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 DoorThe mirror was not glass. It was a slab of polished obsidian, cold to the touch and heavy as a grave. I stood before it in the basement of the house on Elm Street, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and old dust. My father’s hands trembled as he held the frame steady. We had moved this piece from his study three days ago, after the shelling had finally stopped. The silence outside was...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorYou stand at the threshold of the Pale Door. It is not wood. It is not stone. It is a membrane of compressed light, thin as breath, stretching across the void where the sky used to be. The air here tastes of iron and old rain. You are a soldier, though you have no uniform, no rank, and no country to defend. You are simply the one who holds the key. The key is a shard of obsidian, cold against...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SkylineThe house on the hill was not a home so much as a monument to a specific kind of silence. It stood in the English countryside, a sprawling Georgian edifice of pale stone that had begun to crack under the weight of decades and weather. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and old paper, a smell that seemed to preserve time in amber. Arthur Penhaligon sat in the study, his legs...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SilenceThe dream was of honey. Thick, golden, dripping. It coated the tongue. It stuck to the teeth. It smelled of summer and rot. Margaret woke with the taste still there. Sweet. Cloying. She sat up in the dark. The room was cold. The moonlight cut a white line across the floor. Her husband slept. His breathing was a metronome. Slow. Steady. He did not stir. He never stirred for her dreams. They were...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ParadoxThe mud on your boots is black and slick, sticking to the soles with a tenacity that feels personal, like a judgment you cannot shake. You are walking the ridge line of the Appalachian foothills, where the trees have given way to a sparse, gray scrub that offers no cover and no comfort. The air is thin here, cold enough to bite the inside of your nose if you breathe too sharply. You adjust the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootThe ink on your skin is fading. It was once a deep, bruised violet, a map of roots etched into the flesh of your forearm. Now, it is a pale, ghostly smudge. You are seven years old. You are walking down a street that smells of wet ash and old rain. The town of Oakhaven is not a town anymore. It is a memory of a town. The houses stand with their mouths open, windows boarded up in jagged teeth....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongThe rain was not falling so much as it was being exhaled by the sky, a heavy, grey breath that pressed against the single, grime-streaked window of the interrogation room, turning the world outside into a smear of mud and indistinct shadow. Sergeant Elias Thorne sat on the metal chair, his back rigid against the cold steel, his hands folded on his knees with a stillness that belied the tremor...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe bus smelled of wet wool and diesel. It was a smell that had settled into the fibers of my jacket, a permanent stain that no amount of washing could lift. I sat by the window, watching the rain blur the streets of London into gray smears. Outside, the city moved with a mechanical indifference. Cars hissed across the wet asphalt. Pedestrians hurried under black umbrellas, their faces hidden,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraThe rain had not stopped for three days, a ceaseless, gray curtain that turned the muddy lanes of the keep into rivers of slush, and I stood in the courtyard with my hands bound by wet rope, watching the water pool around the hem of my tunic while the garrison commander, a man named Aldous who wore his cruelty like a second skin, leaned against the stone wall and waited for me to speak. I did...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek