0 Comments
0 Shares
2 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Pale DanceThe train station at Ashworth Junction was a cavern of iron and steam, a place where the air tasted of coal dust and the metallic tang of fear. Elias Thorne stood on the platform, his grip white-knuckled around the handle of a leather trunk that felt less like luggage and more like a shackle. He was a man of forty years, though the hollows in his cheeks made him look older, a face carved by the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ChronicleThe gate slammed shut behind me, the sound a final, heavy exhalation of iron that seemed to swallow the last of the autumn light. I stood in the courtyard, the cold biting at my cheeks, watching the man I had trusted with my life walk away without looking back. It was strange, how the air felt thinner here, as if the very oxygen had been siphoned off by the towering stone walls that enclosed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe left knee of Thomas Ashworth had begun to ache before the first snow of December, a dull, persistent throb that mirrored the grinding of the mill gears outside his window. He sat in the high-backed chair of the Governor’s office, a room that smelled of old paper and damp wool, and watched the dust motes dance in the thin shaft of light cutting through the frost-rimmed glass. The knee was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful WitnessYou wake in the violet haze of a dream that refuses to dissolve, the air in the grand, echoing hall thick with the scent of old paper and ozone, as if the very atmosphere has been charged by the proximity of something vast and incomprehensible. The chandeliers above you, those intricate webs of crystal and brass that usually catch the light with a polite, domestic shimmer, now hang suspended in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongThe rain was a wall. It hammered the canvas of the wagon, a relentless, drumming violence that drowned the world outside. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of wet wool, old sweat, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Thomas held his breath. His fingers were locked around the hilt of his short sword, the leather grip slick with perspiration. He did not look up. To look up was to see the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeThe sword shatters. You do not mean for it to. It hits the obsidian floor. Glass. Not steel. The shards fly. They cut your hand. A thin line of red. You look down. The pieces are everywhere. Small triangles. Jagged teeth. The hall is silent. The King’s eyes are wide. The courtiers lean back. You are still holding the hilt. The wood is dark. The grip is slick. Your blood drips onto the stone....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful VoyageThe dream had no walls. Only the hum of the loom, a sound like bees trapped in glass. Margaret woke with the taste of copper in her mouth and the phantom weight of a shuttle in her hand. She lay still in the straw pallet, listening to the dawn break over the manor. The air was cold. It smelled of damp wool and old stone. She sat up. Her fingers were stained blue. Indigo. The color of the void....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AshesThe dream began not with a sound but with a weight, a heavy, wet pressure against the lungs of the air, as if the atmosphere itself had congealed into a thick, gray syrup that refused to part for the passage of breath. Marcus stood in the center of a vast, white void that stretched out in all directions, a horizonless expanse of blinding purity that seemed to hum with a low, subsonic frequency,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraThe rain does not fall so much as it is applied, a heavy, wet paste that sticks to the face and soaks through the expensive wool of the suit, turning the grey fabric into a dark, clinging shroud that weighs on the shoulders like the accumulated guilt of a decade spent chasing shadows in the hollows of power. You step off the train at the station that has no name on the map, only a number etched...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek