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 Faded RiverThe blade bites deep. You do not flinch. You have learned that pain is a language spoken by the body, and today your body is screaming. The sword of the King’s champion shatters against your breastplate, a sound like a bone breaking in a quiet room. You are in the throne room. The air is thick with the scent of beeswax and old blood. It is the winter of your forty-second year. You are a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe ink was still wet when you first saw it, a shimmering black smear on the parchment that defied the dryness of the air. You held your breath, the heavy leather of your satchel pressing against your shoulder, and watched as the letters began to bleed into one another, not fading, but twisting. It was a map, or it had been intended to be a map, but the geography was wrong. The rivers ran...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CampusThe bell did not ring. It shattered. The sound was not a chime but a scream of iron, a jagged tear in the air that cut across the quad. Margaret Holloway stood still. She felt the vibration in her teeth. Around her, the students froze. They were young. They were soft. They looked at her with wide, wet eyes. She was the Keeper of the Word. She held the staff. It was made of oak. It was old. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden RitualYou are the hand that holds the gavel, and the gavel is your finger, and your finger is the bone of the state, and the bone is white and dry and cracked at the knuckles. You do not remember when the wood of the court began to feel like wood inside your own wrist. You have served so long that the distinction between the instrument and the arm has dissolved into a single, heavy sensation of duty....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RoadThe rain had not stopped for forty days, a grey, relentless curtain that turned the cobblestones of Oakhaven into a slick, mirrored reflection of the sky, and I stood at the edge of the quarry where the water rose to meet the earth, my boots sinking into the mud that smelled of iron and rot. I was a man who had spent thirty years enforcing the law, a role that required me to view the world...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful WitnessThe ledger in your hands is not paper. It is skin. You know this. You have known it since the moment you peeled the first layer back in the damp cellar of the municipal archives, the smell of wet wool and old iron filling your nose. The ink is not carbon. It is blood, dried to a rust that smells of copper and regret. You are Elias Thorne, a man who left the coast because the salt had eaten his...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterThe shrapnel embedded itself in the mahogany desk of my study just as the ceiling beams groaned under the weight of the world. I did not look up. I knew the trajectory of the projectile before it struck, a knowledge so visceral it felt like a memory rather than a perception. My husband, Julian, was three floors down, in the cellar where we had stored the vintage claret and the ledgers of our...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant BladeThe blade is heavy. You feel it in your shoulders before you feel it in your hand. It is a thing of iron and history, cold against your palm, slick with the sweat of your own fear. You are standing in the room. The room is small. The walls are close. The air is thick. It smells of dust and old paper and the metallic tang of blood. You are a soldier. Or perhaps you were. The ranks have blurred....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe rain did not fall. It hung. A gray, suspended curtain over the valley, turning the air into a thick, wet wool that smelled of wet stone and old blood. I had walked for three days. My boots were heavy with mud that had dried to iron in the cracks. My legs burned with a fever that felt less like sickness and more like a fire trying to eat the bones from the inside. I am a man who has killed....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek