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 Distant JourneyThe clock in the warden’s office did not tick. It hummed, a low, metallic vibration that Elias Thorne felt in his teeth. He sat behind the mahogany desk, the wood polished to a mirror sheen that reflected his own hollow eyes. Outside, the rain lashed against the high, barred windows of Blackwood Penitentiary. Inside, the air was still and smelled of stale tobacco and old fear. Elias was...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe steam from the radiator hissed like a dying snake in the corner of the library, a thin, white thread that tangled in the heavy air. I sat at my desk, the wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and ink, and watched the dust motes dance in the single beam of afternoon light that pierced the high window. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; time had become a fluid thing in this...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CartographThe rain hits the cobblestones of Harrow Lane with a rhythmic, indifferent percussion, a sound that has become the heartbeat of your existence for the last three weeks. You are kneeling in the mud, your knees sinking into the cold, wet earth, the fabric of your trousers darkening as it absorbs the grime of the city. The gas lamps overhead buzz with a faint, electric hum, their yellow light...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ParadoxThe rain in Seattle does not fall; it hangs, a gray curtain that blurs the distinction between the street and the sky, between the man walking and the memory he is trying to outrun. I am Martin. I am a junior analyst for a logistics firm that moves goods no one wants to keep, mostly pharmaceuticals and old electronics, from warehouses in Tacoma to distribution centers in Boise. I am...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ParadoxThe fog in Oakhaven did not lift. It settled into the pores of the stone walls and the roots of the ancient oaks, a grey shroud that smelled of wet wool and old iron. Thomas Bradshaw sat on the bench outside the town hall, his hands bound with ropes that felt like snakes coiling around his wrists. He was not a man who enjoyed sitting still. He was a man of action, a hunter of things that should...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraYou are wearing the coat again, Edmund, Margaret said, her voice flat and dry as the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of light that pierced the gloom of the office. It is not merely a garment, Edmund, it is a shackle, and you are dragging the rusted hinges of your own dignity across the floorboards with every step you take, so why do you persist in this self-flagellation, this theatrical...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineThe wool coat lay on the bed. It was a heavy thing, dark blue, the kind of garment that smelled of mothballs and old rain. Elias stood by the window. The fog pressed against the glass. It was a cold November morning in the city. The factory whistles blew in the distance. A rhythmic, industrial pulse. Elias was a man of fifty. His face was a map of lines. Deep furrows between his brows. He had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GhostThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended curtain of grey mist that blurred the very boundaries of the castle wall, turning the stone into a soft, weeping thing, and I stood alone in the courtyard where the flagstones were slick with the dampness of centuries, feeling the weight of my armor not as a burden but as a second skin that had grown into the meat of my shoulders, for I...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RoadThe rain fell in sheets that turned the mud to soup. Thomas Bradshaw walked. His boots sank. He pulled them free. The weight of the pack on his back was a second skeleton. It held him upright. It also crushed his ribs. He was a soldier. He wore the grey coat of the Northern Watch. He had served for ten years. His face was a map of wind and scar tissue. He walked toward the village of Oakhaven....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek