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152 Publicações
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24/01/1966
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The Boy Who Walked AwayI. Joe O'Brien was eleven years old when his mother told him to leave, and he did not cry, did not scream, did not beg. He stood in the kitchen of the Brighton Beach apartment with his father drunk on the couch and his two younger brothers watching television, and he listened to his mother say, "You're not one of us, Joseph. You never will be. Perhaps it would be best if you made your own...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 AnteriorFaça Login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
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The Patient from BelowThe voice started on a Tuesday, in the basement of Dr. Edward Blackwood's clinic in the town of Arkham, Massachusetts. Eddie was fifteen, brilliant and troubled in equal measure, and he had spent the last three years sitting on his father's examination table while his father examined other people's minds. His father was sitting in his armchair, conducting what should have been a routine session...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 4 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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What the Air RemembersThe coffee was cold. It was always cold in the abandoned mine outpost, and Ray Hargrove didn't bother making new coffee anymore. He just drank the old stuff, black, and let the bitterness remind him that he was still alive.He was forty-five years old, a former National Guard radio operator who had survived a mining accident that had taken both his legs below the knee. Now he lived in this...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 5 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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THE MIRROR IN THE BASEMENTACT I: THE WINDOWLESS ROOM Lord Alistair Finch-Worthingham inherited Blackwood Park on a Tuesday in November, which seemed appropriate: Tuesdays were the kind of days on which serious things happened—inheritances, deaths, the slow realization that one's life has been a performance for an audience that stopped watching years ago. The house was exactly as one might expect a country house named...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 4 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Second Dawn SocietyThe Second Dawn Society The rain over the Somme did not fall so much as it materialized, appearing all at once in the air like a curtain drawn by an invisible hand. Thomas Calloway felt the German shell hit the trench wall and knew, with a clarity that had nothing to do with courage and everything to do with arithmetic, that he was already dead. The explosion was a wall of sound and earth and...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 4 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Bright Girl from NowhereThe Bright Girl from Nowhere The coffee at Les Deux Magots was terrible, and Daisy Calloway had been drinking it for four hours. She sat at the corner table with her notebook open, her pen moving across the page in a continuous stream. She'd been writing since dawn—since before the sun had come up over the Seine, since before the baker on the corner had lit his oven, since before Paris had...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 4 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Long Sleep of Julian Vane(Variation 03 - Film Noir) The rain in Bay City didn't wash anything away; it just turned the grime into a mirror. Julian Vane was a man who lived in the reflection, a disgraced former District Attorney with a penchant for expensive scotch and a talent for doing absolutely nothing. He lived in a penthouse that smelled of stale tobacco and failed ambitions, a glass tower where he could watch the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 7 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Last PatientDr. Adrian Cross had spent seven years studying post-traumatic stress in veterans, and he was good at it. Too good, according to Dr. Elena Vasquez, his mentor and supervisor at the Vance Institute for Cognitive Research. "You're not treating them, Adrian," she told him after observing one of his sessions. "You're solving them. There's a difference." He did not listen. He was close to something....0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 8 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Last Letter from WindermereThe autumn of 1873 came early to the Lake District, its fogs rolling down from the fells like the breath of something vast and ancient. Eleanor Ashworth noticed it more than most, for she had spent the better part of her twenty-two years watching weather from the windows of her father's house, a modest Georgian affair at the edge of Grassmere, where the road dissolved into sheep pasture and the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 5 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Divided EarthThe dust of the Punjab plains was a suffocating gold, a shimmering haze that blurred the line between the earth and the sky. It was August 1947, and the world was being torn in two. The Partition of India was not a political line on a map; it was a jagged wound ripped through the heart of a thousand-year-old community. Julian was a schoolteacher in a village that had known only peace for...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 8 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Black BadgeThe rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the dirt slicker. I was sitting in my office on Sunset Boulevard, watching the water trace ugly paths down the single window, when the door opened without my permission. She walked in like she owned the building, which in this town was basically the same thing. She was wearing black. Not mourning black—operating black. The kind...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 8 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The First Migratory BirdDr. Julian Ashford's hands did not shake. They had stopped shaking three years ago, in a field hospital outside Verdun, when the morphine ran out and he had to operate on a boy of nineteen with a shell fragment in his abdomen and a mother's voice echoing in his head in a language his mother didn't even speak. His hands were steady now. Surgeon's hands. Precise. Scarred. The kind of hands that...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 6 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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