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186 Publicações
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27/08/1973
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The Golden ButterflyThe tower was the worst part of the house. Not because it was dangerous—though it was, leaning slightly to the left like a man who had drunk too much and was trying to remember which way was home—but because it was where their father had locked himself. Liam O'Sullivan was the eldest of six O'Sullivan brothers. At thirty-seven, he worked as a teacher at the local secondary school, teaching...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 0 Visualizações 0 AnteriorFaça o login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
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The Woman Who Crossed the Sea Twice Without MovingThere are two stories about what happened to Elena Vasquez in the winter of 1924, and both of them are true, and neither of them is sufficient on its own, and the space between them — the gap that cannot be closed by choosing one and discarding the other — is the only story that matters. This is not a metaphor. This is not a literary device. This is the structure of reality as it was...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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What Was SharedI never knew my great-great-grandfather's name. The records say he was born Eamonn O'Brien in County Cork in 1830, but the family called him James after he changed it when he came to America. The name he chose was not more American—it was just newer. Like everything else about him. His father was Seamus MacNamara, a Catholic priest who was also, in secret, a botanist and a doctor. Seamus was...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Dock at Callahan Marine Mammal Rescue, July–October 1925The wood was cut from southern yellow pine, kiln-dried at two hundred degrees Fahrenheit, milled into planks twelve feet long by six inches wide by two inches thick. Each plank received two coats of creosote at the timber yard in Patchogue before transport by flatbed wagon on June 3, 1925. The nails were galvanized steel, three and a half inches in length, driven at intervals of sixteen inches...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Last Bullet of the Rust BeltThe job came through a contact at a truck stop off I-70. His name was Dale. He ran a diner in a town called Iron Creek that didn't appear on most maps. The population was three thousand if you counted the ghosts. He met me in the parking lot behind the diner. A Ford pickup, flat left rear tire, exhaust pipe hanging by a thread. He didn't introduce himself. Just handed me an envelope and said,...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 5 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Jazz of Empty SpaceThe bar was called The Blue Note, and it was located on 135th Street in Harlem, in a building that had been a speakeasy during Prohibition and had been a bar ever since, which meant that it had never really closed even when the law said it should have. The neon sign outside buzzed with an intermittent flicker that had become, in the twelve years since Jack Lockwood had first walked in, as much...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 11 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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ArrangementI was not supposed to be there. That was the first rule of my life: you are never supposed to be where you are, because being where you are means you are visible, and being visible in this city is a fast track to something you never want to happen. But I was at the Sunset diner on a Wednesday night in 1954, sitting in my usual booth by the window, nursing a coffee that had gone cold ten minutes...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 9 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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Edward Sterling arrived in New York on a Tuesday in October, carrying a leather satchel that contained three shirts, a letter of introduction to a man named Mr. Whitfield at the Herald Publishing H...He found a room in a basement apartment on 110th Street for six dollars a week. The woman who rented it to him had a face like a dried apple and a voice like gravel but she gave him a kettle and a spoon and told him the hallway light was broken and he should stop leaving it open. Edward said he would not. He would not leave it open. He would not leave anything open that was not meant to be...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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She Was Looking for Rachel FirstThe woman in the red dress had been watching Rachel Hayes for much longer than Rachel realized. She had been watching her since the funeral. She had been watching her since the hospital. She had been watching her since the moment Rachel's father, Robert Hayes, closed his eyes for the last time and the machines in the ICU room began to emit their long, flat note of finality. The woman in the red...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Echo of EmpathyThe jazz of 1920s New York was a frantic mask, a gilded screen designed to hide the hollow ache of a generation that had seen too much blood in the trenches of France. In the penthouse suites of Manhattan, the champagne flowed like rivers, but in the damp, subterranean corridors of the St. Jude’s Asylum for the Incurable, the only music was the rhythmic dripping of pipes and the low moans of...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The last bell tolled at three in the morning, and Arthur Blackwood woke from it.He was already awake before the sound reached him. He had been awake for one hundred and seven mornings, each one beginning with the same bell, the same cold light filtering through heavy velvet curtains, the same smell of damp wool and beeswax that filled his townhouse on Grosvenor Square. He did not open his eyes at first. He counted the seconds between the bell's first stroke and its last....0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 20 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Fox's MaskACT I: THE SMOKE The opium den beneath Royal Mile was a place that existed in the space between waking and dreaming, where the air was thick with smoke and the walls were the color of old teeth. Duncan McVey knew every corner of it—he had spent five years learning its geography, mapping its shadows, memorizing the faces of the men and women who floated between consciousness and oblivion in...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 7 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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