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 Golden SongMara dreamed of the river, not as water, but as a living throat. It swelled in her sleep, a dark, wet muscle that pulsed against the banks of her mind. In the dream, the water was gold, thick and viscous, coating the stones and the roots of the alder trees. She tried to swim, but the current was not pushing her; it was holding her. It was a cradle, or a coffin. The dream ended with a sound, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareThe bell rang. Not a church bell. Not a school bell. It was the heavy, iron tongue of the city striking the pavement. It struck once. Then again. I was in the broth. It tasted of copper and old wool. The fog was thick. It pressed against the glass. I held the spoon. The soup was cold. It had been cold for days. The steam rose. It did not rise. It hung. It waited. My name is Elias. I am a keeper...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CircuitThe letter arrives on a Tuesday, the envelope yellowed by time and the damp air of the coast, bearing a postmark from a town that no longer exists on any map. You open it with hands that tremble not from age, but from the sudden, violent recognition of a rhythm you thought you had burned out of your soul decades ago. The ink is blue, faded to the color of bruises, and the handwriting is yours,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MasterThe dream had no floor. It was a suspension of amber dust in a black void. Elias stood there, weightless, his boots hanging in the air like dead fruit. He looked down. There was no ground to break his fall. There was only the dark, breathing slowly. It was a familiar darkness. The kind that lives behind the eyes when one has run too far. He woke in the wagon. The jolting was violent. A...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongI woke with the taste of iron and old wool in my mouth, the dream still clinging to me like a wet shroud, heavy and cold, where I saw my own hands not as the pale, trembling things they had become in the grey light of the barracks but as the strong, bronze-gilt claws of the King’s own hounds, tearing at the fabric of a world that had no right to exist, and I knew then, with a certainty that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiThe coat was red. It was a terrible red. It stained the air. It stained the silence. I wore it every day. It was my skin. It was my bone. I was a constable. I was old. My knees hurt. The rain did not stop. It fell on the city of Ashworth. Ashworth was not a city. It was a place. It was a dream. It was a mistake. We lived in the gray. The buildings were tall. They were made of soot. The smoke...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterThe house was burning. Not with fire. Not yet. But with light. A pale, sickly glow pulsed from the basement windows. It beat like a heart. Slow. Heavy. Wrong. Dr. Elias Thorne stood on the porch. He held his coffee. It was cold. He did not drink. He watched. The town of Oakhaven was silent. The fog rolled in off the river. Thick. White. It swallowed the streetlamps. Elias turned. He looked at...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe brass buttons on Sergeant Elias Thorne’s uniform were cold. They were cold because the air in the infirmary was stagnant, thick with the scent of boiled wool and iron. Elias held the badge in his left hand. It was a silver disc, worn smooth by years of thumbs rubbing against it. The edges were blurred. The engraving of the oak tree was gone, sanded away by friction. It was no longer a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TaleThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a thick, grey curtain that erased the horizon and turned the world into a damp, breathing thing that smelled of wet wool and old iron, and in that suffocating stillness, Thomas Whitmore, who was not yet a man but certainly not a boy anymore, stood in the center of the kitchen with his hands pressed flat against the cold, unyielding surface of the table,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek