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 IncenseThe fern had roots. They were thick. Pale. Knotted like old rope. Elara watched them from the floor of the cell. The concrete was cold. It bit into her knees. She was a creature of ink and paper. A spirit of the archive. Here, in the basement of the Department of Civic Order, she was a stain. A mistake. The air smelled of damp rot and bleach. Above, the city hummed. Electric. Loud. She pressed...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe seal broke not with a sound of shattering glass or the roar of a collapsing wall, but with the quiet, wet exhalation of a sigh that had been held in your throat for forty years, a sigh that tasted of iron and old paper and the specific, cloying sweetness of the ink you had spent your life grinding by hand, the ink that was supposed to bind the town of Oakhaven to its history, to its laws,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseYou are holding the glove. It is not a fine thing, not in the way the silk gloves of the court ladies are fine, smelling of lavender and the faint, sweet rot of power. This is a thing of leather and thread, of sweat and the gritty dust of the cobblestones. It is brown, once it was black, and now it is the color of dried blood, worn thin at the fingertips where the fingers of the man who wore it...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraThe ink had dried into a scab upon the parchment, a dark, crusty testament to a vow that no longer held weight in the air of the great hall, where the dust motes danced in the slanted light of the afternoon sun with a malice that seemed to mock the very idea of permanence. Sir Thomas Bradshaw sat upon the high-backed chair of ebony wood, his hands folded in his lap with a stillness that was not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale GardenThe banquet hall did not smell of food. It smelled of damp stone and old iron, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a persistent lie. Margaret sat at the head of a table that stretched into a darkness so profound it seemed to have weight. The candles flickered, not with wind, but with a hesitation, as if the light itself was unsure of its purpose. Across from her sat her brother,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe soup was still warm. I could see the steam curling off the surface in thin, lazy ribbons, rising to meet the low beams of the tavern. It smelled of thyme and bone, a scent that had been my comfort since I was a girl, before the world turned its back on us. I sat across from my brother, Thomas. He was carving a piece of chicken, his knife moving with a steady, mechanical rhythm. Clack....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseYou are bleeding from the ear, a thin, bright thread of crimson that trails down your neck and stains the white collar of your tunic. You do not flinch. You do not wipe it away. You stand in the center of the cobblestone square in London, the year indeterminate, the air thick with the smell of wet horse manure and the distant, metallic tang of rain. Your hands are locked in a tight fist at your...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful PetalThe velvet collar of my father’s coat hung around my neck like a noose of starlight, heavy with the scent of dust and old lavender, while I stood in the center of the Great Hall of the Unseen, watching the throne dissolve into a mist of silver pollen. It was not a place that existed on any map, a realm where the laws of physics had long since surrendered to the whims of memory, and the air...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridThe rain against the glass of the observation deck was not a curtain but a static field, a white noise that erased the world outside and left only the hum of the ventilation system. Elias sat in his chair, the leather worn smooth by decades of his particular, quiet touch. He was not a man of the building, strictly speaking, but of its bones. He was the Keeper of the Thresholds, a title that...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek