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 Sutra"You are mistaken, Arthur." The voice came from the shadows of the high ceiling. It was not a shout. It was a whisper. It cut through the air like a blade. Arthur stood still. He held the scroll. The paper was thin. It was old. It smelled of dust and decay. It smelled of time. "Who is there?" he asked. His voice was small. It trembled. "Look at the floor, Arthur." He looked down. The stone...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CipherThe house was a skeleton. I knew it before I saw it. The wind hummed in the rafters. A low, grinding sound. Like teeth on glass. I stood at the threshold. My boots were muddy. The mud was black. It clung to the rubber. It felt heavy. It felt wrong. My name is Arthur. I am a surveyor. I measure land. I measure value. I do not measure ghosts. But today, the line blurred. I was here for the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RiverThe wind through the high windows of the Hall of Whispers carried the scent of wet stone and old iron. Sir Aldric stood at the center of the room, his hands bound not by rope, but by the weight of silence. He held the fern. It was a common thing, a green frond torn from the damp earth of the lower gardens, yet it trembled in his grip as if it were a living nerve. "Look at it," said Lord Kaelen,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe alarm did not ring, which was the first wrong thing, and the second wrong thing was that the air in the bunker tasted of ozone and burnt copper, a metallic tang that coated the back of Captain Elias Thorne’s throat as he sat bolt upright in his cot, the springs groaning under the sudden, violent weight of his waking body. He was a man of precise habits, a creature of routine forged in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MirrorThe dream always begins with the smell of wet copper and old dust. I am standing in the corridor of the house I used to live in, the one in Ohio where the wallpaper peeled like dead skin. But the light is wrong here. It is too golden, too thick, as if the air itself has been poured from a jar and solidified around my lungs. I look down at my hands. They are not my hands. They are smooth,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SilenceThe house breathes. That is the first thing you notice, the second morning after your mother’s funeral. It is not a metaphor. The walls expand and contract with a slow, tidal rhythm, and the floorboards groan under the weight of an atmosphere that feels thicker than air. You are sitting in the armchair by the window, the one your mother reserved for guests, though you have been sitting in it...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CrossingThe ink did not smell of iron and oak gall, but of ozone and wet stone. It was a scent that clung to the back of the throat, metallic and sharp, as if the air itself had been bitten. Edward Ashworth adjusted the cuffs of his tweed jacket, the fabric worn thin at the elbows, and stepped onto the bridge. It was not a bridge of wood or iron, but of woven light, a lattice of pale gold filaments...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThe ink is dry, or so you tell yourself, as you sit in the cold stone chamber beneath the city of Aethelgard, listening to the rain drum against the earth above like a thousand small, impatient fists. It is a sound that has become the rhythm of your life, a metronome for a clock that no longer tells the time but only the duration of your waiting. You are a clerk of the High Archive, a title...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustThe house is breathing. You feel it in your ribs. A wet, heavy rhythm. In, out. In, out. You are the lungs. You are the breath. The walls are skin. The floorboards are bone. You try to stand. Your legs are jelly. The dust is thick. It tastes like iron. It tastes like old blood. You open your mouth. No sound comes. Just a dry click. You look at your hands. They are shaking. Not from cold. From...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek