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15/09/2003
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The mansion on blackwood hillThe house had been dying for one hundred and fifty years, and Atticus Blackwood was its last physician. Or perhaps its last mourner. He was not sure which. Blackwood Manor stood on a hill above the Savannah River in South Carolina, a sprawling Victorian structure of faded white pillars and purple ivy that had grown over the cracks like a scar tissue trying to hold the building together. The...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 BewertungenBitte loggen Sie sich ein, um liken, teilen und zu kommentieren!
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The Mirror at BlackthorneThe rain in London does not fall so much as it accumulates, layer by attenuated layer, until the city is nothing more than a watercolor painting left out in a storm. Reginald Ashworth had lived through eleven London rains by November 1891, but this one was different—not in its intensity or its duration, but in the particular way it blurred the boundaries between the east and the west, making...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 0 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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Three Velocities of a Single TruthAmelia Whitmore discovered the first letter on the third of November, 1888, in a locked chest in the attic of Whitmore Manor. It was written in Urdu, a language she could not yet read, and it was dated September 1856. The ink had faded to sepia, but the hand that had written it was steady, even elegant. She did not know then that this single sheet of paper would teach her something her...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 0 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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THE LAST WALLThe stone was cold beneath Edward's gloved hands. He ran his palm along the face of it, feeling for the cracks his predecessors had spent a thousand years cataloguing. There were none today. The wall held. It always held. Edward Blackthorne, seventieth Lord Keeper of the Morvayne Ramparts, walked the parapet at midnight, as he had every night for twelve years. The moon was a sliver of bone in a...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Patient from BelowACT I: THE LISTENING The sanatorium sat on the edge of Whitechapel, where the fog never fully lifted and the gas lamps cast yellow circles on cobblestones that were perpetually damp. Julian Ashworth had been sent here by his physician after his "episode" at twenty-five—a nervous breakdown, the doctor called it, though Julian suspected the word "nervous" was a euphemism for something the doctor...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 6 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Thousand Layers of a Single PlateThe first layer was enamel. Green enamel, sprayed onto cold-rolled steel in a factory in Sidney, Ohio, in February of 1972. The enamel was applied by a woman named Margaret O'Donnell, who had been working at the Garland factory for eleven years and who could tell, just by the sound of the spray gun, whether the coat was the right thickness. She applied two coats to each range, let them dry for...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 6 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Side Effects of Knowing## [English Version] The universe is expanding faster than it used to, and I discovered this on a Tuesday, which is inconvenient because Tuesdays are the only day I have office hours and I would have preferred to make this discovery on a weekend, when nobody would expect me to be anywhere near a chalkboard. But that's not how science works. Science works on Tuesdays, when you're eating a...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 6 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Static in the RearviewThe signal came through at 2:17 AM on a Wednesday in October 1954. Mike Callahan was sitting at his desk in a fourth-floor office on Sunset Boulevard, nursing a glass of bourbon that cost two dollars a pour and tasted like four. The shortwave receiver he'd built from surplus military parts sat on a filing cabinet next to his door, its vacuum tubes glowing a soft orange in the dark room. The...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Last Flight of L'OiseauThe package arrived on a Tuesday in March 1964, which was unremarkable in itself except for the fact that Tuesdays in 1964 Paris were not the kind of days that packages arrive on, or at least not packages that change the trajectory of a life that has spent twenty years moving in a single direction toward a destination that the traveler has never questioned because questioning is a luxury that...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 8 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The reflection blinked three seconds after I did.I knew it was happening because I was looking in the bathroom mirror at 6:47 AM on a Tuesday, brushing my teeth, and I saw my own mouth close while mine was still open. A delay. A glitch. A reflection that refused to keep up. I spat into the sink and stared at my face. Sarah Chen, thirty-eight years old, CEO of NeuroLink Technologies, founder of the most promising brain-computer interface...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 8 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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Between the Bullet and the BreathBetween the bullet and the breath there is a space. It is not a space that can be measured in inches or seconds, though if you were to attempt such a measurement you might say it is the distance between the muzzle of a .38 caliber revolver and the third intercostal space of a man's chest, or the time between the firing pin's strike and the bullet's arrival -- approximately one-seventieth of a...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 10 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Obsidian Cage(V-01: Victorian Melancholy) The dampness of the London underground was not merely a condition of the architecture; it was a living entity that breathed against Arthur's skin. For three years, the only sun he had known was the flickering amber of a torch held by a guard who smelled of stale tobacco and indifference. Arthur, once a man of letters and political conviction, was now a ghost in a...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 5 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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