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الرجاء تسجيل الدخول , للأعجاب والمشاركة والتعليق على هذا!
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The Man from IndianapolisThe Man from Indianapolis I Monday mornings at the high school always felt the same: fluorescent lights humming too loud, the smell of floor wax and teenage sweat, and a line of students at Brenda's office door who all had some problem that needed solving and nobody else was going to solve it. Ricky Torres was first in line that morning. He was seventeen, skinny, dark-haired, and had the...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 788 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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Storm-LightLucy Harper was twelve years old when she vanished. It happened on the night of October 17, 1990, during a thunderstorm that hit the town of Arkham, Maine with the force of a natural weapon. Rain fell at angles that defied gravity. Lightning split the sky in patterns that looked almost intentional, as if the storm had a purpose and that purpose was to illuminate the world in brief, terrible...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 2 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The quiet room had no windows. That was the first thing Edward Carter noticed when they brought him in. The second thing was the air conditioning. It hummed. A low, steady hum that sounded like the building itself was breathing.He sat on the edge of the bed. The sheets were clean but not fresh. The kind of clean that had happened three days ago and had not been touched since. He pulled them back to cover his legs. He was wearing a shirt and trousers. The shirt was untucked on one side. He didn't fix it. The door locked behind him. He heard the lock click. He had heard that click before. Not here. In his head. ---...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 2 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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Confession from the RooftopConfession from the Rooftop The first time I saw Riley O'Brien practice a confession, she was standing in front of her bathroom mirror with a toothbrush in one hand and a glass of tap water in the other, saying to nobody in particular: David, I need to tell you something, and I'm only going to say this once, and if you walk away, I will understand but I will not forgive you for -- She stopped....0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 3 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Architect of Flesh(Noir Style) The lab was a concrete tomb, lit by the flickering hum of fluorescent tubes that made everyone look like they were already dead. Marcus Thorne thought he was the god of this little world. He had the funding, the tenure, and the genetic keys to the kingdom. He had created Subject-X, a biological marvel that could process data faster than a mainframe and think in fourteen...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 789 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Dark Between StarsAct I The star did not die. It was taken. Commander Maya Whitmore knew this because she had the sensor data, and the sensor data did not lie. KIC-9931207—a G-type main-sequence star, identical to Sol in every measurable way—had been there yesterday and was not there today. The space where it had hung, sixty light-years from the Ark of the Whitehand and squarely within the Dark Belt's expanding...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 2 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Last JumpI. He walked to the sandpit every evening at dusk, and I watched him from the kitchen window with my dish towel still damp in my hands. Elias Beauregard III—third of his name, last of his line—would approach the pit with the slow, halting gait of a man whose left leg had forgotten how to bear weight properly. He stopped at the edge, turned to face the empty field, and began his run-up: three...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 798 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Wall of ClassThe Wall of Class The ballroom smelled of beeswax and bad intentions. Clara Whitfield stood beside a pillar carved with someone's initials from 1842, watching Thomas move through the crowd like a shadow through daylight. He was not supposed to be here. No worker was supposed to be here. But Mrs. Gable, the widow of the old mill manager, had sent word that the evening entertainment required an...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 2 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The champagne was always cold in summer. That was the rule at Long Island salons, whether you liked it or not. Cold champagne, cold conversation, and cold eyes watching you from across the room, calculating whether you were worth knowing.Thomas Bryant stood on the terrace, a glass in his hand he had no intention of drinking, watching the moonlight dance on the sound. Behind him, the party was in full swing—jazz spilling from the gramophone, laughter rising like smoke, the kind of laughter that was always a little too loud, a little too bright, the laughter of people who were trying to convince themselves they were happy. Thomas...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 790 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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