0 Comments
0 Shares
1 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Wistful AtlasI dreamt of ink. Not the black, dry substance of the schoolroom, but a wet, viscous tide that rose from the cobblestones of the London streets, swallowing the gaslights and the carriages, turning the world into a page being written in by an invisible, indifferent hand. I woke in the back of the omnibus, my face pressed against the cold glass, the city blurring past in streaks of grey and soot....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CampusThe rain fell in thin needles. It slicked the cobblestones of the lower town. Elias walked fast. His boots were wet. The leather was soft. It wept. He clutched a satchel to his chest. Inside, a book lay flat. The pages were yellowed. The spine was cracked. It was his only possession. It was his only self. He was a stranger here. The city was old. The stones were grey. The air smelled of coal...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThe roof collapsed on the night the stars fell. It was not a storm, nor an earthquake, but a sudden, violent exhalation from the house itself. The oak beams, seasoned by three centuries of silence, snapped like dry twigs. The dust that followed was not gray but gold, a fine, luminous powder that settled over the floorboards, the furniture, the sleeping forms of the family. They did not wake....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe moss was wet. That was the first thing Cillian noticed. Not the smell of the sewer, nor the damp chill that seeped through his wool coat, but the slick, green velvet of the lichen clinging to the iron gate. He held his thumb against the leaf. It was soft. Too soft. It yielded under his pressure like wet clay. In his dream, the leaf had been stone. In his dream, it was heavy enough to break...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe spear breaks. You feel it snap in your hand. The wood splinters. It flies from your grip. You are on your knees. The mud is cold. It sucks at your boots. The wolf is dead. It lies in the snow. Its ribs show. The bone is white. You look at your hand. There is a cut. It bleeds. The blood is red. It mixes with the mud. You are a keeper. You serve the King. You keep the peace in the dark woods....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AtticThe humidity in the basement of the municipal archive was a specific kind of rot, a dampness that settled into the lungs before it even reached the skin, carrying with it the faint, metallic taste of oxidizing iron and the sweet, cloying scent of decaying cellulose, a smell that Margaret Holloway had spent the last twelve years trying to scrub from her nostrils but which had become, in the end,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongYou hold the egg. It is warm. It is heavy. The shell is not white. It is gold. It pulses. Like a heart. You are in the garden. The garden is not real. Or maybe it is. I cannot tell. The air tastes of iron. And honey. Thomas stands before you. He is tall. His face is pale. He looks at you. He does not look at the egg. He looks at your hands. His hands are shaking. "Give it to me," he says. His...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiThe train shuddered. It was a heavy sound, metallic and tired, vibrating through the soles of my boots. We moved north. The landscape outside the window was a smear of gray slate and brown mud. It was late November. The air smelled of coal dust and wet wool. I held the wooden box on my lap. It was small. No larger than a book. The grain was pale. It felt smooth under my palms. It was cold. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe Great Hall of King Aldric’s court smelled of roasted boar and old stone. The air was thick, a physical weight that pressed against my skin, saturated with the sweat of three hundred nobles and the perfume of lilies that died in the heat. I stood at the edge of the dais, my hands clasped before me, feeling the rough grain of the wooden handrail beneath my fingers. I was not a man, not in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek