| Author: | Robert Hrdina | ISBN: | 9783740728540 |
| Publisher: | TWENTYSIX | Publication: | March 23, 2017 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Robert Hrdina |
| ISBN: | 9783740728540 |
| Publisher: | TWENTYSIX |
| Publication: | March 23, 2017 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
MILES FROM NECROPOLIS is a disturbing story featuring William Calley, an intelligent sociopath who gives us insights into his brain and motives. The narrative thrives on a rich sense of place, change and urban decay. Places visited include London, Manchester and Yorkshire. Extract: The night is like a freshly poured Guinness, black, white and brown swirling around, big bang in the making. No compass would work in these circumstances. I head towards a low brick wall. Two hours later I pull up outside the Crown Spa Hotel in Scarborough, visibility is down to less than 15 feet. I check in, dump my luggage, and walk down towards the Grand Hotel. Dark mild, timeless taste, tons of old people, some there since the Victorian era, sharing the same stale odour and sweat. Churchill and Stoker pass me like zombies at the bar. The antiques shop next door is closed, its window full of memorabilia. I say goodbye to the well-lit square and embrace the shadows wafting up from the crying sea, riding on the pungent stench of the dead. I turn around and a young girl, cascading black hair, fiery eyes, steps into the halo. Out comes an old man, short white hair, a toothless ghost, blind. It gives me the creeps. Somebody else is playing God in Scarborough.
MILES FROM NECROPOLIS is a disturbing story featuring William Calley, an intelligent sociopath who gives us insights into his brain and motives. The narrative thrives on a rich sense of place, change and urban decay. Places visited include London, Manchester and Yorkshire. Extract: The night is like a freshly poured Guinness, black, white and brown swirling around, big bang in the making. No compass would work in these circumstances. I head towards a low brick wall. Two hours later I pull up outside the Crown Spa Hotel in Scarborough, visibility is down to less than 15 feet. I check in, dump my luggage, and walk down towards the Grand Hotel. Dark mild, timeless taste, tons of old people, some there since the Victorian era, sharing the same stale odour and sweat. Churchill and Stoker pass me like zombies at the bar. The antiques shop next door is closed, its window full of memorabilia. I say goodbye to the well-lit square and embrace the shadows wafting up from the crying sea, riding on the pungent stench of the dead. I turn around and a young girl, cascading black hair, fiery eyes, steps into the halo. Out comes an old man, short white hair, a toothless ghost, blind. It gives me the creeps. Somebody else is playing God in Scarborough.
