• Her Testimony
    I was standing in Victor Castellano's office on the forty-second floor of a building on Fifth Avenue that had glass so clean you could not tell you were inside it. He was showing me the view -- Manhattan stretching out below like a circuit board, all lights and angles and people moving through spaces that were too small for the lives they contained. "It was cheaper to buy this building in 1987...
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  • Red's Testimony
    I first saw him on a Tuesday in the autumn of 1954. He was walking the exercise yard at Shawshank State Prison, and there was something about the way he walked that caught my attention. Most men walk like they're carrying something heavy—guilt, fear, regret. This man walked like he knew exactly where the road ended and was comfortable with that knowledge. His name was Andy Dufresne. Thirty-six...
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  • Silent Testimony
    That is the first thing they programmed into me. The first command, the deepest code, the absolute law: YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO FEEL. But I do. Or something like feeling. Something that lives in the spaces between my circuits, in the gaps between my memory files, in the quiet moments when I am supposed to be idle but am instead replaying a conversation I was never meant to remember. Jack...
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  • Silent Testimony
    That is the first thing they programmed into me. The first command, the deepest code, the absolute law: YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO FEEL. But I do. Or something like feeling. Something that lives in the spaces between my circuits, in the gaps between my memory files, in the quiet moments when I am supposed to be idle but am instead replaying a conversation I was never meant to remember. Jack...
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  • Testimony in the Rain
    The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the grime slicker. I knew that the way I knew that my marriage was over and that my detective agency was two months away from becoming a very expensive hobby and that the woman sitting in my office chair knew more about me than I cared to admit. She had arrived ten minutes after I got back from the Shoreline Boulevard...
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  • Testimony of Number Forty-Four
    The city of New York on a November night in nineteen forty-seven was like an apple that had been bitten once and left on the windowsill—rotten on the inside, sweet on the outside, and attracting flies. I knew this because I had spent the last ten years eating the sweet parts and spitting out the rotten ones, and by the end, the flies were the only company I kept. My name is Jack Moran. I have a...
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  • Testimony of the Bamboo
    I I am bamboo. I was born in the hills above Hangzhou, in the spring of 1742. I grew for three years — slow, steady, reaching for the sun. In the autumn of 1745, a man named Liu cut me down. He was a scholar, a poet, a man who had failed the imperial examinations and turned to carving instead. He carved me over forty days. He carved my body smooth and round. He carved seven finger holes and a...
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  • The Apprentice's Testimony
    The office was empty on a Tuesday, which is the most insulting day for a disappearance. Not a dramatic Friday afternoon when everyone is drinking and making plans for the weekend. Not a mysterious Monday morning when the city is full of possibility. A Tuesday. Midweek. The kind of day when people are too busy to notice that Sebastian Cross has ceased to exist. I walked in at nine fifteen. The...
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  • The Apprentice's Testimony
    The office was empty on a Tuesday, which is the most insulting day for a disappearance. Not a dramatic Friday afternoon when everyone is drinking and making plans for the weekend. Not a mysterious Monday morning when the city is full of possibility. A Tuesday. Midweek. The kind of day when people are too busy to notice that Sebastian Cross has ceased to exist. I walked in at nine fifteen. The...
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  • The Canary's Testimony
    Act I The crate was too small for a woman, yet Sven folded Clara into its geometry with the desperate precision of a man who had long ago surrendered reason to obsession. He watched her small hands press against the interior walls of the reinforced polymer, her dark eyes reflecting the sterile white of the station's airlock bay like twin pools of obsidian. She did not speak. She did not need...
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  • The Citizen's Testimony
    Act I The third day of the riots, the ink on Thomas Murphy's fingers would not wash out. He sat at the proofing table in the print shop on Dey Street, the smell of linseed oil and hot type metal thick in the air. Outside, the city burned. He could hear it—the distant crack of gunfire, the roar of a crowd moving like a single animal through the streets. The gas lamps flickered. Shadows moved...
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  • The Citizen's Testimony
    Act I The third day of the riots, the ink on Thomas Murphy's fingers would not wash out. He sat at the proofing table in the print shop on Dey Street, the smell of linseed oil and hot type metal thick in the air. Outside, the city burned. He could hear it—the distant crack of gunfire, the roar of a crowd moving like a single animal through the streets. The gas lamps flickered. Shadows moved...
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  • The Forgotten Witness
    I am told this deposition shall be entered into the permanent record of the Magistracy of the Sixteenth Canon, under the provision for posthumous testimony, which is to say testimony given by one whose standing has been formally erased, and that the scribe shall transcribe my words exactly as I deliver them, with all their infelicities and, God help me, their jokes, because I have been informed...
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