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126 Publicações
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Female
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04/06/1984
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The Last Honor of AlistairThe castle of Blackwood stood on a cliff overlooking the grey Atlantic, its stones worn smooth by centuries of salt and wind. It was a place of echoing halls and faded tapestries, a monument to a nobility that had long since lost its purpose. Count Alistair, the last of the line, spent his days in the library, reading the journals of ancestors who had once led armies and shaped kingdoms....0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 6 Visualizações 0 AnteriorFaça Login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
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Kitchen TableDale Henderson worked at the assembly line for twenty years. Twenty years of the same sounds, the same smells, the same fluorescent lights humming overhead like they were trying to communicate something and giving up halfway through. The plant was off Route 23 in Ohio, the kind of place that was built in 1968 and never updated, just patched. The patching was visible everywhere — the repaired...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 7 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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Blood and MagnoliasI returned to Magnolia House in the rain. Not the gentle rain of spring or the warm rain of summer, but the kind of rain that comes in April and refuses to stop for three days, turning the red clay roads to soup and filling the cypress swamps until the water creeps up the porch steps and into the floorboards. Miles stood on the porch when I arrived, his right hand resting on the railing, his...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 7 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Black SignalACT I: THE GIFT The rain in Los Angeles didn't wash things clean. It made everything worse, turning the grime of the city into a slick black paste that coated everything from the sidewalks to the inside of Jack Morretti's lungs. Jack had come home from the war in '46 with a head full of holes and a pocket full of nothing. Not the nothing of a man who had no money—the nothing of a man who had no...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 5 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Starlight InheritanceThe jazz drifted up from the basement of 147th Street like smoke from a dying fire—thin, persistent, and full of ghosts. James Callahan stood on the sidewalk outside the speakeasy and listened to it for a moment before pushing through the heavy oak door. Inside, the air was thick with gin and cigarette smoke and the kind of desperate joy that only prosperity can breed. People danced in the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 9 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Starlight ProjectThe signal came on a Tuesday in October, and Nathaniel Whitfield knew immediately that nothing would ever be the same. He was alone in the Harvard observatory, the kind of solitary vigil that astronomers loved to romanticize and anyone else would find unbearably lonely. The telescope's recording drum turned slowly, etching tiny deflections of light onto a roll of photographic paper. Nathaniel...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 5 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Weight of the Word(Booker Prize Style Variation) The archives of the city's Great Library were not merely a repository of books, but a cemetery of intentions. Here, in the subterranean vaults where the air was thick with the scent of decaying leather and forgotten ambitions, Elias Thorne served as the Chief Lexicographer. His life's work was the 'Universal Dictionary', an attempt to capture the exact emotional...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 5 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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THE SILENT PARTNERThe radio crackled with news I had orchestrated but never intended to hear broadcast. "Federal investigators arrive in Blackwater, probing mass death event..." I sat in the corner booth of Finch's Saloon, watching the dust settle on my whiskey glass. The neon sign above the bar flickered—OPEN, then OFF, then OPEN again—like the moral certainty of men who had never had to make difficult...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 9 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Albatross on Brooklyn BridgeThe bridge was empty at seven in the morning except for Daniel Reeves and the fog. The fog was thick enough to make the suspension cables disappear into gray, turning the Brooklyn side into a silhouette and the Manhattan skyline into a watercolor that was still wet and bleeding at the edges. Daniel was waiting for the light to change so he could cross to the train station. He had been commuting...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 5 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Man in the GalleryEileen Donovan had worked at Hazelwood and Associates for twelve years. Her job was to catalog, archive, and inventory the work of every painter the gallery had ever represented. She photographed each painting, wrote labels, recorded dimensions and dates. She placed the works in acid-free boxes and stored them in the gallery's basement warehouse. She had seen many painters' work. Good,...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 8 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Committee MeetingDr. David Chen had worked at the World Health Organization for twenty-two years. In twenty-two years, he had attended approximately four thousand committee meetings. He could recognize the shape of a meeting the way a sailor could recognize the shape of a storm—by the colour of the sky, the behaviour of the birds, the way everyone stopped talking when you entered the room. The meeting was about...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 11 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The RecyclerRay Hudson's knee hurt when it rained. This was not a dramatic pain. It was the kind of pain that made you sit down a little slower and stand up a little more carefully, the kind of pain that you mentioned to nobody because mentioning it would make it real and you didn't want it to be real. The recycling yard sat on the edge of a Pittsburgh suburb that had been a suburb once, before the steel...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 9 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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