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 SagaThe dream began with the sound of a bell, not a church bell, but the hollow, iron clang of a ship’s anchor dragging across a seabed of glass. Thomas stood in the center of the Hall of Mirrors, a place that had no doors and no windows, only walls that reflected not his face, but his father’s. His father, who had died of a fever in the winter of his seventh year, stood there in the blue uniform...0 Comments 0 Shares 22 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe hall was thick with smoke and the sharp, metallic tang of spilled wine. We had gathered to celebrate the end of the season, a victory for order over the chaos of the streets. I stood near the center, my uniform pressed and starched until it felt like a second skin. It was a heavy thing, that uniform. It smelled of lye and old sweat. It smelled of duty. Around me, the men laughed. They were...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe boiler room smelled of rust and wet wool. Elias Thorne stood before the massive iron beast, his hands trembling not from the cold, but from the vibration that traveled up through the soles of his boots. The steam pipes hissed a low, continuous moan, a sound that had become the background music of his life for twenty years. He was the chief inspector of the Meridian Textile Mill. His job was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale CircusThe pot cracked. It was not a loud sound. It was the sound of dry skin splitting in the wind. Walter dropped the bowl. It shattered on the flagstones. Black sludge spread. It smelled of iron and rot. "Stop it," he said. He did not look up. He kept his eyes on the shards. He was counting them. One. Two. Three. "Who are you?" the woman asked. She stood in the doorway. Rain ran down her face. Her...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenThe frost came down like a judgment, thick and white and final, burying the crocuses before they had even dared to open their eyes. You remember the morning. You remember the smell of wet ash and the way the light failed to penetrate the grey curtain of the sky. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; time had become a slippery thing in the village of Oakhaven, sliding off the hands of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareThe rain lashed the windows of the Grand Hotel like a frantic audience demanding entry. Inside, the ballroom blazed with chandeliers that cast a golden, honeyed glow over the polished parquet floor. The air was thick with the scent of lilies, expensive perfume, and the metallic tang of fear that seemed to linger in the corners where the light did not reach. Julian stood by the bar, a glass of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe train smelled of rust and wet wool. Elias sat by the window, his knuckles white against the cold glass. Outside, the English countryside blurred into gray watercolors. It was 1924. The war was over, but the air still held its breath. He was not looking for a man. Or so he had told himself. He was looking for a place. A threshold. The carriage rocked. A rhythm. Tick. Tick. Tick. Like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden OathThe bread was stale. It sat on the counter, a square of hardened wheat and salt. It had been there for three days. No one in the house of Thomas Hale dared to touch it. They ate thin porridge. They drank water until their tongues felt like sand. The bread remained. It was the center of the room, the eye of the storm, the thing that did not move while the world around it spun in a dull, gray...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale Meridian"You are bleeding." The voice came from the doorway. It was dry. It was flat. It cut through the humid air of the basement office. Thomas looked up. His hands were on the desk. His fingers were wrapped around a cold glass of water. He did not look at his hands. He looked at the water. It was still. It was clear. "I am not bleeding," Thomas said. His voice was a whisper. It was a thread. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek