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 Distant JokeThe road to Blackwood Manor was a rib of mud exposed by the autumn rain. Thomas walked it. His boots were heavy. The leather had split at the toes. He did not care. The rain fell in thin needles. It pricked his face. It pricked the earth. It pricked the silence that followed him. Thomas was a man of iron. Or he had been. Now he was rust. He carried a sword on his back. It was old. The steel was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThe dream was always the same: a golden loaf, cracked down the middle, bleeding a light that smelled of yeast and sorrow. Thomas woke with the taste of ash in his mouth, his twelve-year-old hands trembling as he reached for the cold clay bowl that sat by the oven. It was empty, as it always was, the ancestral yeast long since forbidden by the Church and hidden away by his father, a man whose...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe rain in the alley behind the Grand Hotel did not wash the blood from your knuckles; it merely turned them into a slick, crimson paste that smelled of copper and old stone. You stood there, breathing hard, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and the iron tang of your own violence, while the man you had struck lay crumpled against the brickwork, his face obscured by a tangle of dark hair...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ApartmentThe yeast rises in the dark, a slow, muscular expansion that smells of wet earth and old sweat, and you watch it climb the glass jar with the same detached precision you bring to everything else in your life. It is four in the morning in the coastal town of Harrowgate, where the fog does not roll in so much as it presses against the windows like a damp, grey hand seeking purchase. You are...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MeridianThe ink in the cellar smells of iron and old rain. You are Elara, and you are thirty-two years old, a scribe who has spent a decade binding the souls of the dead into parchment. You want to save Kael. He is coughing blood into a handkerchief on the kitchen table, his face grey as the fog that rolls in from the harbor every morning. The Withering has taken him, a slow rot that eats the color...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe banquet hall of the Blackwood Sanitarium was not a place of celebration, but a vast, industrial rot where the air hung thick with the scent of sulfur and damp wool, and forty-year-old Elias Thorne sat at the edge of a long table, watching the black resin weep from the ceiling beams in slow, viscous drips that landed on the porcelain plates with a sound like a soft, wet sigh. He had come...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the streets of Oakhaven into a slick, reflective mirror of the city’s broken heart. It was the kind of weather that seemed to seep into the bones, dampening the spirit as much as the coat, and it was in this perpetual twilight that Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the harbor district, watching the water churn...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BannerI woke in the dream with the cloth already around my neck, cold and damp as river silt. It whispered my name, Ewan, in a voice like dry leaves skittering over stone. I tried to pull it off, but the fabric had no edges, only a pale, tattered expanse that seemed to grow heavier with every breath I took. I was standing on the high pass, the wind tearing at my warden’s coat, and I knew with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterThe porcelain face of the music box lies in your hands, a shattered disc of white bone, and the subsonic hum that leaks from its cracked casing makes your vision swim into blackness for three seconds before the light returns. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, a clockmaker in the industrial town of Blackwood, and you have wanted to repair this object since the day Clara died, a desire...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek