0 Comments
0 Shares
0 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Faded PhotographThe dream does not arrive with the gentle whisper of a lullaby but rather with the heavy, suffocating weight of wet wool and the metallic tang of old blood, a sensory assault that pins me to the floor of a room I know I do not inhabit, a place where the walls breathe with a slow, tidal rhythm that mimics the rise and fall of my own terrified lungs, and in this space, which is neither quite the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant SummerThe sky was the color of a bruise. I woke with the taste of copper on my tongue and the memory of a door that should not have been there. We had moved into the house in Vermont three months prior, a fixer-upper that smelled of wet rot and old smoke. The landlord, a man named Silas, had warned us about the air. He spoke of it as one speaks of a sick dog. He said the house breathed. We had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseThe train smelled of coal dust and wet wool. Elias Thorne sat by the window, watching the gray English countryside blur into streaks of slate and mud. He held a small, black ledger in his lap. The leather was cracked. The pages were thin as onion skin. This was his case. It was also his life. He was a detective for the Ministry of Internal Records. Not a man who chased thieves or solved...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CrossingThe frost came down upon the abbey not as a weather event, but as a verdict. It settled on the flagstones of the cloister with a sound like breaking glass, a crystalline shattering that echoed in the chests of those who walked there. Brother Thomas stood before the high altar, his hands trembling not from the cold, but from the terrible, sudden weight of what he had seen in the mirror of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe fire took the north wing of the Ashworth estate before the sun had fully cleared the ridge. It was a slow, hungry thing, not the explosive crackle of a dry brush fire, but the deep, sucking roar of timber that had been seasoned for a century. Arthur stood on the gravel drive, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the orange glow pulse against the gray morning sky. He was a man who dealt...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownThe collapse of the eastern wall did not happen with a roar but with a sigh, a long, grinding exhalation of dust and centuries that settled into the marrow of your bones before the first brick even touched the floor. You stood in the center of the vaulted cellar, the air thick with the scent of wet limestone and the metallic tang of old blood, watching as the structural integrity of the archive...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale FractureThe air in the basement was thick, tasting of wet concrete and old copper. It hung in the throat like a physical weight, pressing against the lungs. Elias stood by the door, his hand resting on the cold iron handle, not quite turning it. He could hear the breathing on the other side. It was a wet, rattling sound, the kind that comes from a body that has been broken more times than it can heal....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TowerYou stand before the great stone door, your hands trembling not from the cold, which is sharp enough to bite through wool and bone, but from the terrible weight of the silence that has followed you across the sea. The tower rises above you, a pale finger pointing accusingly at the bruised sky of the valley, its surface worn smooth by centuries of wind and the touch of a thousand anxious...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThe rain has been falling for three days, a steady, cold sheet that turns the dirt road behind the house into a brown slurry, and you are standing at the window watching the water streak down the glass, blurring the world outside until it looks like a painting left out in the wet. You are twelve years old, or perhaps thirteen, though the numbers have lost their meaning in the long, gray stretch...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek