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 RuinThe object in your hand is a seed. It is small, brown, and dry, resting in the center of your palm like a bullet that has not yet been fired. You look at it, then up at the sterile white ceiling of the mess hall, where the fluorescent lights hum with a frequency that vibrates in your teeth. You are twelve. Your name is Elias. You are watching your sister, Mara, eat. She is seven. She eats the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe memo from the Director’s office lay on the workbench, its ink still drying under the harsh glare of the kerosene lamp. It was a standard disciplinary warning, signed in that looping, indifferent hand that had ruined so many careers, but the clause about "gross negligence" made Elias Thorne’s stomach turn. He folded the paper into a tight square and placed it in his breast pocket, where it...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RootThe clay pot sat in Elias Thorne’s hands, cold and heavy, its rim chipped where he had dropped it during the harvest. He held it up to the light filtering through the window of his stone cottage, watching the dust motes dance in the beam, and felt the low, persistent hum beginning to vibrate in his teeth. Outside, the ancient root system of the oak that bordered his property was visible through...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MistThe ledger lay open on the passenger seat, its pages swollen with the damp that had crept in through the truck’s rusted window seals. Elias Thorne counted the entries for the last time, his finger tracing the ink until the numbers blurred into a single, dark smear. Three hundred and forty-two bolts of seasoned oak, destined for the new wing of the Harrow Estate, a structure that would cost more...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainThe frost was in the mortar again. You heard it before you saw it, a low, rhythmic thrum that vibrated in the fillings of your teeth and the wet sockets of your eyes. Elias, the Abbot called from the shadowed doorway of the scriptorium, his voice thin and reedy, stripped of its usual authority by the cold. Elias, come here. You turned from the arch, your hands black with the dust of crushed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SilenceElias Thorne, you are under the impression that silence is a shield, but in this court, silence is a confession. The magistrate’s voice did not echo so much as it settled, a heavy, damp weight that pressed against the floorboards of the Guild Hall, a room where the air always tasted of stale beeswax and the particular, metallic chill of old iron. I stood before the bench, my hands clasped so...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe ledger lay open on the desk, its pages stiff with age and the faint, sour smell of damp wool. Elias Thorne counted the entries for the night shift, his finger tracing the ink until the lines blurred into a grey smear. He had been at this desk for three hours, trying to make the numbers add up, but the arithmetic refused to yield. The pension office had denied his father’s claim two days...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThe dial turns with a resistance that feels like dragging a hand through wet sand. You are in the attic, the air thick with the scent of old varnish and ozone, your fingers stained with grease from the vacuum tubes. The radio is a heavy, wooden thing, a relic from a decade you cannot quite place, sitting on a crate of broken clocks. You are not here for the clocks. You are here for the static....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale GardenThe porcelain was cold against my fingertips, a fragility that mirrored the precariousness of my own existence in this damp, gas-lit townhouse. I am Elias Thorne, and for the last three years, I have been the architect of nothing, a ghost haunting the firm I once built with my own hands and intellect. The urn before me, a relic from a estate I designed before my "exile," had a hairline fracture...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek