0 Comments
0 Shares
3 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Wistful ShowThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of the old district into a mirror of gray and black. I stood on the corner of Vane Street, my trench coat heavy with water, watching the light bleed from the sky. The building across the way, the Ashworth Manor, stood like a jagged tooth in the gums of the city. It was a place of stone and silence, of high ceilings and lower...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale AltarThe mortar whistle splits the air above the soot-stained rooftops of Leeds, a sharp, metallic shriek that hangs in the thick, coal-heavy smog of the industrial quarter, vibrating against the bones of the brickwork until the ground itself seems to shudder under your boots. You are standing on the roof of the old textile mill, the one that was condemned for fire hazards in the winter of last year...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RoadThe rain hit the slate roof. It drummed a steady, cold rhythm. Elias listened. He sat in the chair by the window. The glass was fogged. His breath made a small cloud. It vanished. The house was old. It breathed. The walls settled with a groan. He heard it. He felt it in his teeth. The phone rang. It cut through the silence. A harsh, electric shriek. Elias did not move. He stared at the water on...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownWe have always known that the bread does not rise because of the yeast, but because of the silence that holds the oven, a silence so thick and warm it feels less like air and more like the heavy, woolen blanket of a grandmother’s embrace, pressing down upon the dough until it softens into something that is no longer quite flour or water but a living, breathing entity that waits for the hand...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden ScarThe iron bit was cold against my tongue. I did not fight. To fight was to admit the beast was real. I had spent twenty years in the Hall of Whispers, learning that the beast was only a reflection of my own hollow chest. My name was Edward Ashworth, though here I was merely Number Four. The walls were made of black slate, polished until they shone like wet obsidian. They reflected our faces back...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe train pulled out of the station with a sound like a long, slow exhale, the iron wheels grinding against the tracks in a rhythm that matched the beating of a heart growing too old for its own chambers. Elias Thorne stood on the platform, his hand resting on the cold steel railing, watching the receding blue of his brother’s coat shrink until it was indistinguishable from the smog and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiThe rain against the glass was a slow, gray weeping. You stand in the foyer of the Sterling-Halloway Group, a tower of glass and steel that pierces the London sky like a needle threading a black cloud. It is not a home. It is a court. And you are the prisoner. You are thirty-four. You are mid-level. You are invisible. The air smells of ozone and floor wax. It smells of power. You look down at...0 Comments 0 Shares 25 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustThe kitchen in the house on Elmsworth Drive smelled of stale lavender and the sharp, metallic tang of old copper, a scent that had settled into the pores of the wallpaper and the grain of the oak table where Margot sat, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold an hour ago, the ceramic rim biting into her lower lip as she stared at the single, unbroken egg yolk floating in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe foxglove in the pot on the windowsill had begun to rot, its bell-shaped purple mouths stretching wide and limp like the faces of the dead, and Daniel Ashworth sat in the dim, dusty light of his office, watching the petals detach one by one and fall onto the cold linoleum floor with a softness that felt more violent than any gunshot he had ever heard. He was a man who had spent thirty years...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek