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Female
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13/02/1976
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The Ledger of Falling MenI inherited Blackwood Manor on a Tuesday, with the rain falling in sheets against the stained glass windows of the Yorkshire moors. The solicitor had called it a windfall, but windfalls always arrive with conditions. The elevator, that was the condition. An iron-lift shaft running from the cellar to the attic, untouched since 1893, when my great-grandfather Alistair Blackwood sealed it shut and...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 9 Ansichten 0 BewertungenBitte loggen Sie sich ein, um liken, teilen und zu kommentieren!
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The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the dirt wetter, which is to say it makes it more honest.The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the dirt wetter, which is to say it makes it more honest. I was at my desk, typing the last line of a letter I didn't want to send, when the door opened. The bell above it made a sound like someone clearing their throat—nervous, apologetic, like it knew it was interrupting something important. He stood in the doorway with water...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 8 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Starlight StrainI first heard about the deaths at a jazz club on West Forty-Sixth Street. It was October 1924, and the rain had been falling on Manhattan for three days straight. The club was called The Velvet Note, a basement establishment behind an unmarked door on Seventh Avenue. I had been sent there by the editor to write a piece on the new dance craze—the Charleston, or whatever it was called this week....0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 8 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Starlight ArkI. The storm hit Manhattan on a Tuesday in October, which was wrong on two counts: first, hurricanes do not visit New York in October; second, the ones that do do not breach the Hudson River dam and drown Lower Manhattan in six feet of black water by midnight. I learned all this from the radio. I was in a warehouse on the Brooklyn waterfront, water rising past my ankles, listening to a...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 7 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Keeper of the Blackwood WildsThe wind across the Blackwood moors did not blow so much as it hunted, finding every gap in Angus MacAllister's coat, every weakness in the stone walls of the house that had been his family's for three hundred years. He stood at the window of the library, watching fog roll down from the peaks like a slow tide, and wondered whether the dead were happier in their certainty than the living were in...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 7 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Starlight InheritanceThe jazz drifted up from the basement of 147th Street like smoke from a dying fire—thin, persistent, and full of ghosts. James Callahan stood on the sidewalk outside the speakeasy and listened to it for a moment before pushing through the heavy oak door. Inside, the air was thick with gin and cigarette smoke and the kind of desperate joy that only prosperity can breed. People danced in the...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 8 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Man Who WatchedI am Nick Delaney and I write about things nobody reads for a website called The Brooklyn Beat that gets four hundred visitors a month and pays me in exposure. I am thirty-four years old and I have been thirty-four for six years, which is the New York version of being stuck. The story about Marcus Rivera was supposed to be my breakthrough. A rising star from the Bronx, the article was going to...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 7 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The ObserverNew York City, 2008 I got the call on a Tuesday, which is the kind of detail that would make a novelist proud but makes me want to laugh. There is nothing cinematic about the end of the world. It comes on a Tuesday, in a phone call, from a number you don't recognize. My name is Mark Delaney, and I am an associate professor of astrophysics at City College of New York. I am thirty-four years old,...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 9 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The First Migratory BirdDr. Julian Ashford's hands did not shake. They had stopped shaking three years ago, in a field hospital outside Verdun, when the morphine ran out and he had to operate on a boy of nineteen with a shell fragment in his abdomen and a mother's voice echoing in his head in a language his mother didn't even speak. His hands were steady now. Surgeon's hands. Precise. Scarred. The kind of hands that...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 7 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Last Honor of AlistairThe castle of Blackwood stood on a cliff overlooking the grey Atlantic, its stones worn smooth by centuries of salt and wind. It was a place of echoing halls and faded tapestries, a monument to a nobility that had long since lost its purpose. Count Alistair, the last of the line, spent his days in the library, reading the journals of ancestors who had once led armies and shaped kingdoms....0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 6 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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Blood and MagnoliasI. The magnolias were blooming, which meant summer had arrived in a way that made the air so thick you could chew it. I stood on the porch of the main house and watched the flowers—white, perfect, obscene in their beauty—swaying in a breeze that smelled like damp earth and decay. I was twenty-eight years old, and I was the last Thorne who lived in the house that my great-great-grandfather had...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 21 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Night Shift at OakridgeThe coffee at Oakridge tastes like it was brewed in a radiator. I have been drinking it for eleven years, three months, and fourteen days, which is longer than I was married and longer than I worked at the plant before they shipped everything to Mexico. I don't complain about the coffee. I don't complain about much anymore. You learn what you can change and what you can't, and at my age, the...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 6 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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