0 Comments
0 Shares
1 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Distant JokeThe road to the Abbey of St. Cuthbert is long and red with clay. You walk it in the rain. Your boots are heavy. They suck at the mud with a wet, tearing sound. You carry nothing but your satchel. Inside the satchel is the ledger. It is thick. It is bound in black leather. The leather is cracked. The pages are stained with wine and sweat and time. You are not a monk. You are a clerk. You are an...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe train did not stop at the station. It slowed to a crawl, a metallic groan that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of Elias’s bones, and then it continued, leaving him standing on the platform with his bag of clothes and his silence. The fog was thick here, a white soup that swallowed the iron rails and the distant hills, blurring the line between the earth and the sky. He was an immigrant in a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe rain does not fall. It hangs. You stand at the edge of the mist. The fog is thick, white, and smells of wet chalk and old blood. You are a soldier here. You are always a soldier here. You hold your rifle. It is heavy. The wood is smooth. The metal is cold. Who are you? You do not know. You only know the order. Hold the line. The line is invisible. The enemy is unseen. You wait. The minutes...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisI woke up with the taste of copper and old rain in my mouth, the kind of metallic tang that lingers after a nightmare so vivid it feels less like a dream and more like a memory I have already lived. My name is Elias Thorne, and I am a man who has spent thirty years studying the architecture of power, specifically the way institutions digest dissent. I am a scholar of the Bureau, a title that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden QuestThe rain hits the roof like a thousand tiny fists. You count them. One, two, three. It is the only way to keep the dark at bay. You sit in the corner of the cellar, your back against the damp stone. Your hands shake. Not from cold. From the hum. It lives in your bones now. A low, vibrating thrum that started three nights ago. Three nights since you found the shard. It lies in your pocket....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant PromiseYou stand at the edge of the platform, the air thick with the smell of ozone and decaying leaves, your fingers wrapped so tightly around the leather satchel that the knuckles have turned the color of old bone, a testament to the sheer, grinding force of your will to hold onto something that is not quite yours anymore, while the city hums around you like a hive of wasps trapped in a jar of...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant BladeThe glass was thin. I held it up to the light. A hairline fracture ran from the rim to the center. It looked like a vein. Or a tear. I set it down. It chimed. A low, dull sound. My hands shook. They always shook when the house woke up. The floorboards groaned under my weight. I was late. I was always late. The clock on the mantle ticked with a violence that matched my pulse. *Get ready,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful PetalThe banquet hall smelled of roasting lamb and wet wool, a heavy, suffocating perfume that seemed to settle into the pores of my skin. I sat at the head of the long oak table, the uniform I had worn for thirty years feeling less like armor and more like a second, calcifying shell. The candles flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that stretched toward the high, vaulted ceiling, but my eyes...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CellarThe rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, grey curtain that turned the cobblestones of the old university town into a slick, reflective mirror of the crumbling facades above, and it was in this damp, suffocating atmosphere that Elias Thorne found himself standing before the heavy oak doors of the Archivist’s Office, his coat soaked through to the skin, his hands trembling not from...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek