Author

Edoardo Albert

Edoardo Albert is a writer and editor, born and based in London. He has one wife, two sons and he used to have three cats, before the feline incomprehension of traffic codes and old age rendered the household catless. The best reaction he ever had to his writing was when a friend was reduced to helpless, hysterical laughter after reading a short piece. Unfortunately, the piece in question was a lonely hearts ad. It was probably the bit about tickling a wolf's belly that did it (no, don't ask). He thinks his writing has improved since then, but he's yet to reproduce such a reaction.

A Wish

"A wish? I thought there were supposed to be three?" The genie breathed on his fingernails--apparently inlaid with diamonds--and polished them on his tuxedo-clad chest. Then he turned to me, shrugged, and grimaced in a way that was meant to suggest sympathy at my situation but…

Ghosts of Mars

Lars Caron had only taken over as mission commander because Pete Boardman had died. We were the most scanned, checked, and examined group of human beings in history--after all, on the first mission to Mars, you don't want someone falling ill or freaking out on the way--and Pete…

The Dream of the Night-Shift Power Worker

So you think the world's become prosaic and dull? There's no mystery any more, no magic? You want enchantment, adventure? You want... monsters? You dream of feeling the downrush of a dragon's wings, of hearing a distant, metallic rhythm and slowly realizing that it's the sound…

The Last Librarian: Or a Short Account of the End of the World

"Which is more important, books or people?" The question was posed in jest, but over the years I had come increasingly to believe that if the librarian's veins were opened, ink would flow from them rather than blood. Even so, I did not expect him to answer as he did. "Books."…

The Voynich Variations

Yes, it was an obsession. I can date its inception quite precisely: the evening of 15th May 2010, when my latest work was premiered by the Quadrivium Ensemble to critical incomprehension. This soon became, in the prose of those stunted creatures, bile. When even Mario Zucotta,…

Addendum to the Confessions of St Augustine of Hippo

"There is not much time left." Augustine turned to me, his body silhouetted against the fires that were beginning to burn in the outskirts of the city. "What did you say?" "I said, there is not much time left." The old man nodded slowly and sat down by the window. "I wrote once…