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 Pale TaleThe air in the cellar was thick. It tasted of damp stone and old rust. Marcus stood still. His fists were tight. Knuckles white. The concrete floor was cold. He could feel the chill through his boots. Behind him, the door was barred. No light. Only the hum of the refrigerator. It buzzed like a dying bee. "Come on, then." The voice was low. Smooth. It belonged to the man in the corner. Elias....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraYou stand now at the precipice of the glass cliff, where the air tastes of ozone and crushed mint, and you are leaving, for the last time, the city of Oakhaven that you have spent three centuries trying to burn down with your words and your wit, and you look back at the spires of the University, those jagged teeth of stone and mortar that have chewed upon the throats of every idealist who has...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MistThe alarm didn’t ring. It screamed. A digital shriek that tore the fabric of the night, vibrating through the thin walls of the dormitory. I was awake before my eyes opened. Muscle memory. The body remembers what the mind tries to forget. I sat up. The sheets were tangled around my legs, cold and damp. Outside, the sky was the color of a bruise. Purple and swollen. The rain hit the windowpane...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SilenceThe glass was cold when I touched it. That was the first thing I noticed. Not the weight, or the way the light fractured through the rim, but the chill. It sat on the mahogany desk of Director Halloway, a small, unassuming tumbler of thick crystal. To anyone else, it was just a vessel. To me, it was the sum of my existence. I had been cleaning it for six years. Halloway did not look up from his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale LetterThe siege of the stone fortress did not begin with the sound of trumpets or the thunder of cannons, but with the slow, agonizing drip of rain against the cracked mortar of the eastern wall, a rhythm that had kept time for Elias Thorne’s waking hours for the last three months, a metronome of damp and decay that seemed to synchronize with the hollow ache in his chest where his wife’s memory used...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetThe coat was red. Not the bright, arterial red of a stop sign or a fire engine, but a deep, oxblood shade that had faded over decades of wear. It hung on a nail in the corner of the room, its hem brushing the floorboards. It was the only thing in the house that felt alive. Margaret stood before it. She did not touch it. To touch it was to admit that she was still there, still the woman who had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThe crows had been circling the old stone church for three days, a dark, murmuring halo against the pale October sky. Elias stood at the end of the long, gravel path, his uniform pressed and sharp, though the fabric felt heavy, like wet wool, against his skin. He adjusted his collar, a reflex born of twenty years of service, and watched the birds. They did not flinch at his presence. They knew...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraThe seal was cracked, a fine hairline fracture running diagonally across the wax, but the impression remained. It was a complex glyph, spiraling inward toward a center that seemed to recede the harder one looked at it. Elias Vane held the tablet up to the gray light filtering through the high, dust-moted windows of the Archive, his fingers trembling not from cold, but from a sudden, visceral...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseThe fog does not merely settle upon the harbor of Blackwood; it invades it, a thick, gray miasma that tastes of brine and old rust, wrapping itself around your ankles and climbing up your legs like a living, suffocating vine that you have come to know as intimately as the grain of the wood on your own service rifle, a weapon that feels heavier now than it ever has, not because of the lead it...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek