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 Wistful MountainThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the streets of Oakhaven into a sluggish, brown river that mirrored the grey, bruised sky above. In the basement of the old mill, the air was thick with the scent of wet stone and the faint, metallic tang of ozone, a smell that Margaret had always associated with endings. She sat in the corner, her knees drawn up to her chest, wearing a sweater...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AlibiThe fog did not lift in the valley of St. Jude’s. It sat upon the water like a wet wool blanket, gray and heavy, swallowing the pines that lined the shore of the reservoir. Margaret Holloway woke not to an alarm, but to the sensation of weight pressing against her chest, a physical density in the air that made breathing a labor. She lay in the narrow cot in the guest room of the old millhouse,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe rain had been falling for three days, a cold and relentless sheet that turned the cobblestones of the Lower Ward into slick, black mirrors reflecting the flickering gaslight of the streetlamps and the damp, bruised purple of the sky above, and I stood beneath the eaves of the old textile mill, watching the water run in rivulets down the rusted iron supports, my breath coming in short, sharp...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BannerThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of Millhaven into a slick, black mirror that reflected the grey sky in fractured shards. You stood at the edge of the square, your hands still stained with the indigo dye of your trade, watching the crowd gather beneath the town hall’s eaves. They were not there to buy cloth, nor to discuss the price of wool. They were there to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantThe dream was not of flight, but of falling. It was a vertical descent through a shaft of grey stone. The air tasted of copper and wet ash. Elias Thorne held his breath. The breath tasted of iron. He was falling. He had always been falling. The walls of the shaft were lined with brass instruments. They ticked. They clicked. They measured the rate of his decay. At the bottom of the shaft was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RiverThe rain hit the asphalt in sheets. Grey. Cold. It smelled of wet wool and old coffee. Elias stood by the window. The glass was fogged. He wiped it with his thumb. A circle of clarity. Outside, the parking lot was empty. Just the rain. And the silence. He looked at the file on the desk. Thick. White. Heavy. "Are you ready?" The voice came from the chair. Marcus. Sitting back. Legs crossed. A...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant PromiseThe house does not wait for you. It stands in the wet mist, a skeleton of stone and rot, its windows like open mouths that have forgotten how to scream. You are not supposed to be here. The lease was signed three days ago, by a hand that trembled so hard the ink bled. You are the under-tenant. The lower rung. The one who cleans the floors while the Master eats his soup in the dry room upstairs....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ApartmentThe rain did not wash the city; it merely made the grime slicker. I stood in the doorway of the precinct’s break room, the damp chill of the corridor seeping through the hem of my coat, and watched Miller wipe a smudge of coffee from the table. He was a small man, unremarkable in every way except for his eyes, which held a kind of terrified stillness. He looked at me, and I looked at him, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterThe taste of copper and burnt sugar was the first thing I knew. It coated my tongue, thick and cloying, a flavor that did not belong to the cold, damp air of the train carriage. I woke with my jaw clenching, trying to grind away a phantom sweetness that had no source. Around me, the carriage was empty, save for the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the tracks and the low, humming vibration of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek