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 BridgeThe mud on the tracks was deep. It sucked at the heels of their boots with a wet, obscene sound. Margaret did not look down. She looked at the sky, a bruise of purple and grey, hanging low over the valley. "Step quick, Maggie," Thomas said. His voice was thin, shredded by the wind. "We’ll be in Halloway’s yard before the sun thinks to rise." Margaret nodded. She did not speak. Her legs were...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BannerThe stone was cold. It bit into my palms. I pressed them flat against the north wall of the keep. The mortar was crumbling. My fingers dug into the grit. I did not flinch. I am old. My joints ache. The damp air seeps into my bones. It is a familiar pain. I know it well. I am Edmund. I was a builder. Now I am a keeper. The castle is all that remains of us. My wife, Elara, is gone. She has been...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SongThe fog rolls in from the Atlantic, thick and salt-heavy, erasing the horizon line until the world is nothing but gray water and the creak of the hull. You are twelve, or perhaps thirteen, though age feels like a fluid thing out here on the *Mary Lou*, a vessel that groans like an old man with arthritis. Your father, Elias, stands at the helm, his back to you, hands white-knuckled on the wheel....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant PromiseThe house breathed. It was a wet, heavy sound. Like a lung full of water. Elias stood in the center of the attic. He was twelve. He was small. The floorboards creaked under his shoes. They were old shoes. Brown leather. Worn thin at the toes. The air smelled of dust. And decay. And something else. Something sweet. Like rotting peaches. The house was vast. Too vast for one boy. Too vast for one...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe coat was red. Not a bright red. Not a fire truck red. It was the color of dried blood. Or rust. Or old wine. I remember the shade. I remember it vividly. It was the only thing that made sense in the room. The room was white. Sterile white. Institutional white. The walls hummed. A low, electric thrum. It vibrated in my teeth. In my bones. I sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was firm....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DanceThe frost had not yet melted from the cobblestones of Millhaven when I woke, the cold seeping through the wool of my blanket like a slow, grey tide. My hands, the instruments of my trade and the anchors of my identity, lay still on the bedspread, knuckles swollen and skin thickened by years of pulling rope and holding steel. I was a man who believed in the architecture of the law, a rigid grid...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PhotographThe mist did not rise so much as it leaked from the earth, a cold, viscous exhalation that turned the ancient stone walls of the citadel into ghosts of themselves. Thomas stood at the edge of the precipice, his fingers white-knuckled around the iron railing, feeling the vibration of the wind in the bones of his hands. He was a man of duty, a captain of the guard in a time that predated the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MeridianThe dream was not a vision but a weight, a heavy, wet thing draped over the shoulders of Elias Thorne, pressing him down into the damp earth of a field that did not exist, a field where the sky was the color of a bruise and the air tasted of copper and old rain. He woke with his hand clamped around the ceramic fragment, the shard of the blue bowl his sister had broken three months ago in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe jar is green. It is not a pleasant green. It is the green of old bruises, of stagnant pond water, of the inside of a mouth after a long fever. You are holding it in both hands, and your fingers are slipping, sweating against the slick, cold glass. The liquid inside sloshes. It makes a sound like wet gravel being poured into a bucket. "Is it done?" The voice comes from behind you. It is...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek