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159 Publicações
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Female
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21/09/1990
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The Memory ArchivistThe archive was a cathedral of dust and silence, located in a basement that smelled of ozone and old paper. Julian lived there, surrounded by the ghosts of a thousand voices captured on wax cylinders and magnetic tapes. He was a man of fragments, a collector of the things others had forgotten. For years, Julian had been obsessed with a specific set of recordings from the 1920s—the voice of a...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 AnteriorFaça o login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
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The Office GirlThe Office GirlMartha Wilson was not the kind of woman people noticed. This was, in her experience, both her greatest liability and her greatest asset. She worked on the forty-second floor of a building on Park Avenue that smelled of lemon polish and money, and her job was to make sure Jack Morrissey\'s calendar didn\'t collapse into chaos.She was twenty-seven, wore clothes that cost less than...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Invisible Line He Crossed One TuesdayMarcus Webb arrived in Los Angeles in the summer of 1983 with a screenplay in his duffel bag and two thousand dollars in a money belt and the absolute, unshakable conviction that the city was a machine built to reward people who paid attention. He was twenty-six years old, tall and hungry and possessed of a gift he had never fully understood, and he believed, with the kind of faith that young...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Green Dealer== I == The trunk had a false bottom, and the false bottom had a false bottom. Jack Morano had paid a carpenter in Long Beach twenty dollars to build it, and the carpenter had charged extra for the second layer because "sounds like you need some real depth there, amigo." Jack had paid the extra. Depth was the difference between getting caught and not getting caught. He stood in the back of his...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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Empty CupThe alarm did not go off at 7:00. It went off at 6:47. Tom knew this because he had set it for 6:47 three months ago and had never changed it, and the reason he had chosen 6:47 was that he had looked at the clock one evening and thought 6:47 sounded like a time when something interesting might happen. It never did. But 6:47 was good. He reached for his phone. Three messages. One from his...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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THE QUIET DESPERATIONTom Callahan was under Mrs. Kowalski's sink at 6:15 a.m., fixing a leak that smelled like cabbage and copper. The water was cold. His back hurt the way it always hurt now — a dull, constant ache that had nothing to do with any particular injury and everything to do with eleven years of working with his hands after the steel mill closed. He tightened the nut with his wrench, wiped his hands on...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Network Beneath the NetworkThere were six of them. Six people who had never met each other, who lived in different parts of Los Angeles, who worked in different industries and spoke different languages and ate different food and worshipped different gods. Six people who had one thing in common and did not know it. The one thing was the water. The first was a meter reader named Orlando Castillo. Orlando had worked for the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Puppet Master of LifeThe rain in New York never really cleans the city; it just moves the grime from one street to another. I watched the droplets race down the window of my office on the 80th floor, thinking about the man currently lying on my operating table. He was a Senator from New York, a man who spoke of family values and traditional morality on television. But in the same breath, he had authorized the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The phone rang at 11:47 PM on a Thursday, and Jack McAllister was already asleep in his office. He answered it on the fourth ring, one eye open, mouth full of the dry taste of stale coffee and regret."McAllister." "Mr. McAllister?" The voice was a woman's, low and careful, the kind of voice that had been trained not to say too much. "My name is Rita Malone. I'm at the Blue Lantern on Sunset. I'd like to hire you." He was awake now. "Hire me for what." "To find out who's been disappearing." He sat up. "People disappear in this town every day. You need to call the police." "The police know....0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 12 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Chronicles of the Falling Star(Grand Civilizational Epic Style) The archives of the Xylos Galaxy are written in light and gravity. For ten million years, the Xylosian Hegemony was the pinnacle of existence. They had mastered the art of star-weaving, creating Dyson spheres that powered entire sectors and cities that floated on the crests of black holes. They believed they had reached the end of evolution. Historian Kaelen...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 6 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The patient from belowDr. Eleanor Hart had been coming to the Blackwood Institute for three weeks when she first heard the word transfiguration. The patient who said it was in Room 217—the highest security room on the fourth floor, where the walls were padded with beige fabric that had been stained by decades of fingerprints, heads thrown against them in moments of despair, and hands pressed flat in moments of...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 8 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The PortraitThe radio sat on Rook's lap like a wounded animal, its plastic casing cracked and faded, its knobs worn smooth by hands that were no longer there to turn them. She had found it in the ruins of her grandfather's shelter, buried beneath a pile of canvas tarps and rusted metal sheets in the basement of a building that had been a library once, before the collapse, before everything stopped working...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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