iron key was cold in Sergeant Elias Thorne’s hand, colder than the stone walls of the keep where he had spent the last three months guarding the perimeter. He turned it in the lock of the greenhouse door, a sound like a bone breaking in the silence of the courtyard. Inside, the air was thick, humid, and smelled of wet earth and something older, something that tasted of copper on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden ScarThe chapel door groaned open. It was a sound like a bone snapping. Elias stood in the shadow of the archway. The stone was cold. His hands were cold. He looked at his son. Thomas. Young Thomas. He was waiting by the altar. The candles flickered. The wax ran down in thick, white tears. The air smelled of old dust and iron. You are late, Elias said. I was not, Thomas replied. His voice was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek