0 Commentarii
0 Distribuiri
1 Views
0 previzualizare
Director
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Vă rugăm să vă autentificați pentru a vă dori, partaja și comenta!
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe jar sat on the steel table, a squat cylinder of glass that held not honey, nor jam, but a thick, viscous fluid the color of bruised plums, swirling with a slow, deliberate malice. It was a drug, or a food, or perhaps both, a sustenance designed for the soul rather than the body, and it sat there with the quiet arrogance of a thing that knew it was about to break. Silas Vane watched it from...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Wistful AshesThe fog rolled in from the harbor like a living thing. It swallowed the cranes. It swallowed the lamps. It swallowed the world. Elias Thorne stood at the window. He held his hands up. He looked at the gloves. They were black. They were leather. They were old. They were the only things left. The alarm screamed. It was not a mechanical sound. It was a biological shriek. The air pressure dropped....0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Faded MasqueradeThe mask sits on the mahogany table, its gilded surface peeling in slow, dry curls, revealing the rough grey pulp beneath like the skin of a fruit left too long in the sun. You hold it in your hands, not because you intend to wear it, but because the weight of it is the only thing that feels real in the hollow of your chest. It is a creature of the carnival, a jagged grin of painted porcelain...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Faded QuadrantThe rain did not fall. It hung. It suspended in the air like a fine gray dust, a particulate matter that coated the lungs and the eyes and the soul. Elias stood in the center of the Plaza of Echoes, his boots sinking into the wet cobblestones. The water was cold. It was always cold. He was a Detective Inspector, though the title felt heavy and wrong here. There were no crimes in the Plaza. Only...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Faded GuestThe room was small. The stone walls wept. Rain drummed on the slate roof. It was a steady, grey rhythm. Margaret sat in the corner. She held her breath. She waited. The air smelled of damp wool and old blood. She looked at her hands. They were still. They were very still. She knew what they would do. She knew what she had to do. The mirror stood by the window. It was tall. It was dark. It...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Faded RoadThe house is breathing. You can hear it in the creak of the floorboards under the weight of the guests, a low, rhythmic sigh that seems to originate not from the wood but from the earth itself, settling deeper into the damp soil of the valley. It is a night of such profound stillness that the only sound is the clinking of crystal against the rim of silver, a delicate, high-pitched music that...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Wistful AtlasThe house was breathing. It was a deep, wet rasp, like lungs filled with fluid. Margaret Holloway held her breath and counted to ten. One. Two. Three. The floorboards groaned under her weight. Not from her. From the thing beneath. She tightened her grip on the brass compass. It was cold. Colder than it should have been. The needle spun wildly, pointing not north, but down. Always down....0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Pale FractureThe compass did not point north. It had not pointed north for three days, ever since we crossed the ridge where the fog settled so thickly that the world outside our boots ceased to exist. I held it in my palm, the brass casing warm from the friction of my anxious fingers, and watched the needle drift, lazy and unmoored, spinning in a slow, hypnotic circle that told me nothing about where we...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Faded AlibiThe rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed a steady, hollow rhythm against the windowpanes of the attic room, a sound that had long since ceased to be weather and become instead the heartbeat of the house itself. You sat on the edge of the mattress, your fingers tracing the grain of the wooden floor, feeling the cold seep up through the soles of your stockings. Below, in the kitchen,...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek