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 Distant MachineThe letter was found folded into a square so small it fit inside the hollow of a broken thimble, tucked beneath the floorboards of the attic where the air smelled of damp wool and forgotten winters. It was written on paper so thin it felt like a second skin, the ink faded to the color of dried blood. The first line, written in a hand that trembled not with age but with a terrible, vibrating...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant PromiseThe cellar smelled of wet stone and old iron, a scent that Elias Thorne had spent forty years trying to scrub from his skin. It was the smell of duty, or so he had told himself when he first put on the uniform, but now, in the damp dark beneath the city, it smelled of rot. The city above was asleep, a sprawling tapestry of gaslight and shadow that stretched out toward the horizon, but down...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CircuitThe ink on the page was still wet, glistening with the dampness of the November fog that clung to the iron railings of the estate, and Captain Elias Thorne felt the weight of the pen less as a tool of administration and more as a leaden anchor dragging him down into the silt of his own conscience. He sat in the study, a room that smelled of stale tobacco, beeswax, and the slow, sweet decay of...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GhostThe room was a cathedral of white porcelain and cold steel, where the air tasted of antiseptic and old dust, a place where Margaret Holloway stood before the mirror that had once belonged to her mother, watching the reflection of a woman who seemed to be dissolving into the sterile light. She was not alone, not truly, for the walls were thick with the silence of the Institution, a vast,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridMarch 1893. The iron gates of Blackwood Asylum for the Insane. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the gate. His hands shook. Not from cold. From fear. He was a soldier. Or had been. Before the war. Before the silence. Now he was a warden. The mist rolled in from the moor. It tasted of rust and wet wool. "Who goes there?" The gatekeeper’s voice was gravel. "Bradshaw." Thomas said. "I am here for the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainThe tower stood in the valley like a broken tooth. Mara climbed it. Her boots were worn thin. The stone was cold. It bit her ankles. She did not stop. The wind screamed. It wanted her gone. She stayed. She was not human. Not entirely. Her skin had a sheen. Like wet slate. Her eyes held no light. Just a deep, hollow dark. The villagers called her the Shade. They crossed the street to avoid her....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetThe rain lashed the window of the patrol car. It was a cold, grey Tuesday. Sergeant Thomas Bradshaw watched the wipers beat against the glass. They moved in a steady, rhythmic thud. Left. Right. Left. Right. The wipers were the only living thing in the cabin. The engine hummed a low, tired note. "Keep your eyes open, Tom," Captain Eleanor Fairchild said. Her voice was dry. It scraped across the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CampusYou wake in a room that smells of wet stone and old iron. The walls are not plaster but rough-hewn granite, damp with a cold that seems to seep into your marrow. You are wearing a tunic of coarse grey wool, itchy against your skin, and your feet are bare on the cold floor. You try to remember how you got here. The last thing you recall is the rain lashing against the window of your office in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe fog rolled in from the harbor before the bells began to ring. It was a thick, grey wool that swallowed the cobblestones and the lanterns, erasing the world beyond the reach of a man’s arm. Silas Vane stood on the wet stone steps of the guild hall, his boots heavy with the damp of the street. He was a clerk of the lowest order, a man of ink and silence, whose hands were stained not by crime...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek