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 Wistful LetterThe fog does not roll in so much as it seeps into the marrow of the world, a damp, grey exhalation that swallows the jagged teeth of the cliffside and reduces the ancient abbey to a whisper of stone. You are alone in the scriptorium, the air thick with the scent of rotting parchment and the metallic tang of the ink you have been mixing, a mixture of iron gall and the crushed petals of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CipherThe cellar smells of iron and wet wool. You are on your knees. Your hands are bound. The rope is thick, coarse, smelling of the sea. You taste blood in your mouth. It is a copper taste. It is the taste of the city. The door opens. Light floods in. It is not sunlight. It is the gaslight of the precinct. It is the light of the machine. Inspector Elias Thorne walks in. He is tall. He wears a grey...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful WitnessYou dream of the glass. It is not a window. It is not a lens. It is a pane of thick, green-tinted crystal, suspended in the air of a high, vaulted cathedral. The light is gray. The dust motes dance in slow, silent spirals. You reach for it. Your fingers are cold. They are stiff. You know this stiffness. It is the stiffness of age. It is the stiffness of duty. You do not wake. You open your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant SummerThe coat was blue. Not navy, not indigo, but a bright, aggressive azure that seemed to vibrate against the grey brick of the asylum’s intake wing. Elara held it in her hands, feeling the weight of the wool, the stiffness of the collar. It was her mother’s coat. The last thing she had packed before the train took her from the border town, before the sirens started screaming in the valley below....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PhotographThe rain hits the glass. It sounds like fingers drumming. You are in the cellar. The air is cold. It smells of damp stone and old paper. Your mother’s voice is in your head. It is not a memory. It is a command. Go up. You do not move. You sit on the floor. Your knees are pulled to your chest. The dark is heavy. It presses against your eyes. You can feel the walls breathing. The house is old. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CircuitThe banquet hall smelled of roasted lamb and wet wool. It was a smell that clung to the stone walls of the Abbey of Saint Jude, a place where the air was always thick with incense and the heavy, unspoken weight of centuries. Elara stood by the far wall, her hands resting on the cold marble of a pillar. She watched the knights and the lords move through the hall like smoke. They laughed. They...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe rain hit the stone roof like a thousand small hammers. It was a cold, relentless drumming. I sat by the window. The glass was cold against my cheek. I watched the drops run down in jagged lines. Each one blurred the world outside. The world was grey. The world was wet. "Is it going to stop?" asked Thomas. He sat in the chair across from me. His hands were folded in his lap. He looked at me....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe rain fell upon the grey facades of London with a persistent, rhythmic monotony that seemed to dampen the very air itself, turning the cobblestones into slick, dark mirrors of the gaslight. Sergeant Arthur Vane stood at the edge of the platform at Paddington, his coat buttoned to the throat, his eyes fixed on the retreating silhouette of the train that had carried his wife, Elara, away to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareYou keep the fox. It is a dead thing, but it looks at you. The fur is matted with frost. You hold it by the scruff. Its eyes are glass. They do not blink. You are in the Hall of Whispers. The air is cold. It bites your lungs. You are a scholar. You know the old words. You know the weight of them. But here, words are knives. You have no knife. You have only the fox. Lord Malcador stands at the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek