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 Faded SutraThe ink is still wet on your hands. You look at them. Black. Shiny. It smells of iron and rain. You are in the basement of the old textile mill. The air is thick with the dust of cotton and the ghost of steam. You are Margaret. You are alone. The silence is heavy. It presses against your eardrums. You hold the paper. It is a single sheet. White. Blank. Wait. No. It is not blank. Look closer....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden OathThe frost has a taste, you will tell me, like copper wire left in the rain, and you will wake with your tongue swollen and the taste of iron still clinging to the back of your throat, not from blood but from the sheer, brutal cold of the cellar where you have spent the last three days sleeping in the dark, listening to the heartbeat of the stone above you. It is a heartbeat that does not belong...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineThe feast was a wound in the dark. I remember the smell first. Roast lamb and rosemary. The heavy, cloying scent of beeswax candles burning down to nubs. We sat at the long table in the great hall of the Abbey of St. Jude. The stone walls sweated with the breath of a hundred monks. My father sat at the head. He was a small man, but his silence was a mountain. I was the youngest of the novices....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CrossingThe dream began with the sound of steam, a high, thin shriek that tore through the silence of the cellar like a needle through skin. Thomas Ashworth woke with his heart hammering against his ribs, the taste of iron and ozone clinging to the back of his throat. He lay in the narrow cot, the springs ticking in the cold dark, and for a long moment he could not distinguish the shadows of the room...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GhostThe iron oak at the center of the square did not move, it did not sway, and it did not whisper, for the wind in this city had long since learned to respect the stillness of things that had been declared permanent, and it was beneath this unyielding, bark-scarred sentinel that Elias Thorne stood, his posture a rigid architecture of duty and exhaustion, his hands resting on the pommel of a sword...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridThe letter arrived on a Tuesday, though the days had long since lost their meaning in the grey twilight of the castle. It was thick, cream-colored paper, smelling faintly of lavender and old ink, tucked into the hand of Wren, the young scribe who served Lord Aldric. Wren was fourteen, slight as a reed, with eyes that held a permanent, watery suspicion of the world. He held the letter with...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetThe seal is broken. You feel the pressure drop before you hear the hiss. It is a sound like a dying lung, a wet, tearing exhalation that fills the vacuum of the Grand Hall. You are standing at the bottom of the spiral ramp, looking up. The Chancellery is not a building. It is a machine. And you are the gear that is grinding against the stone. Your hands are trembling. Not from cold. The air in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, grey sheet that turned the streets of Chicago into a mirror of the sky, reflecting the dull neon signs of the bars and the tired faces of the men who wandered through them. I sat in the back booth of a diner on the South Side, the vinyl seat cracking under my weight, watching the condensation slide down the window pane in slow, weeping...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe water is hot, scalding actually, and it is running down your back in sheets, blurring the world into a smear of wet tile and steam, and you are screaming, not with the sound of a human being but with the raw, torn sound of an animal caught in a trap, your hands clawing at the porcelain, your nails stripping against the smooth, cold surface of the bathroom wall, because the mirror is not...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek