Gutenberg Museum Novels & Stories

There was still a barrier that stood between her and these piles of codes even though she should have recovered her memory. It felt surreal even after she finished writing a line of code. She couldn’t help but wonder if the code she wrote was nothing more than a line of nonsense. However, her fingers continued working as if they were moving on their own, surviving on motor memory that was seared into her brain. Things became clearer as more completed code began to appear on the screen. Her confidence grew as time went on until her fingers were dancing swiftly over the keyboard. Caroline was lost in the moment.

The last thing I need is to blow up my cover before I even met Stella in person. So I shake my head lightly. “No. I can come back later, Mrs. McKaren. I heard the museum here is quite fascinating.” I am glad I did a little g****e search before coming here. “Yes. Norman Rockwell Museum is quite famous. Or maybe you could check out the Frelinghuysen Morris House and Studio. It’s a historic house museum formerly belonging to American Abstract Artists George L.K. Morris and Suzy Frelinghuysen.” Her smile widens as she seems pretty proud of her town’s little sightseeing.

“You may enter. Enjoy the auction.” He didn’t even have to look at the guest list to know that Gavin was on it. Gavin nodded and guided me past them and into the museum. I didn’t know much about art, but the pieces in this museum looked expensive and important. The watercolors and passion thrown into each piece took my breath away, and I couldn’t seem to look away. “The auction is this way,” Gavin told me, motioning for a door on the other side of the room, which seemed to be gathering a ton of people.

Sean didn't like crowds, and he didn't think going to a museum would be a bad idea. Sean's car entered a neoclassical building, and yes they had arrived. A museum staff gave them a map so they both knew the whole of this building. The National Gallery of Art is a world-class art museum displaying the largest collection of works in the world including paintings, drawings, prints, photographs, sculptures, and decorative arts from the 13th century to the present. So there are many works presented here. "Isn't this amazing?" Angel asked with her mouth open. "You are right." Sean nodded in agreement.

By the time Julian walked in, setting down a bag of groceries on the counter, I was still staring at the screen. “You’re frowning,” he said, watching me. “I just got an email,” I answered. I turned the laptop toward him. “From the museum.” He leaned in and scanned quickly, his brow darkening the further down he read. “They want to make you into a headline,” he said flatly. “Not an artist.” “That’s what it feels like,” I admitted. “They’re more interested in selling a story than showing the work. It reads like a press release for a movie.”

Sliding into the backseat of an Uber, I clutch my bag to my chest like a shield. I have him— whatever's in here is something he doesn't want anybody to see. But when I unlock my phone, the screen lights up with a push notification that drains every drop of blood from my face. New Music Video: "Muse" - Watch Now. My mouth goes dry. The bastard couldn't have. It's been what? Twenty— Thirty minutes? With a trembling thumb, I tap the link. The video opens on a gritty, unfamiliar set. I let out a hollow laugh.

“You’re not them. And that’s the problem.” I glare up at him, defiant despite the pounding of my heart, despite the heat pooling low in my stomach from his closeness. “Then what am I, huh? Some new toy? Something for your ego to conquer?” He leans in, his breath warm and sinful against my lips but not touching. “You’re my muse.” I scoff, feeling all emotions at once. His muse? What does that even mean? I was not is painting. I was not his poem. Not a tragic masterpiece he could destroy and claim it to be beautiful.

Together as a family unit, besides Grace. We considered bringing her but the publicists said that given the nature of the speech, it’s possible people may not take kindly to seeing a baby when so many children are left without a home now. I was relieved at this suggestion. I want to keep Grace out of the limelight as much as possible. Roman chose the museum because the building was partially founded by his great-grandfather, not that I expect any of the citizens to know that but who knows, maybe someone will and be reminded of all the good the Hurricane Pack has done.

I laid a piece of heavy, sun-bleached paper on the bed and began to set the type for a new project: a collection of stories from the "Zeroed." ​"Aara," Damian called from the garden, where he was clearing the overgrowth from the lemon trees. "The post arrived. There’s a letter from New York. Elena says the shop is officially a museum now." ​"A museum?" I laughed, pulling the lever of the press. ​"A museum of the 'Physical Word,'" he shouted back. "And they want to know if the lead Archivist has any advice for the first exhibit." ​I looked at the fresh print on the bed. The ink was dark, crisp, and slightly smudged at the edges perfectly imperfect.

“I’m certain you will. You’re our best member after all.” --- My smile widened as I stuffed the pouch full of gold coins into my satchel. The captain was generous enough to give me some bonus coins because he, apparently, liked the gruesome claw and bite marks that I left on the coachman’s body. My recent target had molested more than ten women, including a prepubescent 12-year-old, so I understood Mr. Morgan’s sentiments. It was definitely Calum Reed’s handiwork, but for a few more coins, I didn’t mind taking credit.