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24/01/2003
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The Coal in the DarkBill Haslam sat in the dark and listened to the coal breathe. It was not a dramatic sound. It was not the deep, resonant hum that poets might imagine coming from the heart of the earth. It was a sound you could easily mistake for nothing at all—if you were not already sitting in a coal mine at two in the morning, alone, with nothing to listen to but the building itself. It was more like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 ReviewsPlease log in to like, share and comment!
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The Small Seed of Cassidy BlackwoodThe Small Seed of Cassidy BlackwoodAct I: The Rotting HouseThe magnolias were dying. Cassidy Blackwood noticed this first, standing at the edge of the overgrown driveway with her suitcase at her feet and the Mississippi River moaning somewhere beyond the treeline.The flowers should have been in bloom—white cup-shaped blossoms heavy on the branches, their scent thick enough to taste. Instead,...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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Variant V-04: The Shadow of the MasterI have spent twenty years as the shadow of Marcus Sterling. To the world, Marcus is a visionary, a man who redefined the architecture of modern dining. To me, he is a collection of habits, tremors, and a terrifying, fragile brilliance. I am Silas, his butler, the man who ensures that the world sees the genius and never the madness. In the beginning, Marcus was a curiosity. He would spend hours...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Glass HeirIn New York, identity is a currency. You are not who you are; you are the sum of your zip code, your alma mater, and the brand of your watch. For Liam, identity was a void. He had grown up in a foster system that treated children like outdated software, moved from one sterile room to another, always feeling like a puzzle piece from a different box. Then came the DNA test. A simple kit, a small...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Neon ConfessionIn the rain-slicked corridors of New Tokyo, where the sky was a permanent bruise of violet and charcoal, Elias Thorne lived in the gaps between data streams. He was a "ghost-weaver," a freelance forensic coder who specialized in retrieving fragmented memories from corrupted neural implants. He didn't work for the Megacorps; he worked for the desperate, the forgotten, and the dead. Elias's...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Last Dispatch from the Raj## Act I: The Outset The heat of the Punjab in 1857 was a physical entity, a shimmering wall of gold and dust that blurred the line between the earth and the sky. Arthur, a second son of a minor English earl, stood on the veranda of the district bungalow, his white linen suit already stained with the sweat of a dying empire. He was twenty-one, a graduate of Oxford with a head full of Shelley...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Ferry to Raven's PointThe rain in New York has a way of making everything look the same. Same grey sky, same grey streets, same grey men in grey coats hurrying past each other with their collars turned up and their heads down. I was one of those men, or I had been, until the gun incident made me somebody else. Now I was Jack Murray, former NYPD, current PI, and the guy you call when you need something done that the...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Last Honor of AlistairThe castle of Blackwood stood on a cliff overlooking the grey Atlantic, its stones worn smooth by centuries of salt and wind. It was a place of echoing halls and faded tapestries, a monument to a nobility that had long since lost its purpose. Count Alistair, the last of the line, spent his days in the library, reading the journals of ancestors who had once led armies and shaped kingdoms....0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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Blood and MagnoliasI returned to Magnolia House in the rain. Not the gentle rain of spring or the warm rain of summer, but the kind of rain that comes in April and refuses to stop for three days, turning the red clay roads to soup and filling the cypress swamps until the water creeps up the porch steps and into the floorboards. Miles stood on the porch when I arrived, his right hand resting on the railing, his...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Starlight Protocol**Manhattan, 1924** The conference hall at the Plaza Hotel smelled of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume. Thomas Webb sat in the back row, half-listening to a professor from Princeton drone on about the thermodynamic implications of stellar evolution. Thomas was thirty-two, a sociology lecturer at Yale, and he had learned long ago that the most effective way to survive an academic conference...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Architect of Memory(Biographical Fiction Variation) The archives of the Vatican are a labyrinth of silence and dust, where the history of the world is stored in vellum and ink. Father Thomas Moreland had spent forty years in these depths, a scholar of the forgotten, a man who believed that the truth was not found in the grand narratives of the Church, but in the margins of the manuscripts. Thomas was a man of...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Dark Forest Files**Los Angeles, 1947** The rain hadn't stopped for three days. It hammered the window of my office on Sunset Boulevard like it was trying to get in, or maybe trying to keep whatever was inside from getting out. I was nursing a whiskey that tasted like it had been distilled in a garage, and waiting for a woman who probably wasn't going to show. She never does, I thought. That's why I'm the...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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