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 MasqueradeThe server room was a tomb of humming silence, a climate-controlled purgatory where the air tasted of ozone and stale coffee, and it was here, amidst the blinking red eyes of the dying mainframe, that Arthur Penhaligon found the mask. It was not a plastic carnival prop, nor a paper-thin disguise for a high school dance, but a heavy, ivory-white thing, carved from a material that felt like cold...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale FractureThe bone did not break with a sound, but with a silence so profound it swallowed the wind. You stand in the corridor of the old estate, the one that has been yours and your mother’s and her mother’s before the world shifted into its gray, regulated twilight. The air is thick with the scent of dried lavender and the metallic tang of old iron, a perfume that has seeped into the very grain of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant PromiseThe brass badge on my chest felt like a brand of molten lead, searing through the wool of my uniform against the cold November air that howled through the corridors of the Blackwood Insane Asylum. I stood before the heavy oak door of Ward C, the one reserved for the patients who had lost not just their minds, but their names, and I heard the scratching. It was a rhythmic, wet sound, like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CartographThe room is white. Not the warm white of linen, but the sterile, aggressive white of a hospital ward or a holding cell. The air smells of antiseptic and old sweat. You are sitting on a metal chair that has no backrest. Your hands are cuffed in front of you. The chains are cold against your wrists. You do not look at them. You look at the floor. The tiles are cracked. A single hair lies on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JourneyThe rain does not fall; it hangs, a grey curtain drawn tight across the window of the bus, blurring the world into a smear of wet asphalt and dying neon. You are sitting in the third row, your legs folded beneath you, your knuckles white as you grip the handle above the seat. It is not fear that tightens your hands, not really. It is the weight of the air, thick with the smell of wet wool and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JourneyThe coat was the first thing to go, not from her body, but from her memory. It had been a heavy thing, wool and leather, smelling of cedar and old tobacco, a garment that seemed to possess a gravity of its own, anchoring her to the earth in a world that had become increasingly gaseous and unreliable. She had worn it for forty years, through the long winters of the valley and the brief,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe rain had not stopped for three days. It was a cold, relentless gray that turned the mud of the valley into a thick, sucking paste. I stood at the edge of the treeline, watching the smoke rise from the village below. It was thin and white, cutting sharply against the dark sky. I did not go down. I stayed in the trees, where the roots of the old oaks gripped the earth like the fingers of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant LegendThe rain in Caledonia did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the soot that clung to every brick and cobblestone into a black, viscous tar. Elias Thorne stood on the platform of the Central Terminus, his coat buttoned to the chin, watching the last of the commuters file toward the eastbound express. He was a man of sixty, though his hands, stained permanently with...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsMara folded the shirt. The fabric was thin. It had been thin for weeks. She smoothed the crease with her thumb. The office air was cold. It bit her knuckles. She worked late. The lights hummed. A low, sick drone. Her sister, Elise, was gone. Three days. The phone was silent. No voicemail. No text. Just the dial tone. A flat, white sound. Mara checked the message again. She checked the bank...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek