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 BouquetThe banquet hall of the Ashworth manor did not smell of roasted pheasant or spiced wine, as the guests of the high society expected, but of old iron and damp stone, a scent that clung to the air like a second skin, thick and suffocating in the candlelight. Margaret stood at the center of the room, her back straight, her hands clasped tightly behind her, the fabric of her ceremonial tunic, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe iron pot sits on the hearth, black with age and soot, its rim worn smooth by the hands of three generations of women who stood where you now stand, stirring the same dark, heavy stew that smells of boiled root vegetables and the damp, earthen breath of the cellar. You are Thomas, a man whose hands are stained permanently with the tannin of the oak vats and the grease of the chandler’s shop,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MirrorThe fire started at four. I was there. I saw it. It ate the oak door. It swallowed the hall. It took the house. It took everything. We stood in the street. The smoke was thick. It tasted like ash. It tasted like old money. "Run," I said. "Wait," said Mara. She held my arm. Her grip was tight. Her nails dug in. They hurt. I did not care. "Look," she whispered. We looked. The window was open. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden QuestThe carriage wheels ground against the packed gravel of the processional way, a rhythmic, grinding sound that seemed to drill into the marrow of Elara’s bones as she sat rigid in the shadows of the velvet-lined compartment, her hands resting on her lap, still and pale as marble. Outside, the sun was high and merciless, beating down upon the white stone of the Citadel of Aethelgard, a structure...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe rain did not fall. It hung. It suspended itself in the air above the Millhaven Textile Works, a gray, static veil that turned the world into a watercolor left out in the damp. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool and machine oil. It smelled of industry. It smelled of time being ground down to powder. Arthur Penhaligon stood at the edge of the floor, his hands clasped behind...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RoadThe old man did not sleep. He sat in the high-backed chair by the window, watching the rain streak the glass, and his mind moved with the slow, deliberate weight of a glacier calving into a dark sea. He was holding something. Not an object of flesh or bone, but a silence so heavy it had texture, a silence that tasted of iron and dried lavender. It had been with him for forty years, ever since...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsThe ice broke first. It happened at dawn. The lake, usually a sheet of black glass, fractured with a sound like a gunshot. Then a second. Then a thousand. Margot stood on the dock of the asylum, watching the white shards drift apart. They were beautiful. They were terrible. She felt the cold bite through her wool coat, a sharp, physical reminder that she was still alive. She was an exile here....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ApartmentThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey veil that pressed against the single pane of the window in the attic room, blurring the city below into a smear of wet asphalt and sodium light. Elias stood before the glass, his reflection a ghostly overlay on the street, a man of indeterminate age whose face was carved from the same worn stone as the building’s facade, his...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe iron is hot. It is always hot. You feel the heat not in your skin but in the marrow of your ribs. You are not a man. You are a furnace. You are a bell. You are the tower that holds the sky up, and the sky is heavy, and the iron is breaking. You stand in the center of the nave. The stone floor is cold under your hooves. No, not hooves. Shoes. Leather, black, stiff with sweat. You are wearing...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek