The Pale Circus
Thorne, you’re holding up the truck. The Ringmaster’s voice was not loud, but it carried the weight of a physical object, a heavy iron bar dropped across a doorway. I stood at the edge of the mud, my duffel bag digging into my shoulder, the canvas soaked through with the Appalachian rain that had been falling since dawn. I am a man of forty-two, a folklore archivist with a tenure review in six...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima