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 Golden FarceThe fire did not roar; it whispered, a dry, papery hiss that swallowed the sound of my own breathing. I stood in the center of the great oak table, the wood blackened and weeping sap, while the ceiling above was not a roof but a swirling vortex of stars that moved with the slow, deliberate grace of molten gold. This was the Hall of Echoes, a place that existed only when the boundary between the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe iron gate of St. Jude’s Correctional Facility groaned, a sound like a dying animal, as Arthur Penhaligon pushed through the rain-slicked gravel. He was sixty-three, a man whose knees had begun to creak in sympathy with the hinges of the world, and he carried a duffel bag that smelled of old wool and the specific, metallic tang of the antacids he took every hour. The antacids. That was the...0 Comments 0 Shares 27 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenI walked. The road was long. It stretched out before me, pale and endless. I wore the gray. It was not a color. It was a stain. The fabric hung heavy on my shoulders. It felt like wet earth. I carried the weight. It was my own weight. The air was thin. It tasted of iron and old smoke. I had been walking for days. Or perhaps weeks. Time did not move in a straight line here. It looped. It bled....0 Comments 0 Shares 14 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AlibiThe air in the basement of the Department of Cognitive Anomalies always tasted of ozone and old paper. Elias Thorne sat in the corner, his hands folded in his lap, watching the dust motes dance in the single beam of light that pierced the gloom from a high, barred window. He was a medium, a title that the institution preferred not to use, preferring the sterile term "Subject Zero" or simply...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ExileThe road is long. The sun is high. You are walking. Your feet are bare. The stones are sharp. You carry nothing. You are young. You are lost. You are running from the City of Glass. The City stands before you. It is white. It is silent. It is wrong. You remember the door. You remember the key. The key is cold in your hand. It is made of bone. It is small. It fits your palm. You have held it...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ApartmentThe ink on the ledger page was still wet, a glossy, viscous smear that caught the light of the single, flickering gas lamp in a way that seemed almost accusatory, as if the very act of writing my name had drawn a bloodline across the parchment that would not dry, that would not heal, but would only spread, creeping into the fibers of the paper and the wood of the desk and eventually into the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe ink is still wet on the parchment you hold, and it smells of iron and old blood. You are standing in the center of the square in Oakhaven, the town that smells of damp wool and fear, and you are trying to remember if you are the man who wrote this or the man who is reading it. Your hands are shaking. They always shake when the words start to bleed off the page and into the air. You have...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful PetalThe bone snapped. It was a clean fracture. A technical failure of the femur. I heard the sound before I felt the pain. It sounded like a dry twig breaking under a boot. It sounded like a verdict. I was running. I was always running. The mud sucked at my boots. It was a thick, black slurry that had nothing to do with the earth and everything to do with the factory waste. The air tasted of sulfur...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe fog did not lift; it thickened, a grey wool drawn tight around the spires of Oakhaven, until the city ceased to be a place and became a feeling. Arthur Pendelton stood at the window of his office, a small, windowless box in the basement of the Municipal Registry, though the glass before him reflected not the room but the endless, churning mist outside. He was a man of middle years, his hair...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek