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 Pale BonsaiThe man died with a leaf in his mouth. It was not a large leaf. It was pale. The color of old bone. It had been pressed into the wood of the bonsai tree for three days. I found it there. In the silence of the attic room. The air was thick with dust and the smell of decay. I was a soldier. I wore the uniform of the state. My name was Thomas. I had come to the house of the old man. The house was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThe train shudders. You feel it in the teeth before you see the blur of the platform passing by. London is a smear of grey and soot. You sit in the corner of the carriage, your coat buttoned to the throat. In your lap, a leather satchel. Inside, a notebook. The pages are stained with tea and the dust of old libraries. You are not a man of action. You are a man of observation. You watch the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenThe mist hangs low over the moor, thick as wool. You walk. Your boots sink into the peat. Each step is a small, heavy effort. The cold bites your fingers. You are looking for the House. It is not a house you can see from here. It is a shape in the fog. A silence that has weight. You have walked for three days. Your water is gone. Your bread is stale and hard. You eat it anyway. The crumbs turn...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ProtocolThe letter arrived on a Tuesday, smelling faintly of bleach and old paper. Mara held it in her gloved hands. She did not open it. She simply stared at the return address. It was her father’s handwriting. Or what was left of it. The ink bled slightly, as if the pen had pressed too hard into the skin of the world. She worked in the basement of the municipal archive. It was a sterile place. Cold....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiThe chisel bit into the mahogany with a sound like a dry bone snapping, and Elias Vane wiped his forehead with a sleeve that was already dark with sweat and sawdust. He was arguing with the grain, or rather, the grain was arguing back, refusing to yield to the straight line he had marked with his pencil. It was a Tuesday, the air in the workshop thick with the smell of turpentine and old dust,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PhotographThe fog sat heavy on the valley floor, a grey shroud that muffled the clatter of the distant mills. Elias Thorne stood in the center of his study, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and old paper. He held the silver frame in his hands, his fingers trembling not from cold, but from the weight of the silence. The photograph inside was faded, the faces within it blurred by time and water...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe first thing you notice is the taste. It is copper and ash. It coats the tongue, thick and cold. You are kneeling on the wet pavement of 4th and Main. Rain hammers the asphalt. It smells of ozone and diesel. Margaret is standing over you. She is wearing her grey coat. The one with the fraying hem. Her face is blank. Not angry. Blank. Like a window in a closed house. "Get up," she says. Her...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CampusThe dream was a vast, sterile white room, colder than the winter air that usually bit through the walls of the old abbey, and in the center of this infinite, echo-filled expanse stood a single, unadorned table upon which rested a porcelain bowl, cracked down the middle, leaking a substance that shimmered with the iridescent, viscous quality of mercury but smelled distinctly of rotting rosemary...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe morning light in the Hall of Records did not so much enter as it settled, a grey, suspended dust that coated the shoulders of the men who worked there in a fine, pale film. Silas Vane stood before the heavy oak desk of Magistrate Aldous Thorne, his hands resting on the polished surface, fingers spread wide as if testing the warmth of the wood. He was a man of forty, his face a map of lines...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek