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27/05/1988
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The Cotton's CurseThe cotton stood taller than Silas. That was the first thing he noticed, and it was the thing that never left him. He had planted the seed like any other—thumbed a hole in the dry earth, dropped the cotton ball in, covered it with the same flat palm he used for everything. But this patch was different. The earth here was black and stubborn, the kind of dirt that refused everything the Butler...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 ReviewsPlease log in to like, share and comment!
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The mansion on blackwood hillThe house had been dying for one hundred and fifty years, and Atticus Blackwood was its last physician. Or perhaps its last mourner. He was not sure which. Blackwood Manor stood on a hill above the Savannah River in South Carolina, a sprawling Victorian structure of faded white pillars and purple ivy that had grown over the cracks like a scar tissue trying to hold the building together. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Portrait That Contained the WomanThey hung the portrait in the west gallery of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in the spring of 1963, thirty-eight years after it was painted. The plaque beneath it read: Portrait of a Woman in Repose, Artist Unknown, circa 1925. Oil on canvas. Gift of the de Valois Estate. The woman in the portrait was young—perhaps twenty-nine, perhaps thirty—with dark hair and dark eyes and a mouth that was...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Vostok ProtocolI The diagnosis came on a Tuesday in March, 2347. Dr. Yelena Vostok did not use the word symbiote outright—she never did, in the presence of her colleagues—but the words she used were worse. A non-terrestrial microorganism. A biological anomaly. A phenomenon that defied classification. The physician spoke to Commander Elias Thorne in the observation deck of New Thames Colony Station, with the...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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Two Truths at the Bottom of the SeaThere are two things that a fourteen-year-old lighthouse keeper knows, and they contradict each other, and both are true. The first thing: his father is dead. Oliver Hartley died of fever eleven days ago, and his body is buried in the churchyard at Marazion beneath a stone that says Beloved Father and Keeper of the Light. The second thing: his father is still alive, somewhere in the pages of...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
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Sample V-05: The White Void(Style F: Psychological Thriller) The room was white. Not the white of a painted wall, but the white of a dead star—a blinding, featureless void that erased the horizon. I am Subject 7. I do not remember my name, my age, or the taste of salt. I only remember the Mirror. The Mirror was a floating slab of obsidian in the center of the room. The Architect, a voice that sounded like a thousand...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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Sample-马踏天下-V12-202605292110.txt## The Architect of the Infinite Loop The island of Aethelgard was a speck of emerald in a sea of obsidian, a place where the laws of causality were as fluid as the tide. I am the Architect. I do not remember my original name, nor the world I came from. I only remember the Loop. For an eternity, I have woken up on the same white sand beach, under the same violet sky, with the same singular...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Mirror Of Rouen: Japanese Post-War Urban NoirThe Mirror Of Rouen: Japanese Post-War Urban Noir Batch 9 - Work ID 77393: The Mirror Of Rouen Tensor: TI=6.8, M=[5.0, 10.9, 6.5, 1.5, 3.9, 9.1, 4.2, 10.3, 4.6, 12], theta=189.5° Act I Rain had been falling over Tokyo since morning, steady and gray, the kind of rain that didn't announce itself with thunder or wind but simply decided to be there and stayed until the city forgot what dry felt...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
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The Harbinger's Lie(Variant V-04: Film Noir) The rain in this city didn't wash anything away; it just smeared the neon lights across the asphalt like a cheap watercolor painting of a nightmare. I sat in my office, the kind of place where the dust had its own zip code and the only thing that worked consistently was the leak in the ceiling. My name is Silas Vance, and I deal in the things people want to forget....0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
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THE PEOPLE'S ENGINE### Act I: The Spark James Callahan first understood what engineering meant at the age of twelve, when he was sent into the depths of the Homestead Steel Plant to unclog a jammed conveyor belt that had brought the entire rolling mill to a halt. The foreman had given him a choice: crawl through the gap between two moving rollers, or watch his father lose a week's wages for the downtime. James...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Beauregard WomenThe Beauregard Women Act I — The Attic Eulalie Beauregard stood in her mother's attic above the family home on St. James Street, the kind of house that the Yazoo River had slowly been eating for two centuries, its foundation sagging toward the water like a body sinking into wet earth. The attic smelled of cedar and jasmine and the particular dampness that Mississippi produces when the heat...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
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THE CLOCKTOWER APARTMENTSThe call came at 7 AM on a Tuesday, the kind of morning when Manhattan moves like a machine that forgot to ask if its operators were okay. Detective Marcus Webb rolled out of bed, grabbed his coat, and listened to the telephone on his apartment wall ring three times before he answered. "Webb." "Marcus, it's Homicide. Clocktower Apartments, Upper East Side. Twenty-three residents found dead this...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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