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Venice, 1500. Anna Notaras takes down four testimonies of the fall of Constantinople: a janissary, a baker's daughter, an engineer and a noble, each living the same 53 days of the siege. What one witness does changes what the others can do. An illustrated, choice-driven historical novel.
You wire home theaters for people richer than you. Then you buy your first coin with $200 of grocery money, and every gain after it is paid for by someone: the partner who catches your first lie, the friend who trusts you with seven years of savings. A thriller told on your phone. Six endings.
The letters between two pen-pals who have never met cross your censor's desk behind a nameless front. Their romance exists only on paper, so a line you strike is gone from it for good. Partway through, a letter answers a question you only asked in your head. A melancholy epistolary romance.
You are the new hire. The account you inherited is not new — it belonged to E. Vale, who is no longer with the company. Ten business days of email in which you choose what you say, then choose who sees it. The routing is permanent. Someone is still reading.
Psychological horror at a morgue's night intake desk. Bodies arrive with paperwork that has to match the body. Weigh it, measure it, take its temperature — listen to its chest. Some still have a pulse. The rulebook gains a page every night, and some of what you sign in does not stay signed in.
The seaside hotel is shut from October to March, and the winter caretaker is you. The owner's rules are pinned beside the key board: no guests. Somebody knocks anyway, after the last bus, in the rain, with cash and no booking. You decide who gets a key, and which room.
Run a secondhand bookshop in London, 1994. Every book remembers who owned it before — pressed flowers, letters, notes in the margins. Across books that should never have met, the same hand keeps writing. You inherited the rules with the shop: shelve carefully, and do not read the margins.
The town is half empty, but the town hall still opens at nine. You are the clerk. Whatever your stamp approves becomes true — permits, licenses, names, deaths. Everyone who reaches your desk brings a reason, and most bring money. In the basement, a file explains why the town emptied.
