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 Pale DoorThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a heavy, gray curtain that smelled of wet stone and old iron, pressing down on the courtyard of the Blackwood facility until the world outside seemed to dissolve into a blur of mud and mist. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood at the center of the square, his boots sinking into the sludge, his breath visible in the cold, a rhythmic puff of white...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetThe mud had turned to a slick, obsidian mirror in the valley, reflecting the bruised purple of the sky above, and Elara stood ankle-deep in it, her fingers already black with the cold, the scent of wet iron and rotting lichen heavy in her throat. She was not a woman, not truly, in the way the townspeople of Blackwood Hollow understood the term, for her skin held the translucent quality of birch...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe gate stood at the end of the road. It was iron. It was black. It was closed. Thomas walked. His boots were heavy. Mud clung to his soles. The air was cold. It smelled of coal smoke and wet stone. He carried a lantern. The flame shook. He was a constable. He wore the tunic. The tunic was grey. It was old. It did not fit right. The buttons strained. His face was gaunt. His eyes were tired. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe truck idled. The engine hummed a low, tired note against the cold morning air. "We're late," said Cal. His voice was rough, like gravel in a tin can. "Don't care," said Elias. He kept his eyes on the road ahead. The asphalt was wet. It reflected the grey sky. Cal looked at him. "The Shift starts at eight. We're at seven-fifty. They don't like it when we're late. They mark us." "Let them...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe road to the North Gate was a rib of red clay stripped bare by the sun. You walked it with your boots caked in dust that smelled of iron and old rain. Your partner, Silas, walked ahead. He did not look back. You had not spoken in three hours. The silence was heavy. It pressed against your eardrums. It was a physical thing. A wall. You carried the ledger in your left hand. The leather cover...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ApartmentThe fire began in the coal chutes of the Whitmore Mill, a low, orange pulse that turned the twilight into a bruised purple. It was not a dramatic blaze, not yet, but a slow, suffocating rot that climbed the brickwork with the patience of a vine. Elias saw it from the window of his attic room, a thin boy of twelve with hair the color of ash, and he did not scream. He did not run. He simply...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ParadoxThe banquet hall smelled of roasting lamb and stale beer, a heavy, cloying mixture that clung to the back of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s throat, making it difficult to breathe in the suffocating heat of the summer night. He stood by the window, his uniform buttoned to the collar, the fabric stiff against his skin, feeling the weight of the iron star on his chest like a cold anchor dragging him down...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden FarceThe rain did not fall so much as it descended, a cold, persistent mist that clung to the wool of Sir Aldric’s cloak and seeped into the marrow of his bones. He stood at the edge of the Blackwood, where the treeline thinned into a jagged scar against the grey sky, and waited. His hand rested not on his sword hilt, but on the small, leather-bound journal tucked into his breast pocket. The pages...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale EchoThe rain against the windshield of the municipal cruiser does not wash the city clean; it merely blurs the edges of the grime, turning the neon signs of downtown into smeared watercolors of red and electric blue. You are driving. You have been driving for three hours, the seatbelt cutting a familiar, painful arc across your chest, the leather of the steering wheel slick with the sweat of your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek