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 Golden FarceThe rain fell upon the cobblestones of Whitmore’s Cross with the persistence of a penitent, washing the grime from the ancient flagstones until they shone with a wet, reflective gleam that mirrored the low, bruised sky above. I stood at the edge of the thoroughfare, my cloak heavy with moisture, watching the droplets trace erratic, silver threads down the windowpane of the apothecary across the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant Journey"Did you see it?" Tomás looked up from his mending. The needle hovered in the air, a sliver of bone white against his shadowed face. He did not look at the window. He did not look at the wall where the crack ran like a river map across the plaster. He looked only at the child standing in the doorway. "Yes," Tomás said. His voice was dry. Like leaves scrubbed against stone. "I saw it." "Will it...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootThe road was red. Not the rust of iron, but the blood of the earth itself. I walked. My boots sank into the soft, wet clay. It whispered. It knew my name. It knew my sin. I am old. My bones click like dry twigs. I seek the Root. They say it is fading. They say it holds the sky up. They say if it goes, we fall. I do not believe in falling. I believe in the weight of words. I had traveled for...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe rain fell in sheets against the windowpane, a relentless drumming that seemed to vibrate in the bones of the old townhouse. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool and cold tea. Thomas sat on the edge of the sofa, his fingers twisting a loose thread from the armrest. He was twelve years old, though he wore the weight of a man who had already forgotten how to laugh. Across from...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainThe sword was heavy. It had always been heavy, a slab of iron that tasted of rust and old blood in the mouth. It hung from the belt of a man who no longer remembered his own name. The village of Oakhaven lay below in the mist, a tangle of stone and thatch, silent as a held breath. He stood on the ridge, the wind pulling at his tattered cloak. Below him, the trees swayed. They were the oaks. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CellarThe fire did not start in the hearth, as the elders of Oakhaven claimed in their hushed, trembling prayers, nor did it rise from the dry thatch of the barns, as the town crier shouted until his voice cracked and bled into the smoke. It started in the cellar, in the dark, damp belly of the world where the roots of the ancient oaks tangled with the bones of the dead and the vines of the black...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe server rack in Sub-level 4 of the Meridian Data Center hummed with a frequency that could only be felt in the teeth, a low, grinding vibration that seemed to resonate through the calcium of the bones rather than the air, and it was into this sterile, humming void that Elias Thorne walked, his shoes leaving faint, damp prints on the polished concrete floor that reflected the cold, blue LED...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownThe rain had been falling for three days, a thin, persistent mist that seemed to seep into the very marrow of the house, settling into the cracks of the floorboards and the fraying edges of the carpets with a cold, damp persistence that made the air feel heavy and thick, as if the atmosphere itself had grown tired of holding the weight of the silence that hung between us, a silence that was not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ShieldThe dream always began with the rain. It was not the gentle, cleansing rain of a spring afternoon, but a heavy, gray deluge that turned the world into a blur of wet slate and rusted iron. In the dream, Margaret stood in the center of a vast, empty hall, the floor slick and reflecting the dim light of a single, hanging lamp. She held a shield in her hands. It was not a weapon of war, not truly,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek