0 Comments
0 Shares
6 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Pale LetterThe woolen scarf was the first thing to disappear, not into a drawer or a laundry basket, but into the fabric of the boy himself, a slow and terrifying alchemy that began on the morning the frost finally bit through the thin air of the valley and turned the breath of every living soul into a jagged, white splinter in the cold. Elian had always been a quiet child, a creature of stillness who...0 Comments 0 Shares 27 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden FarceThe dust in the archive room settles like snow on a field no one treads. You know this because you have watched it fall for forty years. You are the Keeper. That is the only title that matters here, in this hollowed-out church on the edge of Ashford, where the walls weep with the damp of centuries and the silence has a texture, thick and heavy as velvet. You do not speak much. Words are...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden ScarThe air in the intake tunnel tasted of ozone and rust, a metallic tang that coated the back of young Elias’s throat and refused to be swallowed, lingering there as a bitter testament to the industrial machinery that churned deep beneath the slate hills of the Appalachian foothills. It was a gray, perpetual twilight down here, lit not by the sun but by the humming, flickering glow of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale EchoThe rain in London did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the soot of the gas lamps into a black slurry that coated the cobblestones of Whitechapel. Elias Thorne walked with his head bowed, his coat buttons strained against a chest that felt hollowed out, as if the ribcage had been removed and replaced with a cage of thin, brittle wire. He was not a man of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 23 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenThe bread is stale. You break it. It crumbles. You eat it. It tastes of ash. You eat it again. "You should not eat the ash," says Elias. He sits by the hearth. The fire is high. It eats the wood. It eats the air. It eats the silence. You do not answer. You chew. You swallow. The ash coats your teeth. It coats your tongue. It is a fine, grey powder. It is the dust of the old oaks. It is the dust...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetThe road to the Citadel of Aethelgard was not a path so much as a wound in the earth, a long, jagged scar of mud and blackened stone that twisted upward into the clouds, and I walked it with the weight of my own bones feeling strangely foreign, as if the flesh that had carried me through twenty years of service had been swapped for something hollow and echoing in the deep, timeless quiet of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe dream began with the smell of wet stone and old blood, a scent that seemed to seep up through the soles of Elias’s boots as he stood in the center of the Great Hall of the Citadel of Aethelgard, a place that had not existed for three hundred years yet felt more real than the cobblestones of the modern city outside. Elias was seven years old, or perhaps seventy, for in the dream time was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantThe silence in the workshop was not empty but heavy, a physical weight that pressed against the eardrums and settled deep in the marrow, where the dust from ten thousand failed repairs had long since fused with the sweat of a life spent bending willow and steel. Elias Thorne sat at the center of this quiet storm, his hands resting on the workbench, the wood worn smooth by decades of friction,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe rain had been falling for three days, a steady, grey curtain that erased the horizon and turned the road into a slick ribbon of mud. Sergeant Elias Thorne sat in the driver’s seat of the patrol car, his hands resting loosely on the wheel, watching the wipers beat a rhythmic, futile drum against the glass. He was holding a small, wooden object in his left hand. It was a birdhouse, no larger...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek