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 ShowThe rain tasted of iron. You knew it before you opened your mouth, the metallic tang spreading across your tongue like a bruise. You stood in the archway of the gate, the stone cold against your back, and watched the mist roll off the valley below. The town of Oakhaven lay hidden beneath a shroud of grey, silent as a held breath. You were the Warden. That was what they called you. The man who...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootThe iron gate groaned. It was a sound like a man clearing his throat after a long, silent scream. I stood before it, my fingers white-knuckled around the strap of my satchel. The satchel contained three books, a loaf of stale bread, and the only copy of my thesis. The gate did not open. It never did. You had to push. You had to push until your lungs burned and your vision blurred, and then,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe rain did not fall. It hung in the air, a fine, grey mist that tasted of iron and old blood. Elias sat in the driver’s seat of the patrol car, the engine idling with a low, rhythmic thrum. He watched the trees. They were not trees. They were pillars of black wood, stripped of bark, standing in perfect rows against the white sky. "Stop staring," a voice said from the passenger seat. Elias...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant LegendThe flood took the mill. It took the roof, the looms, and the half-finished bolts of wool that had sat there since the autumn frost. It took my father. It took the silence that had settled over the village of Oakhaven like a heavy shroud, leaving only the mud and the rot. I stood on the ridge above the valley. The rain had stopped. The air smelled of wet stone and dying grass. I held the iron...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ShieldThe rain hit the window with a rhythmic, violent persistence. Thomas sat in the corner of the small, rented room. He did not look at the door. He did not look at the street. He looked at his hands. They were trembling. The tremor was fine, microscopic, like a wire struck by a distant bell. It had been there for three years. Since the fields. Since the mud. Since the silence that followed the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThe iron gate groaned. It was a sound like a dying beast. Inside, the air tasted of rust and old blood. Tomás held the locket. It was heavy. Cold. It burned his palm. "Is it open?" a voice asked. The voice was soft. Too soft. It belonged to Silas. Silas stood in the shadows. He wore a coat of black wool. He looked thin. He looked hungry. "Almost," Tomás said. His fingers shook. He was twelve....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale GardenThe mist that crept through the iron gates of the Whitmore estate did not behave like weather; it behaved like a living thing, a pale, viscous fluid that sought to erase the boundary between the living world and the grave. You stood at the head of the long mahogany table in the family library, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and old paper, while the silence of the room pressed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden VisitYou dream of the water turning black, not with ink or oil, but with the sheer density of accumulated secrets, and in that dream you are small, a child again, standing on the mossy banks of the river that runs behind the old manor house, watching a single white heron struggle against the current, its wings beating with a frantic, desperate rhythm that seems to echo the beating of your own heart,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a thick and suspended curtain of gray water that turned the cobblestones of the lower quarter into a mirror reflecting the flickering, sickly glow of the gas lamps, and within that damp and breathing silence, Thomas Bradshaw stood with his back against the cold stone of the watchtower, listening to the rhythmic, wet thud of his own heart which seemed to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek