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 CampusThe rain hits the window. It is a rhythmic, cold percussion. You are sitting in the kitchen. Your hands are steady. They are always steady. That is the job. You look at your left arm. The scar runs from the shoulder to the wrist. It is white. It is smooth. It is permanent. You trace it with a finger. The skin is tight. There is no muscle there. Just the memory of tension. Your phone vibrates. A...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleThe air in the basement of the St. Jude’s Community Center does not smell of damp or mildew, as one might expect from a space buried three stories beneath the cobblestones of Edinburgh, but of ozone, burnt hair, and the metallic tang of blood that has been allowed to sit too long in a copper basin. You are kneeling on the concrete floor, your knees aching with a dull, rhythmic throb that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareThe fog did not roll in so much as it materialized, a thick, gray curtain that erased the boundary between the harbor and the sky. Inside the office of Magistrate Elias Thorne, the air was still and cold, smelling of damp wool and old paper. Elias sat behind his mahogany desk, a man whose face had become a map of his own quiet endurance. He was forty-five, with hands that trembled slightly when...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongThe velvet lining of my greatcoat had begun to rot, a slow, sweet decay that smelled of wet wool and old blood, a scent that clung to me like a second skin and refused to wash out even after I scrubbed the fabric until my knuckles bled. I was seventeen, standing in the antechamber of the High Court of Aether, a place where the air was thin and hummed with the static charge of unspoken laws, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SkylineThe fog in the mill district does not lift. It settles. It presses against the windowpanes of the orphanage like a damp, grey woolen blanket, muffling the sounds of the world outside. You stand at the glass, watching the steam rise from the vents below. It is a thick, white ribbon that tangles with the mist, indistinguishable from it. You know what it is. You have always known. It is the breath...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseThe sky broke open. Not with rain, but with a shattering of glass. A great, green pane of the firmament cracked down the middle, spilling a cold, viscous light that smelled of ozone and old copper. We stood in the courtyard of the Keep, the stone cold under our boots. I am a man of the Law. I have worn the grey wool of the Order for thirty years. I have kept the peace in a land where peace is a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CompassThe steam from the boiler room did not merely fill the corridor; it permeated the very marrow of our existence, a thick, sulfurous fog that turned the iron girders into jagged teeth and the brickwork into the damp, breathing skin of a sickly beast. I stood before the heavy oak door of the Captain’s office, my hands trembling not from the cold that bit at my fingers despite the furnace roaring...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantThe rain did not fall. It was pressed into the cobblestones of the High Street by a wind that smelled of iron and wet wool. I stood at the edge of the market square, my shield strapped tight against my chest. The leather was cracked, the paint of the city’s crest faded to a dull, bruised purple. In my right hand, I held the spoon. It was silver, tarnished black at the handle, the bowl worn...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineThe dream came first. It always did. Mira woke with the taste of iron in her mouth. Cold. Sharp. The air in the cell was thick, a physical weight pressing against her skin. She sat up. Her knees cracked. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light cutting through the high, barred window. It was grey. Pale. Dead. She looked down at her hands. They were gnarled. Knuckles swollen like old...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek