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 Distant GardenThe coat was red. Not a bright, cheerful red, but a deep, arterial crimson that seemed to drink the light from the room. It hung on the back of a wooden chair in the center of the white-walled hall, a violent splash of color against the sterile beige of the floor. Elias sat on the far side of the room, his knees drawn up to his chest. He was a small man, wiry and pale, with eyes that had seen...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden HarborThe rain in London does not wash things clean. It merely makes the grime slicker, more treacherous underfoot. I had come to the city for the archive, for the papers of Julian Thorne, the disgraced sociologist of the 1920s. I was a junior lecturer at a small university in the Midwest, a place where the air smelled of old paper and quiet desperation. My reputation was small, my tenure precarious,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PhotographThe sea did not crash against the cliffs of Dunmore; it gnawed at them, a slow, patient erosion that turned stone to dust and memory to ash. For forty years, Elias Thorne had held the photograph in his pocket, a folded square of paper that had gone soft with sweat and salt, its edges fraying into a halo of white fluff against his worn flannel trousers. It was not a picture of a person, or a...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantThe soup boiled over. It hissed. Steam rose. Thick white clouds. They curled. They clung to the ceiling. The pot was black iron. It sat on the stove. The stove was stone. The stone was cold. The kitchen was dark. Only the fire glowed. Orange. Red. Blue at the core. Elara stood there. She held the wooden spoon. Her hands were small. They shook. A little. Just a tremor. She was seven. She was...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant BladeThe fire roared in the hearth. It ate the oak. It ate the silence. Thomas sat. He held the bowl. The stew was hot. It steamed. It smelled of thyme and blood. He did not look up. He looked at the broth. He watched the fat rise. He watched it settle. The room was full of men. They filled the chairs. They filled the table. They filled the air with smoke and noise. They were loud. They were young....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThe envelope was thick. Heavy with the silence of the valley. Thomas held it in his small, ink-stained hands. He did not open it. Not yet. He sat on the porch steps, the wood cold through his thin trousers. The air smelled of wet slate and distant rain. "You look pale, Tom," said his mother. She was mending a tear in his shirt. Her needle moved fast. Click. Click. "Did Mr. Blackwood say...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe morning mist clung to the cobblestones of Oakhaven like a shroud that refused to lift, wrapping the narrow streets and the ancient, soot-stained chimneys in a grey, suffocating embrace that seemed to silence even the creak of the wooden shutters above. Julian Thorne stood at the threshold of the Infirmary, his boots heavy with the damp earth of the lane, watching the village emerge from the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe ink on the village ledger was not merely black, but a living thing, a viscous darkness that seeped into the pores of the paper and, by extension, into the skin of those who touched it, and it was here, in the quiet, dust-moted air of the scribe’s office, that Elias Thorne realized with a cold, spreading certainty that he had been reading the signs wrong for twenty years, that the silence he...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe fog rolls in off the moor, a thick, gray wool that erases the horizon and swallows the world whole, leaving you suspended in a silence so profound it feels like a physical weight pressing against your eardrums. You are standing at the edge of the village of Oakhaven, or what is left of it, a place that exists in the interstitial spaces of time and memory, where the cobblestones are slick...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek