Wisps of dark tendrils sleuth languidly along an endless tunnel, gluttonous and viscous. Remnants of its reach cling to the dank tunnel walls, competing for space. In its path lay a dam of sickles, their pointed ends piercing into one another—damaged. A piercing, flowing current thrashes against the barrier, its efforts barred. Only a diluted stream hammers through, though not unscathed. Destruction laid in its wake, dripping like an onyx honey, the tendrils continue, determined to leave nothing untouched. Its vivace tempo echoes ahead into the unknown, a steady pump of mist and shadow. Every pulsation onward holds strong against the current, unphased by its continued strife. The walls seem to reverberate in protest, slowly succumbing to the oppressive haze. Their hushed quivers drift into the void, and are met with ear splitting silence.
Because darkness doesn't scream.
It whispers.
CZYTASZ
Under a Muted Sky
RomansListless in a coming of age limbo, 20-year-old Tessa has struggled to unleash the persistent humming that bubbles beneath her skin. With just two years left of nursing school, Tessa is eager to finish her education and move out of her parents' home...
