I'm seventeen, and Stefan Bachmann literally inspired me to start writing after I'd been in a funk. Because he's just so awesome and wonderful and imaginative, and so young, that I felt stupid and silly for wasting my time moping when I could be spending time getting better and getting published ...
The sequel to The Peculiar and a good one, although not everyone's taste perhaps. This stuff is called steampunk apparently, probably beause of the use of steam driven machies like coaches and prisons. I like something out of the ordinary, so it kept me busy for a few days. I assume it takes part...
He clapped his hands to his ears, but the shrieking only seemed to get louder. The wings flapped on and on. Any second he expected to feel talons sliding into his cloak, beaks pulling his skin. Something gripped his arm. He cried out. He tried to wrench away, but it was only Bartholomew, dragging...
It’s freezing cold. I’m lying on something hard. My eyes are open, but all I see is blackness. My mouth tastes raw. Bloody. I don’t move. I don’t know if I can move. And now I’m scared, every nerve ending flaring, setting my skin on fire. Images flash across my vision: a glinting red pill. Wrinkl...
He had felt the coal scuttle slip from his hand, heard it fall and bounce, one long clear note going on and on inside his skull. He had fallen, too. Dull pain had stabbed his arm, and something inside his eyes had gone on, and he was able to see again, blurry and indistinct. The raggedy man stood...