It wrote while he slept.
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The Bookshop
THE FIRST NOTE Claire Winslow found the book on a rainy Saturday afternoon in a secondhand bookshop that smelled of dust and old paper and the particular vanilla-like scent that aging books produce as their lignin decomposes, a process she knew about because she was a chemistry professor who found beauty in the molecular explanations for sensory experiences that other people simply enjoyed without needing to understand, and this tendency toward analytical reduction of everything including emotions and relationships was both her greatest professional asset and the characteristic that had ended her last three relationships because no one wants to hear the neurochemistry of attraction explained while they are trying to be romantic. The book was a worn paperback copy of "One Hundred Years of Solitude" by Gabriel García Márquez, and she picked it up because it was her favorite novel and her own copy had been left behind when she moved out of her ex-boyfriend's apartment six months ago in such a hurry that she had abandoned half her belongings including the books that contained her margin notes from fifteen years of reading.
By The Curious Writerabout 17 hours ago in Chapters
Swan
“During the Metal Age, humans took photographs of everything beautiful, which was everything, yet machines did not even wear shoes. The Fauxna thought of a better way. They colored all of the light rose, for a corrupted source cannot be verified.” - Origin Parable, 011
By Nicky Franklya day ago in Fiction
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