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 GuestThe fog outside your window has thickened to a bruised purple, pressing its cold, damp face against the glass of the observatory where you have spent the last forty years cataloging the silent, indifferent movements of stars, and you know, with a certainty that settles in your marrow like lead, that the light you have been waiting for has not merely failed to arrive but has been replaced by a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridThe letter lay on the desk. It was a thin rectangle of cream paper. The ink was brown. It smelled of damp earth. Elias read it again. He held it with two hands. His fingers were trembling. The wood of the desk was cold. It bit into his palms. The Guild had sent the notice. They called it a correction. They called it a duty. They did not call it a lie. But it was a lie. It said the bees were...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe iron gate of the Citadel did not creak because it was rusted but because it had been left open for three days, a gaping maw swallowing the gray fog that rolled in from the river every morning, and I stood before it with my hands bound in the heavy leather straps that the warden, a man whose face I could no longer quite recall, had wrapped around my wrists with a tightness that turned my...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PhotographThe road was white. Not snow. Dust. Mud. It clung to the wheels of the cart. It caked the boots of the boy. Elias. He was twelve. His father walked ahead. Silent. The town of Oakhaven lay in the valley. It was a place of stone and shadow. The church spire pierced the grey sky. It looked like a needle. Stitching the earth to the heavens. Elias looked at his father’s back. Broad. Strong. But...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustThe dream came to Captain Elias Thorne not as a vision of glory, but as a smell: the sharp, metallic tang of ozone mixed with the cloying, sweet rot of overripe figs. In the dream, he was not the stoic warden of the town’s ancient gates, but a child, small and barefoot, holding a single, impossible bird in his cupped hands. The bird was not made of feathers, but of woven starlight and the gray,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ChronicleThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended mist that turned the concrete of the highway overpass into a slick, reflective mirror where the headlights of passing cars smeared into long, bleeding ribbons of amber and white, a visual rhythm that matched the steady, dull throb of pain in the back of Gerald’s skull, a pain that had become so familiar over the last three weeks...0 Comments 0 Shares 29 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe coat was red. Not a bright, screaming red, but a deep, arterial crimson that seemed to absorb the light in the small, windowless room. You wore it every day. It was your skin. It was your history. It was your sin. The conference room smelled of stale coffee and wet wool. Rain lashed against the glass of the atrium, blurring the city into a smear of grey and neon. You sat at the head of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenThe rain had stopped. The air tasted of rust and wet wool. I sat in the chair. My back was against the wall. The wall was cold. It was a concrete block. It was solid. It was final. I looked at the door. The handle was brass. It was tarnished. I did not touch it. I watched the dust motes dance in the gray light. They were tiny. They were free. They were not me. I was a soldier. I was a guard. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden RitualThe train smelled of wet wool and rust. I sat by the window, watching the grey fields blur into a smear of mud. My hands were in my lap. They were red. The blood had dried into stiff, dark flakes under my nails. I could feel it there, a rough texture against the skin, a second layer that refused to wash off. I was a constable. Or I had been, until the last hour. Now I was just a man with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek