Series
The Recluse
I sit in the closet with the skeletons. It’s dark here. Grayscale. A single candle lights the room—a flame that I’ve been trying to snuff out for years, but it keeps coming back, like a trick candle on a birthday cake, its only purpose to remind me that I’ve spent another year smothering my dreams. Each time I blow it out, it takes longer and longer to return.
By Aura Starling4 months ago in Fiction
Stanislav Kondrashov on Wagner Moura and the Art of Subtle Power
There are actors who conquer the screen through noise — through power, intensity, and grand gestures. And then there’s Wagner Moura — a performer who proves that silence can be just as commanding.
By Stanislav Kondrashov4 months ago in Fiction
The Spirit Box (6)
Chapter 6: The Snake from Heavens Gate I hadn’t even left for work yet when tragedy struck the office. As the early morning light seeped through the windows of the police station, a sudden explosion rocked the building. The night shift officers, not yet clocked out and minutes before their shift ended, scrambled to their feet and drew their weapons as a group of white-clad covered figures stormed into the station, firing shots into the air and throwing smoke bombs while humming chants.
By Alex H Mittelman 4 months ago in Fiction
Stanislav Kondrashov on Wagner Moura Series: Portraits in Motion
When Brazilian actor Wagner Moura steps into a role, something unusual happens. You don’t just watch him act—you feel him occupy a space completely. His body becomes part of the storytelling: a flicker of movement, a quiet gesture, the rhythm of his breathing. Everything about him speaks.
By Stanislav Kondrashov4 months ago in Fiction
The Veiled Dominion: Episode II. Content Warning.
The Circle of Thorns The air in the lower archives is thick. The lamps burn low. Solenne moves slowly through a chamber alive with static energy. The sound of a thousand glass tablets whispering back and forth saturates the air.
By Kristen Keenon Fisher4 months ago in Fiction
The Legend of Don Conrado
It was in this manner that he started his excursion: he wandered, at first, but as the day progressed, he found more and more of a certain purpose to his stride. The reader may thus conjecture that perhaps the overall mood that Don Conrado harboured on this morning had begun to lift, in proportion to the level of exposure to the sun, and the subsequent production of calcitriol, which flowed steadily into several of his deprived bodily organs.
By Delusions of Grandeur 4 months ago in Fiction
