-
171 Publicações
-
0 fotos
-
0 Vídeos
-
Male
-
04/09/2004
-
Seguido por 0 pessoas
Atualizações Recentes
-
The Crimson AbsurdThe fog in London does not cleanse. It only obscures. Arthur Pendelton understood this, though he understood it too late. He was thirty-eight years old, the last son of a family that had been important once—important in the way that important families are important: with money that had been earned three generations ago and titles that had been granted by kings who were now dust and a name that...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 AnteriorFaça Login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
-
The Light Beyond the WaterThe party on Long Island was everything Catherine Fitzgerald had imagined and nothing like it. The band played something fast and syncopated that made the air vibrate. Crystal glasses caught the light from a thousand tiny bulbs strung between the cypress trees. Women in dropped-waist dresses laughed with their heads thrown back, and men in white dinner jackets moved through the crowd like...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Weekend TyrantI. The free bookstore was in a church basement on the south side, and it was run by a woman named Martha who looked like she had been made out of leftover parts—too thin, too tall, with a face that had forgotten what it was supposed to do but kept forgetting anyway. She handed me a book without looking at me, the way you hand a cigarette to someone you've seen before but don't know....0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 5 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
Sisyphus's Reset Button(Style: Minimalist Realism) Ben lived in a town that felt like a photocopy of a photocopy. The houses were the same shade of beige, the rain fell in the same rhythmic drizzle, and every Tuesday at 3:14 PM, the local bakery burned a batch of cinnamon rolls. Ben had a button. Not a physical one, but a mental trigger that allowed him to reset the last twenty-four hours. At first, it was a game. He...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 7 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
Sisyphus in Neon(V-06: New York Modernism) The neon sign of the "Electric Dream" lounge flickered in a rhythmic, agonizing pulse of magenta and cyan. Leo sat at the bar, staring at his reflection in a glass of synthetic gin. He was the Mayor of New York. He had just signed the Urban Harmony Act, a piece of legislation that effectively ended all crime and poverty in the five boroughs. He had won. Again. He felt...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 8 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The house smelled of river and rot and jasmine, which is not a combination you encounter every day unless you live on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi in August.Eleanor Beauregard stood on the front porch and let the humidity wrap around her like a wet sheet. Ten years. Ten years since she had last stood here, and the house had not changed—still sagging at the corners, still painted a white that had turned the color of old teeth, still surrounded by magnolia trees whose roots had long ago cracked the foundation into a mosaic of regret. The key was...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 8 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Zoning VarianceBarnaby Finch was a man of beige. He wore beige suits, lived in a beige apartment, and worked in the Department of Planetary Existence, a government agency so vast and boring that it had its own weather system of floating memos. Barnaby’s job was to ensure that Earth complied with the "Intergalactic Zoning Regulations." Most people didn't know the Department existed, and Barnaby preferred it...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 7 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
What the Water Keeps, What the Water TakesThe house sank an inch the night I found the journal. I know this because I measured it. There is a mark on the parlor wall, a scratch my Uncle Jules made with his pocketknife five years ago when he first noticed the tilt in the floorboards, when the east wing of Beaumont Manor began its slow genuflection toward the bayou. He scratched a line at the height of the cypress waterline outside the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 10 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Mutation of the Cannery Inspector: Adaptation in a Hostile Corporate EnvironmentSilas West arrived at the Boone cannery on the morning of April 2, 1894, with a diploma from Columbia University's School of Mines in his trunk, a new suit that did not quite fit, and a conviction that the application of scientific principles to the food canning industry would save lives. He was twenty-three years old, and he had never been wrong about anything important. The cannery occupied a...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 10 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Void NavigatorThe "Nomad" was a floating scrapyard, a jagged needle of oxidized steel and leaking plasma conduits, screaming through the void of the Andromeda periphery. It smelled of recycled sweat, ozone, and the metallic tang of desperation. Jax sat in the navigator's chair, his boots propped up on a console that sparked every time he breathed. He was a man of sharp angles and scarred skin, with eyes that...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
Stars Over the MississippiThe piano in the Blue Moon club smelled of bourbon and stale smoke, and Lucille Cross played it like she was trying to break through the bottom of the earth. Henry Webb first heard her on a Tuesday in April, three weeks after Chicago had decided he was no longer welcome in their astronomy department. He sat at a corner table, nursing a glass of bourbon he couldn't afford, listening to music...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 14 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
What We Pretend To BeWhat We Pretend To Be ACT I The GED prep class met in a room that used to be a conference space at a community college in Dearborn. The fluorescent light buzzed. The radiator clanked. The chairs wobbled. Jake Morrow sat in the third row with a broken pencil and a Honda Civic that was slowly dying on the side of I-94. Riley O'Sullivan sat next to him. She had a mechanical...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 17 Visualizações 0 Anterior
Mais Stories