0 Comments
0 Shares
2 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Faded PortraitThe fog rolled in from the sea. It was thick. It smelled of rot. I walked the corridor. My boots echoed. The stone floor was cold. I am Thomas Bradshaw. I am the Inspector. I investigate the dead. I investigate the lies. This house is a tomb. It is also a palace. The air is stale. It is heavy with dust and memory. I was here before. I did not remember. Or I chose to forget. My father built this...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the tin roof of the clinic like a thousand small, desperate fingers. I sat at my desk, the wood cold under my palms. The air smelled of wet wool and antiseptic. My father lay in the bed across the room. He did not breathe. Or rather, his breathing was so shallow it was a rumor, a ghost of a rhythm that barely stirred the white sheets....0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitI woke with the taste of copper and wet stone in my mouth, the air thick with the humidity of the old quarter. My hands were shaking, not from cold, but from the residual voltage of the dream. I had been there again, in the workshop, the one that no longer existed. The smell of linseed oil and varnish was so strong it felt like a physical weight pressing against my chest. I sat up in the narrow...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ParadoxThe thorn snaps. You feel the sting. Sharp. Clean. A red bead forms. It sits on your thumb. A jewel. A warning. The forest breathes. It is thick here. Old. Damp. You are not meant to be here. You know this. Your coat is wool. It smells of pipe smoke. And dust. And books. But you are walking. Fast. The underbrush pulls at you. It wants to hold you. You do not want to be held. You want to find...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CartographThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent and grey veil that turned the cobblestones of the old university district into slick, black mirrors reflecting the dull, unyielding sky above. Elias Thorne sat in his office, a small, windowless room on the fourth floor of the administrative annex, a place that smelled of damp wool, stale tea, and the particular, dry scent of aging paper. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe bell tower of St. Jude’s had not rung in three days. I woke to the silence. It was a thick, woolen silence that pressed against the windowpanes of my cottage on the hill. Outside, the mist clung to the cobblestones of the village square, erasing the edges of the world. I did not open my eyes. I lay still, feeling the cold seep through the linen sheets. In the dream, I had been back in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale LetterThe rain did not fall so much as it stood, a grey curtain of mist that smelled of wet stone and old iron. Elara sat in the back of the carriage, her hands folded in her lap, watching the mud churn into a thick, brown slurry beneath the wheels. She was a woman of few words, a carpenter by trade, a title that sat strangely on her shoulders in the high courts of the capital, but the wood had...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful WitnessThe orchard behind the manor house had been dying for three years, a slow and silent hemorrhage of vitality that no one in the village seemed willing to name, yet which every child in the household of the Ashworths could feel in the hollow of their stomachs like a cold stone dropped into deep water. It was a peculiar kind of rot, not the sudden blight of frost or the hungry striping of...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful Ashes"You look like a ghost, Thomas." The voice belongs to Elias. He stands by the window, his back to me, hands clasped behind his spine. The glass reflects a face that is not mine. It is older. It is harder. The light in the room is grey and thin, filtering through the heavy curtains of the dormitory. It is the only room in the compound where the air does not smell of ozone and burnt plastic. I do...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek