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 Golden CrossingThe fog rolled into the town of Blackwood every morning, thick and gray as wool. It swallowed the cobblestones and the brick chimneys. It swallowed the smell of coal smoke and wet leaves. Elias Thorne stood on the porch. He watched the mist curl around his ankles. He was seventy years old. His hands trembled. Not from cold. From the weight of what he had done. And what he had failed to do. In...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GhostYou wake up in the mud. It is cold, not the crisp cold of a Chicago winter, but a wet, sucking cold that seems to have weight. You are lying on your back. Your head hurts. A dull, thumping pain behind your left eye. You try to sit up, but your body feels heavy, like it is filled with lead. Or maybe it is just the mud. It is everywhere. Black, slimy, and thick. It is in your hair. It is in your...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant AffairThe banquet hall smelled of damp wool and stale wine. It was a large room. High ceilings. Cracked plaster. The light came from three bare bulbs. They flickered. The air was thick. It tasted of dust. Arthur stood in the corner. He held a glass. It was empty. He drank nothing. He only watched. His brother sat at the head of the table. Silas. He looked well. His suit was new. The wool was dark. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MirrorThe rain against the glass of the observation deck sounded like static. Like the white noise of a dying radio. I watched my breath fog the pane, a transient ghost of myself. Below, the factory floor churned with the grey slurry of the day shift. It was the end of my contract. The end of my tenure at the Halloway Foundry. I was a senior inspector. A man who measured tolerance in microns and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MythThe taste of the ash still clings to the back of my teeth, a gritty, metallic film that no amount of water will wash away, and I stand here in the center of the White Hall, staring at the porcelain plate that sits upon the table like a silent accusation, its gold rim chipped away, worn down by the friction of years that did not exist, because in this place, time does not flow, it pools, thick...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe train hissed to a halt, a long, metallic exhalation that seemed to suck the warmth from the carriage. You stepped onto the platform at Ashworth Station, your boots sinking slightly into the gravel, damp and cold. The air here tasted of iron and old stone, a flavor that coated the back of your throat before you could swallow. You adjusted the strap of your satchel, feeling the weight of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MirrorThe rain lashed against the reinforced glass of the observation deck, blurring the world below into a smear of grey concrete and sodium-vapor light, and I stood there, my uniform damp with a cold that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the hollow, echoing silence of my own lungs, watching the figure below move with a grace that felt like a personal insult to my...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the streets of Blackwood into brown rivers of mud and oil. You stood in the center of the warehouse, your back against the cold iron door, your hand resting on the pommel of your sword. It was a strange thing to carry in the twenty-first century, a relic of a time when men settled disputes with steel rather than...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CellarThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a gray curtain drawn tight against the glass of the command post. I sat at the desk, the leather creaking under the weight of my hands. Outside, the forest breathed. It was an ancient breath, slow and deep, the kind that only trees with roots older than memory could produce. The pines stood like sentinels, their needles dark with dampness, their trunks...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek