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 Faded RootThe gate closed. Iron teeth clicking shut. Darkness swallowed the stone corridor. He stood alone. The air was cold. It bit. It froze the breath in his lungs. He did not shiver. Shivering was for the weak. He was not weak. He was a sinner. Sins had weight. The weight was his armor. He walked. The path was narrow. Stones under his boots. They were smooth. Worn by feet like his. Feet that had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterThe iron pot sat in the center of the table, black and heavy as a coffin. It was the only object in the room that did not tremble when the wind pushed against the warped windowpanes of the manor. Outside, the coal smog of the valley hung low, a thick, yellowish shroud that smelled of sulfur and wet ash. Inside, the air was still, preserved by the sheer weight of silence and the presence of two...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe Wistful Throne Arthur Pemberton-Steele stood before the empty throne of his own making and could not recognize the hands that had built it. Seventeen years ago, when he was twenty-three and still believed that architecture was about shelter, he had designed a small reading room for his grandmother Marguerite's house on Harcourt Lane. It was a humble space—twelve feet by twelve, with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareThe dream arrived not as a whisper but as a screech of tearing metal, a vibration that rattled the very marrow of my bones and woke me in the damp cold of the barracks at Harrowgate, a town of soot-stained brick and perpetual fog where the river ran thick with the runoff of a century’s industry. I was not merely a man in bed; I was a sensor, a receiver tuned to a frequency that should not have...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CartographThe dream began not with light, but with the heavy, damp sensation of earth moving against the back of the neck, a cold pressure that Edith Whitmore felt as if she were still buried in the trench she had vacated three weeks prior, her hands buried in the mud not for rest but for the frantic, futile task of digging a grave for a name she had forgotten to write on the wooden cross. She woke in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MythThe rain in Harrowgate did not fall; it hovered, a grey, persistent mist that clung to the wool of coats and the hair of dogs. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the market square, his boots sinking into the mud that had turned the cobblestones into a slurry of grey paste. Above him, the clock tower of the old town hall loomed, its face cracked by a mortar strike three years ago, still ticking...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MeridianThe rain hit the glass with a sound like gravel being thrown by a furious child. Inside the cabin, the air smelled of wet wool and old blood. "Keep going, Tom," Sarah said. Her voice was thin, scraped raw by hours of coughing. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands wrapped around a mug that had gone cold an hour ago. Her eyes were bright, feverish, reflecting the flickering light of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant AffairThe mist clings to the valley like a burial shroud, damp and cold against the back of your neck, and you stand at the threshold of the stone circle, your breath visible in the grey air as white, trembling ghosts. You are twelve years old, though the weight in your chest feels ancient, a heavy stone that has been rolling down a long, dark throat for years. In your hand, you clutch the bundle of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleThe train hissed into the station at Harrowgate with a sound like a dying animal, spewing a cloud of black smoke that settled over the platform like a shroud. Arthur Penhaligon stepped down onto the wet cobblestones, his leather trunk heavy in his hand, the wood worn smooth by years of travel and the friction of his own obsessive care. He adjusted his spectacles, the lenses fogging instantly in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek