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 Faded PortraitThe mud takes your boots first. It is a thick, black slurry that smells of iron and old rot, and it pulls at your ankles with the tenacious grip of a dying hand. You are Eamon, forty-two years old, a border warden for the highlands of old Albion, and you are walking into the Black Marsh at dawn. In your left hand, you hold a small, leather-bound case. Inside is the faded portrait of Elara. Her...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden QuestThe stone house had been weeping for a hundred years, but only Eamon could hear it. It was a low, wet sound, like a thumb scraping across a wet lip, rising from the mortar where the lichen grew thick and black. Eamon had been the mason’s apprentice when the structure was finished, a time before the war that took his brother, before the fever that took his wife, before the silence that took the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe hall of St. Jude’s Abbey blazed with a light that seemed to burn the air itself, a fierce, golden heat that made the stone walls sweat with condensation. It was the Feast of All Saints, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted boar, spiced wine, and the heavy, cloying perfume of lilies that lined the long oak table. At the head of the table sat Abbot Clement, his face a mask of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MazeThe autumn light of 1342 did not fall into the nave of St. Jude’s so much as it bled through the shattered rose window, pooling in jagged, golden wounds on the cold stone floor where I stood, my hands still stained with the lead and putty of my trade. I am Elias, a master glazier of forty years, and my want is simple, brutal, and immediate: to complete the commission before the winter solstice...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant BladeYou are standing in a field of ashen grass, the air thick with the scent of ozone and dried blood. The sky above is not a sky but a ceiling of swirling, bruised purple clouds, churning in a silence that vibrates against your eardrums. This is the Hall of Whispers, a place that exists only between the beat of your heart and the next, a realm where the laws of physics bow to the weight of memory....0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainThe gate was not wood. It was iron, cold and unyielding, stretching up into a sky that did not belong to any known hemisphere. I stood before it, my hands trembling, the cold biting through my gloves. The air tasted of ozone and old paper. I was not a soldier. I was not a judge. I was merely a boy, twelve years old, standing at the threshold of a place that demanded a purity I did not possess....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant AffairThe letter arrived on a Tuesday, stained with the dampness of the autumn rain that had besieged the city for three days. It was not a personal note. It was a form. A standard, gray, bureaucratic slip of paper from the Ministry of Health, bearing the red seal of the Department of Chronic Illness Management. Margaret Holloway held it in her trembling hands. The paper felt cold, like a dead leaf....0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant LegendThe fog did not roll in so much as it seeped up from the cracked earth of the moor, a thick, grey viscosity that swallowed the stone gate of the Blackwood Estate in silence. Elias Thorne stood alone on the threshold, his boots grinding against the ancient, lichen-slicked cobblestones, his hand resting on the cold steel of his service pistol. He was forty-two years old, a border patrol commander...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JokeThe soup was cold. It had been sitting in the pot since the morning shift, a thick, grey sludge of turnips and bone broth that the cooks in the canteen of the Millhaven Asylum for the Insane had deemed "safe." I stirred it with a wooden spoon, the wood dark and slick with grease, watching the steam curl up and disappear into the low, beamed ceiling. There was no one to serve. The patients were...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek