0 Comments
0 Shares
7 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Wistful SagaThe house was dying by inches, a slow hemorrhage of dry rot and silence that we pretended not to see, and I stood in the center of the hallway with my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my wool coat, watching the dust motes dance in the thin, gray light that filtered through the grimy transom window above the door. My father was there, sitting in the armchair that used to belong to his...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CrownThe silence in the car was not empty, but heavy, a physical weight that pressed against my temples and settled deep in the marrow of my bones. I sat in the driver’s seat of the rusted sedan, my hands gripping the steering wheel until the knuckles turned the color of old parchment, staring at the road that stretched out before us like a gray ribbon unspooling into the mist. We had been driving...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerMara sat at the table. The wood was cold. It was old oak. It had been in the house for three generations. The house stood on a hill. The fog rolled in from the valley. It was thick. It was gray. It smelled of wet stone. Mara looked at the plate. The plate was white. The food was dark. It was stew. It was thick. It was heavy. She did not eat. She stared at it. The spoon lay beside the plate. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale FractureThe air in the Department of Anomalous Containment smells of ozone and stale coffee, a scent that has seeped into the very fibers of your wool suit until you cannot distinguish your own skin from the fabric. You are Marcus Thorne, Senior Archivist, and you have been here for eleven years. You do not speak often. Your colleagues, the men in the grey blazers who move with the frantic energy of...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MasterThe air in the Hall of Echoes is thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and older, darker things, a perfume of centuries compressed into a single, suffocating breath where you stand at the edge of the dais, your hands trembling not from cold but from the terrible, electric hum of the silver goblet clutched so tightly in your left palm that the metal has begun to bite into the flesh of your...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MazeI woke not to the light of dawn but to the weight of the iron, a cold and familiar thing that had fused itself to my consciousness like a second skull, humming with a low, tectonic vibration that seemed to rise from the very bedrock of the house where I had spent my solitary life in the town of Oakhaven. It was the compass, the brass-bound instrument that had belonged to my father, Edward,...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden RitualYou are standing in the middle of a shop that does not exist, or perhaps one that has existed since before the concept of ownership was invented, holding a pair of silver spectacles in your hands. They are heavy, cold, and they smell faintly of ozone and old rain. Your friend, Arthur, is standing three feet away from you, his face a mask of such profound, terrified confusion that you can almost...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainThe fog did not lift. It settled. It breathed. It pressed against the glass of the carriage window like a pale, wet hand. Thomas sat in the corner. His knees were drawn up. He held a brass compass. It was cold. The needle spun. It did not stop. It never stopped. Beside him sat Arthur. Arthur was quiet. Arthur was always quiet. He wore a coat of dark wool. The fabric was heavy. It smelled of...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CircuitThe copper wire hums against the inside of my skull, a low, resonant thrum that has replaced the sound of my own heartbeat, binding the metal to my marrow until I can no longer tell where the circuit ends and the boy begins. I sit in the center of the vast, silent atrium of the Exchange, the marble floor cold through the thin soles of my shoes, watching the dust motes dance in the shafts of...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek