0 Commentarii
0 Distribuiri
40 Views
0 previzualizare
Director
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Vă rugăm să vă autentificați pentru a vă dori, partaja și comenta!
-
The Erasure ManDetective Elias Thorne walked the rain-slicked streets of 1947 Los Angeles with a heavy heart and a vial of "Quick-Silver" in his pocket. The drug was a miracle of forbidden chemistry, a shimmering liquid that promised the world in a heartbeat. One drop, and the world stopped. You could walk through a hail of bullets, steal a secret from a locked safe, or kiss a sleeping woman without her ever...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 35 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Iron ArchitectThe skyline of Neo-York was a jagged tooth of chrome and neon, biting into a smog-choked sky. Elias lived in the "Sump," the lowest level of the city where the runoff from the upper spires rained down as a caustic, iridescent sludge. His home was a rusted shipping container shared with his mother and two sisters-in-law, women whose spirits had been crushed by the corporate tithes of the Zenith...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 53 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Velocity LogLog Entry 442. Subject: Dr. Alistair Vance. Observer: Sam Thorne. I remember when Dr. Vance was just a man. He used to bring me coffee in the early mornings, the steam rising in the cold air of the lab, and talk about the "poetry of motion." He was a gentle soul, a man who loved old leather-bound books and slow, meandering walks in the park during autumn. He believed that speed was not a tool...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 40 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Last Divorce DecreeThe Last Divorce DecreeAct IThe letter arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with wax the colour of dried blood. Clara Blackwood held it between two fingers as though it might burn her, though it was only a summons from a solicitor in Lincoln's Inn Fields. She did not need to read the words to know what they said. She had spent three months preparing for this exact moment, three months of silence at the...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 33 Views 0 previzualizare
-
Coffee at SevenThe clinic smelled like everything else in Flint: like old coffee and floor wax and the particular kind of despair that comes from watching a town slowly disappear. Mary Johnson clocked in at six forty-five, which was fifteen minutes early because fifteen minutes gave her time to sit in her car and think about whether she wanted to go inside. Today, like most days, the answer was no. But she...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 55 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Shadow of the GuardianMy brother, Julian, used to smell of old books and peppermint. He was the kind of man who would apologize to a spider before moving it outside. When our father died and left us with a bankrupt estate and a house full of grieving women—our mother and two aunts—Julian became our anchor. He was the only man left to hold the fragments of our lives together. But the neighborhood we lived in, a...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 49 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Circle of ZeroLeo lived his life in a straight line. He was a runner, a man who had stripped away everything that didn't contribute to his velocity. He didn't have friends, he didn't have a home, he didn't even have a name—he was simply "The Vector." To Leo, the world was a series of obstacles to be overcome, a collection of frictions that needed to be eliminated. He believed that speed was the only truth,...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 63 Views 0 previzualizare
-
What the Bay RemembersThe champagne was cold, the band was warm, and Claire Hunter decided at precisely eleven o'clock on a Friday in October 1925 that New York was the most beautiful city in the world. This was, she acknowledged later, the judgment of a twenty-four-year-old woman who had arrived in the city with four hundred dollars in her purse and an article about Long Island real estate already accepted by the...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 42 Views 0 previzualizare
-
What the Cotton Fields RememberWhat the Cotton Fields RememberAct IThe cotton fields did not remember Clara LeBlanc's name, because it had never been her name. For three generations of LeBlanc women, the name had been the same — a inheritance heavier than any dress, passed from mother to daughter like a curse wrapped in lace.Clara was the fourth. Clara Marguerite LeBlanc, born in 1952 in a house that had been built by her...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 60 Views 0 previzualizare
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek