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 AtticThe rain did not fall; it hovered, suspended in the air like a mist of grey ash that refused to touch the ground. Elias Thorne stood at the center of the circle, his boots sinking into a soil that was not soil but something soft and yielding, like the flesh of a giant, breathing lung. He adjusted his spectacles, a gesture of nervous habit that served no purpose in a world where light was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JokeThe night the old oak split, I did not scream, but I felt the vibration of its death in the marrow of my shinbones, a deep, resonant thrumming that traveled up through the soles of my boots and settled heavily in my chest like a stone dropped into a well of black water. It was a sound that no human throat was built to make, a groan of timber and resin that sounded horribly, unmistakably like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe cafeteria hummed. A low, electric drone. It vibrated in the floor. It vibrated in the teeth. Sergeant Major Elias Thorne sat at the end of the long table. He held a silver spoon. It was heavy. It was cold. The steel bit into his palm. He looked at the tray. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Carrots. The colors were dull. Brown. Orange. Pale yellow. He did not smell the food. He only saw it. The spoon...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestThe rain had a sound that I could not shake from my ears, a low, industrial thrum that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of my bones, and it was this sound that woke me in the small, damp room above the chandler’s shop on Mill Street. I opened my eyes to the gray light of a Tuesday morning in 1904, and for a moment I did not know where I was, only that the air tasted of coal smoke and stale...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful Asylum"You are not human, are you, Elias?" the woman asked, her voice a thin thread of smoke unraveling in the dusty, coal-choked air of the parlor, where the shadows stretched long and thin like the fingers of a drowning man grasping at the surface of a dark, still pond. I did not answer, for to speak would be to admit the thing that had been growing in my chest for three decades, a thing that was...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraThe silk was green. Not the green of leaves, but the green of old bile, the color of a bruise three days old. Elias held the bolt in his hands, the fabric cool and heavy against his palms. It was the finest weave he had ever touched. "Look at it, Thomas," he said. His voice was thin, stripped of its usual salesman’s lilt. "It doesn't fade. It absorbs. The light goes in and stays there." Thomas...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraThe river rose. It did not roar. It simply stood up. Elias saw it from the window of the third-floor office. The water was brown. It moved like oil. It swallowed the street. It ate the bridge. He looked at his desk. The papers were dry. The chair was warm. He had been here for ten years. He knew the creak of the floorboards. He knew the stain on the ceiling. He knew the face of the man in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe iron gate of the Palace of the Silent Crown does not creak; it groans, a low, tectonic shudder that vibrates through the soles of your boots and settles heavy in the marrow of your bones. You stand before it, your hand resting on the cold, oxidized metal, feeling the pulse of the kingdom’s anxiety beat against the surface like a trapped bird. You are not a man in the way the courtiers...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThe wind tore at the eaves. It was a cold wind. It smelled of iron and wet stone. Elias stood in the center of the hall. The floorboards groaned under his boots. He had not slept in three days. His hands trembled. He wrapped them in his coat sleeves. The fabric was frayed. It had been frayed for years. He looked at the door. It was pale. Whitewashed. The paint was peeling in long, dry strips....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek