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166 Beiträge
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Female
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13/11/1961
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The Prophet of the DustThe manor house of Blackwood was a rotting tooth in the landscape of the Deep South, draped in Spanish moss that looked like the hair of drowned women. I remember Mr. Silas not as a teacher, but as a ghost who had forgotten to leave. He lived in the carriage house, a man of sudden outbursts and long, terrifying silences. He taught us physics in the humid heat of July, his voice a dry rattle...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 0 Ansichten 0 BewertungenBitte loggen Sie sich ein, um liken, teilen und zu kommentieren!
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The Capital's PrisonerThe contract arrived on a Tuesday, three weeks after Percival Blackwood stepped on the wrong curb and was struck by a hansom cab that should have killed him and did not. He woke in a bed that was not his bed, in a house that was not his house, in a body that was not his body but looked exactly like it. The reflection in the mirror showed a young man of twenty-four with dark hair, pale skin, and...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 0 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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Brooklyn, 2023. Sarah Chen had been an archivist at the Brooklyn Public Library for eleven years before she started noticing the pattern.It began with a stack of boxes donated by the estate of a deceased astronomer named Jack Morrison. Morrison had died at eighty-seven, alone, in a small apartment on Clinton Street that Sarah had visited twice during her years as a part-time shelver. He was a quiet man who spoke little and smiled less, and when he died, his neighbors found his apartment filled with notebooks—hundreds of them,...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 5 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The reflection blinked three seconds after I did.I knew it was happening because I was looking in the bathroom mirror at 6:47 AM on a Tuesday, brushing my teeth, and I saw my own mouth close while mine was still open. A delay. A glitch. A reflection that refused to keep up. I spat into the sink and stared at my face. Sarah Chen, thirty-eight years old, CEO of NeuroLink Technologies, founder of the most promising brain-computer interface...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 8 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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THE LAST GREAT GATSBY'S WARACT I: THE JAZZ CLUB (20%) The piano player at Le Diable Noir was playing a tune Nick Calloway had never heard but felt he had lived. It was slow and sad and sounded like a man walking through a room where everything he had loved had been taken, and he didn't know when it happened or by whose hand, so he just kept walking. Nick sat at the bar with a whiskey that was half water and watched the...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 5 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Meridian ArchiveThe Meridian ArchiveThe station hummed. It was always humming — a low, resonant vibration that Maeve Corwin felt in her teeth when she pressed her forehead against the bulkhead of the archival bay and tried to sleep. *Aethelgard* was a Soviet-era orbital station, launched in 1987 during an era when space was still a place for flags and ideology, retrofitted over three decades into something...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 8 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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No Redemption for Jack MorrisonThe rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the dirt slicker. Jack Morrison knew this. He had been watching it fall on the cracked windshield of his repair shop for three hours, listening to it drum against the corrugated metal roof, when the spherical lightning appeared. Not outside. Inside. Hovering in the center of his shop, above a stack of broken radios and...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 9 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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Three Lives of Jack HalloranThe first Jack Halloran was born in 1896 in a farmhouse outside Albany, New York, the third son of a dairy farmer who had never been more than fifty miles from the place he was born. This Jack was a quiet boy, observant, the kind of child who watched the world more than he participated in it. He joined the Army in 1917 because everyone was joining the Army in 1917, and he shipped out to France...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 6 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Patient from BelowACT I: THE LISTENING The sanatorium sat on the edge of Whitechapel, where the fog never fully lifted and the gas lamps cast yellow circles on cobblestones that were perpetually damp. Julian Ashworth had been sent here by his physician after his "episode" at twenty-five—a nervous breakdown, the doctor called it, though Julian suspected the word "nervous" was a euphemism for something the doctor...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 9 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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THE PATIENT FROM BELOWDr. Arthur Voss could not remember how he had arrived at the hospital. This was not, strictly speaking, true. He remembered driving through Vienna on a February evening in 1896, the gas lamps casting amber pools on the wet cobblestones, the carriages bouncing over puddles that reflected the windows of the cafés where men sat drinking brandy and talking about the future of the Balkans. He...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 11 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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Void Meridian: The Bunker Beneath the Fog - V04_Victorian_Gothic VariantLondon, 1888. The fog along Fleet Street was so thick it might as well have been solid — a yellowish-white mass that smelled of coal smoke and the Thames, into which it slowly deposited all the secrets of the city that produces it. Danny Cole walked through it with the determined gait of a man who had walked through worse fogs, deeper in the city's underbelly, in the cellars and tunnel systems...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Dream of West LakeThe fog rolled in off the Thames like a shroud, swallowing London whole. Arthur Windsor stood on the bridge at Westminster, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his overcoat, watching the river's black surface reflect nothing but grey and shadow. It had been three years since he returned from India, and in those three years he had learned that some dreams are not meant to be lived, only...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 8 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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