0 Comentários
0 Compartilhamentos
2 Visualizações
0 Anterior
Diretório
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Faça o login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
-
The Faded GuestThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey curtain that blurred the horizon of the moor into a single, indistinct smear of wet heather and stone. You stood at the edge of the path, your fingers locked around the hilt of your walking stick, feeling the dampness seep through the leather until it soaked into the flesh of your palm, a cold, technical sensation that you monitored...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Wistful MirrorThe iron gate was jammed. I pulled. It did not move. Rain slicked the cobblestones. Cold. Heavy. The air tasted of rust and wet wool. I am Major Elias Thorne. At least, I was. Now, I am a man with a broken shoulder and a head full of static. The walls of the armory were high. Gray stone. Weeping. Drops of condensation hit the flagstones. Tap. Tap. Tap. A metronome counting down to nothing. I...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Wistful SkylineThe ink on the ledger had barely dried before the cold seeped through the wool of my coat, a physical weight that seemed to settle in the marrow of my bones as I stood before the great oak doors of the Sterling Industrial Trust. It was the year of the great expansion, when the city groaned under the burden of its own ambition, when smokestacks pierced the sky like iron fingers demanding the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Golden RitualThe roof of the Bank of St. Jude’s caved in. It did not fall with a crash. It sighed. A long, rattling exhalation of rusted iron and wet slate. Dust motes danced in the shafts of grey light that pierced the breach. They looked like gold. They looked like the old days. I stood beneath the exposed beams. My hat was gone. My dignity was thinner than the plaster peeling from the walls. The air...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Golden ScarThe chain is heavy. It bites into your wrists. You do not pull. You do not scream. You stand in the square, in the mud, while the rain slicks your uniform gray. The crowd is silent. They watch. They are not afraid. They are hungry. The man on the ground is bleeding. His name is Elias. He was a teacher. Now he is a stain in the wet dirt. His blood mixes with the rain. It runs in thin red lines...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Faded RiverThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey, suspended mist that smelled of wet wool and old iron, clinging to the woolen cloak of Sergeant Elias Thorne as he trudged up the muddy track toward the village of Oakhaven, a place that existed on no modern map and seemed to have been forgotten by the very sun that burned the rest of the world. He had been ordered to collect the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Golden SongThe carriage wheels groaned against the packed earth of the causeway, a rhythmic, wooden lament that seemed to synchronize itself with the slow, heavy beating of my heart as we approached the gates of Blackwood Manor, a sprawling gothic structure that loomed out of the mist like a shipwrecked leviathan stranded on the shore of a forgotten sea, its turrets piercing the low-hanging clouds with a...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Pale GardenThe wind did not merely blow through the iron gates of the crumbling estate; it screamed, a high, thin keening that seemed to scrape the paint from the very soul of the house, while Sergeant Elias Thorne stood alone in the center of the overgrown rose garden, his hand resting on the hilt of his service pistol, feeling the cold metal seep into his palm like a promise of violence that he was both...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Distant WoundThe rain fell in sheets. It hammered against the glass of the squad car. I held the badge in my hand. It was warm. It pulsed. Like a heart. My palm was slick. The metal was cold, yet it burned. I looked at it. It was my mirror. My face looked back. But the eyes were wrong. They were hollow. Dark. They stared at me with an accusation I could not name. I closed my hand. The pain was sharp. It bit...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Greek