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The Bloodroot CovenantACT I The Thorne family mansion sat on a bluff overlooking the Yazoo River like a woman who had once been beautiful and was now waiting to be forgotten. The paint was peeling from the white columns, the roses had gone wild and tangled into the shape of something almost beautiful, and the river itself moved slow and black and full of secrets, just like the family that had lived there for three...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 11 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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Ray worked at Last Stop Gas. That's what the sign said. Last Stop Gas and Mini-Mart. The word Last was the most accurate thing about the place.He was thirty-two and couldn't read. He could count change though. He could do it fast. People would come in and buy a pack of gum and Ray would hand back the right amount every time, fingers moving like he was playing piano on a surface that wasn't there. Lily was seven. She called him boss. She called him her little boss and he would beam and say hi boss and then ask her to repeat it because...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 51 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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I was twenty-nine when I finally understood what had happened to my father, and even then, understanding didn't bring him back.George Malone was what they called him -- Buddy to everyone who knew him, and everyone in the warehouse knew him. He worked the night shift at the grain silo on the South Side, carrying sacks of wheat on shoulders that were too broad for any normal man but somehow appropriate for a man who moved through the world like a bear through a meadow -- slowly, deliberately, with a kind of unconscious...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 37 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The kind of night that made even the streetlights look guilty was the night I first heard about Simple.Earl Henderson. That was his real name, though nobody in the union called him that. They called him Simple, and they meant it kindly enough. He was a pipefitter at the canning factory on Whittier -- steady worker, showed up on time, never caused trouble. His hands were always greasy from work, and he had a habit of hummin' to himself while he worked, a tuneless little whistle that the other...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 36 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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Stardust and Chalk DustFlorence, 1503 Leonardo da Vinci's workshop was warm with the smell of linseed oil and sawdust. The apprentice, a thin boy of fourteen named Alessio, sat in the corner with a piece of charcoal and a bundle of ragged parchment. His master was dictating—the great man, bent over his workbench, speaking in that voice that was at once commanding and conversational, as though he were sharing secrets...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 34 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The House of Peach and HoneyThe house was dying. Addie DuPont knew this the way she knew the weather — not through observation but through instinct, a bone-deep knowledge that the floorboards beneath her feet were hollow, that the plaster in the walls was cracking like dried skin, that the roof leaked in exactly seventeen places and Mrs. Gable had patched twelve of them with tar and prayer. The house had once been...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 37 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Phantom CircuitThe headphones did not break all at once. They broke in layers, the way a person breaks: first the confidence, then the certainty, then the memory of certainty, and finally the thing that lies between memory and certainty and calls itself truth. Julian Voss held the right ear cup in his left hand and the left in his right. Between them, a wire---silver, braided, custom-soldered by Oliver's...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 20 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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Static on the Night FrequencyACT ONE: THE FREQUENCY The radio on Jack Morrison's workbench was a 1934 Crosley, the kind that cost four dollars at Woolworth's and sounded like a tin can with a fever. Jack had replaced three vacuum tubes and rewired the tuner, but the static was still there—a hiss like rain on pavement, constant, inescapable. It was 11:47 PM on a Thursday in March, 1948. The shop was empty. The sign on the...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 19 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Seed of CivilizationsThe island had no name on any map the government cared to acknowledge. It sat three miles off the western coast of Ireland, a ragged tooth of rock jutting from the Atlantic like a challenge. On it lived forty-seven souls, most of them fishermen whose families had fished these waters since the famine had driven them here, or driven them from nowhere into this desperate place. The sea was their...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 68 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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