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 Wistful SilenceThe rain fell upon the slate roofs of Oakhaven with a persistence that felt less like weather and more like a slow, gray burial, washing the dust from the cobbles but unable to cleanse the air of the heavy, metallic scent that had settled over the town since the old mill stopped turning its great wooden wheels three weeks prior, a silence so profound it seemed to press against the eardrums of...0 Comments 0 Shares 18 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant SummerThe road was red clay, packed hard by the wheels of a hundred carts. Thomas walked it alone. The sun was high. It burned the back of his neck. He wore the grey coat of the King’s Guard. It was too thick. The heat pressed against his skin like a hand. He carried his sword. It was heavy. He did not draw it. He did not need to. Fear was enough. Fear lived in the eyes of the villagers as he passed....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GhostThe ink on my fingers never truly washes off. It is a bruise that lives under the skin, a dark tide that rises with the dampness of the cellar where we keep the archives. I am Margaret Holloway, Senior Archivist, and I have spent thirty years in this limestone building, a place that smells of vinegar and decay, of paper turning to dust before it can speak. We call it the Hall of Records, but to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe bread rose in the dark. It always did. Not from yeast, though the jar on the counter held a living culture, sour and white. It rose from the debt. From the silence that pressed against the windows of the bakery in Oakhaven, a town that had forgotten how to speak. Elias woke with the crust already forming. He was a prisoner of the oven, and the oven was a god. He put on his apron. It was...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant BladeThe wind off the moor does not howl; it hums, a low and persistent vibration that settles in the marrow of your bones and refuses to leave. You stand at the edge of the cliff, where the grass turns brown and brittle under the weight of an autumn that seems to stretch on forever, watching the sea churn against the rocks below. It is a gray, featureless expanse, indistinguishable from the sky, as...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ApartmentThe banquet hall of the Sterling Institute was not a place for the living, but rather a museum of the recently deceased, where the air hung heavy with the scent of stale lavender and the faint, metallic tang of old blood that seemed to seep up from the marble floor. Arthur Pendelton stood near the edge of the chandelier, his fingers trembling slightly as he adjusted the cuffs of his white dress...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WhispersThe hawk sat on the fence post. It watched Elias. Elias watched the road. The road was empty. The dust hung in the air. It looked like gold. It looked like ash. Elias held the cage. The cage was heavy. The cage was warm. Inside the cage, a single seed pod waited. It was dry. It was hard. It was silent. Elias was not from here. He was from the North. The North was cold. The North was cruel. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe hospital ceiling fan cut the air in a slow, hypnotic circle, slicing the silence into thin, translucent ribbons. You lay in bed 402, the sheets tangled around your legs like the roots of a tree that had finally given up on growing straight. The air smelled of antiseptic and old paper, a scent that had seeped into the lining of your soul. You were thirty-two, and the disease had a name that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe rain did not fall so much as it suspended itself in the air, a fine, grey mist that clung to the wool of your overcoat and seeped into the marrow of your bones with a persistence that felt almost personal, as if the city itself were weeping for a crime it had committed but refused to name. You stood at the edge of the wet cobblestones, the weight of your service sash cutting a diagonal line...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek