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26/04/1972
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The Black Garden of BlackmoorChapter I The fog rolled off the Thames like a living thing, thick and yellow as pus, swallowing the gas lamps whole. Edward Morden stood in the doorway of his mother's former lodging house on Spitalfields Way and watched it consume the world, piece by piece. He was twenty-one years old, thin as a wire, with hands already calloused from twelve years of setting type in a printing shop that...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 BewertungenBitte loggen Sie sich ein, um liken, teilen und zu kommentieren!
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The New York PrescriptionsThe cab dropped him on Canal Street and he kept walking, his leather case bumping against his thigh with every step. New York did not slow down for anyone, and Vincent Zhao had learned this lesson early. He had come from Queens with nothing but a medical degree from a university nobody in Manhattan had heard of and a wooden case containing seven instruments his grandfather had shipped across...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 4 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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Blood and MagnoliasMagnolia Hall did not so much stand on the land as lean against it, the way a dying person leans against a wall that will not hold them. The porch sagged on its left side, where the pillars had rotted from the inside out, swollen with moisture and then collapsed, leaving the veranda to tilt like a ship taking on water. The magnolia trees that gave the estate its name had grown wild and tangled,...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 4 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Weight of the SoilMercy Caldwell arrived at Mosswood Plantation on a Tuesday in early May, carrying a single valise and a letter of recommendation from a Boston schoolmistress who had warned her: "The Beauregards are not like other families. They carry their history like a disease." Mercy was twenty-four, a teacher from Salem with a mind trained in literature and a heart still believing in the redemptive power...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Architect of Memory(Biographical Fiction Variation) The archives of the Vatican are a labyrinth of silence and dust, where the history of the world is stored in vellum and ink. Father Thomas Moreland had spent forty years in these depths, a scholar of the forgotten, a man who believed that the truth was not found in the grand narratives of the Church, but in the margins of the manuscripts. Thomas was a man of...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Raven on the DomeThe fog did not roll off the Thames so much as rise from it, like breath from a dying man's mouth. It clung to the streets of Whitechapel in thick yellow sheets, turning gaslights into halos and shadows into shapes that moved when they should not have moved. Arthur Penhaligon knew shadows. At twenty-four, he had spent three years holding lamps in the hospital morgue while the coroner cut open...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 4 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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Kitchen TableDale Henderson worked at the assembly line for twenty years. Twenty years of the same sounds, the same smells, the same fluorescent lights humming overhead like they were trying to communicate something and giving up halfway through. The plant was off Route 23 in Ohio, the kind of place that was built in 1968 and never updated, just patched. The patching was visible everywhere — the repaired...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 5 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 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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Blood and MagnoliasI returned to Magnolia House in the rain. Not the gentle rain of spring or the warm rain of summer, but the kind of rain that comes in April and refuses to stop for three days, turning the red clay roads to soup and filling the cypress swamps until the water creeps up the porch steps and into the floorboards. Miles stood on the porch when I arrived, his right hand resting on the railing, his...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Gilded Altar## Act I: The Outset The New York of 1912 was a city of gold and grime, where the skyscrapers reached for a heaven that the people on the street had long since forgotten. Leo stood at the center of it all, not as a titan of industry, but as a ghost in the machine. He was a painter of the invisible, a man who saw the city not as a grid of streets, but as a pulsing network of longing and despair....0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 4 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Observatory of Lost StarsThe telescope had not moved for three nights. Arthur Windsor pressed his eye to the brass eyepiece until the cold metal warmed against his skin, until the world beyond the glass became the only world that mattered. The signals had begun six weeks ago. At first he thought them instrument error—a vibration in the mounting, a flaw in the lens, the fatigue of a man who had spent too many hours...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Observer at Five PointsThe first thing you notice about Five Points is the smell. Not the second thing or the third thing, but the first. It hits you before you see the buildings or hear the voices or notice the children running barefoot through streets that were more mud than cobblestone. It is the smell of five thousand people living on top of each other in spaces no architect would have approved for a dog kennel....0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 4 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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