The Pale Circus
My boots were already caked in the red clay of the reclamation yard when the bell rang for the first shift. I wiped the grit from my palms onto my trousers, the salt of the shore biting into the small cuts on my hands. The wind was dry, splitting the fruit on the branches outside the telegraph office, and I could feel it drying the sweat on my neck before I even stepped inside. I was looking...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews