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 RootThe train left at dawn. It did not wait for the station master to finish his coffee. Elias stood on the platform, his breath pluming in the cold air, watching the rails disappear into the fog. He carried nothing but a small leather bag and a map that had grown soft at the folds. He was fifty years old. He felt older. He felt like a stone that had been tumbled too long in a river. He had left...0 Comments 0 Shares 29 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale AltarThe letter arrived on a Tuesday, the ink still wet and smelling of iron and old paper. Thomas read it in the hallway, the floorboards creaking under his weight, while the house held its breath. It was a summons from the Guild of Architects, a formal invitation to present his final thesis on structural integrity before the high board. The paper was thick, heavy, and felt like a slab of concrete...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongThe ink on the ledger page did not dry; it bled. Elias sat in the center of the high room, his knees drawn up to his chest, the cold stone floor seeping its dampness into his thin trousers. The air here was thick, not with dust, but with a heavy, sweet rot, like overripe fruit left in a closed jar. Above him, the ceiling was not a ceiling but a shifting canopy of dark, swirling water, and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineThe banquet hall smelled of boiled wool and iron. It was not a scent of feast, but of containment, a heavy, metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and refused to dissolve. We sat in a circle on the cold stone floor, the candles guttering in the draft that leaked through the cracks in the walls, their light trembling like a dying pulse. In the center of the circle, on a slab of granite,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RuinThe sky did not fall; it cracked. It split open above the city like a dry riverbed, revealing a void that was not black, but a deep, bruised purple, pulsing with a light that had no source. The sound was not an explosion, but a shriek, a high-pitched wail that drilled into the teeth and settled in the marrow. Ten-year-old Elias stood on the cobblestones of the Market Square, his small hands...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AlibiThe rain fell in sheets. Cold. Thin. It hissed on the cobblestones. Elias packed his tools. The iron was dull. The wood was dry. He looked at the door. The lock was new. Brass. Shiny. It did not fit the wood. It looked like a scar. He had been here for ten years. Ten years of sweat. Ten years of sawdust. The air smelled of pine and fear. He picked up the chisel. It was heavy. It was home....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant SummerThe mud was the first thing that tried to swallow him whole. It was a thick, sucking slurry of rain and torn earth, caking into the folds of his tactical vest, heavy as wet concrete. Thomas Bradshaw didn’t feel his legs. He felt the weight of the rifle in his hands, the cold metal biting into his palms, the distinct, rhythmic thud of his own heart against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe ink was still wet on the page. I watched it bleed into the fibers of the parchment, a dark vein spreading through the pale skin of the world. It was my name. Or rather, it was the name I had chosen for myself in this place. It did not look like my name. It looked like a wound. "Is it done?" I looked up. Eleanor stood at the edge of the clearing, her dress heavy with the moisture of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaYou are walking, and you are not entirely sure why, but your legs know the rhythm of the cobblestones before your mind does, a steady, dull percussion that mirrors the beating of your heart in that heavy, bruised silence. The city of Oakhaven is waking up, or perhaps it is falling asleep, for the mist clings to the low eaves and the iron gates like a shroud that refuses to be lifted, and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek