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  • The-Blind-Man-Who-Saw-Too-Much
    看见 第一次看见光的时候,我以为自己死了。 不是那种诗意的、温暖的死——而是被强光刺穿视网膜后的一片空白。然后空白褪去,世界像一张过度曝光的照片缓缓浮现:轮廓、色彩、阴影,所有的一切同时涌进来,把我钉在病床上动弹不得。 "你感觉怎么样?"护士问。 我感觉?我感觉自己像是一个被强行塞进彩色玻璃罐的飞蛾,每一寸皮肤都在灼烧。 "很好,手术很成功。"护士说。 她不知道的是,我在黑暗中已经生活了 thirty-two 年。三十二年的黑,不是那种关灯后的黑,而是从出生就没有光的黑。我习惯了用声音定位世界,用触觉感知形状,用嗅觉判断距离。我的黑暗是有纹理的,有温度的,有气味的——它属于我。 而现在,它们要把这个属于我的黑暗夺走。 "妈妈?"我说。我听见自己声音里的颤抖。...
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  • Blood of the Estate
    The house was dying. I know this because I could feel it in my teeth—a vibration so low and so deep that it registered only as a pressure, like being at the bottom of a well. I stood on the veranda of Vaughn Hall, the great estate my family had owned since 1798, and watched the sunset bleed across the Mississippi delta sky. The cotton fields below were brown and dead—the off season, which meant...
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  • The Side Effects of Building
    I. The warehouse was on South Ashland. Two thousand square feet, concrete floor, corrugated metal walls that rattled when the trains passed—which was every twenty minutes from four in the morning until midnight. The rent was eight hundred dollars a month. Jim got it for four hundred because the landlord was a man who cared more about the building being occupied than about who occupied it. Jim...
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  • The Pressure Curve
    Jack stood in the alley behind Cross Prime, the flagship steakhouse of the Cross Dining Group, and watched steam plume from the kitchen exhaust. Three in the morning and the building was still cooking. It was always cooking. That was the thing about Vincent Cross's empire — it never stopped. Twenty-seven restaurants across greater Los Angeles, each one running at full pressure from dawn until...
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  • Blood of the Red Moon
    The bayou doesn't forgive. It absorbs. Odette DuPre knew this. She lived in the remains of her family's plantation—a roof that leaked when the rain came hard, walls that leaned like drunkards, a porch where her grandmother used to sit and watch the alligators and tell stories about the voodoo aunt who'd been driven into the marsh in 1867 and never seen again. Odette was sixteen and the last...
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  • The Crystallization of David Cohen
    The process begins not with the crime but with the temperature at which a man can no longer pretend. David Cohen had spent thirty-two years in a liquid state—flowing into the shapes required of him by his father, by Columbia, by the firm on Park Avenue, by the America that had taken his family in and demanded gratitude in return. He was fluid, adaptable, a model immigrant's son. And then, one...
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  • THE WALL AT WHITE SANDS
    ACT ONE: THE EXPLOSION The wall was twenty feet long and four feet high and made of concrete poured in 1963 when the town of White Sands decided to build something that would outlast the wind. It stood at the edge of Hal Miller's property, which was ten acres of desert that had once been a ranch and was now, since the ranch died around the same time as Hal's marriage, a place where chihuaga...
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  • The jazz of fading stars
    The music was dying, and nobody wanted to admit it. Not in New York, where the music was everything. Not in Chicago, where the music was the only thing. And certainly not in Julian Ashford, who had spent the last five years composing jazz that made people dance because they were afraid of what would happen when the music stopped. It was 1925, and the city was drowning in its own prosperity....
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  • The Demonic Flame
    The first time I saw the light, it was November and the fog clung to Whitechapel like a shroud. Arthur had been sleeping since vespers, his breathing thin and regular as a child's, and I was downstairs mending a tear in Mr. Harrington's best coat by the light of a single tallow candle. The rain began before the thunder—soft at first, then with such violence that I thought the roof would give...
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  • The Last Cashier
    Cat stood at the register. Eight hours a day. Same people. Same groceries. She stopped counting the faces around month three. The store was called SaveMart in a town that had stopped saving itself years ago. She scanned things. Beep. Bag. Beep. Receipt. Beep. That was her life. Scan. Bag. Receipt. Not that she minded. Mind required energy she didn't have. --- Dr. Shaw taught astronomy at the...
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  • The Neon Pyre
    The rain in the city was a chemical slurry that tasted of copper and ozone. It fell in sheets, blurring the edges of the holographic advertisements that promised a paradise no one could afford. Arthur lived in the gutters, a man who had been chewed up by the corporate machine and spat out into the neon sludge. He was a "Glitch," a human whose neural implants had malfunctioned, leaving him with...
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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...
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