About Consejo de Cuervos: en ocasiones, Morir no es Suficiente. Una novela de Magia y Terror. Fantasía contemporánea, urbana y paranormal. (Ciclo de la Prision Infinita nº 2) (Spanish Edition):
Las líneas se han trazado sobre la arena y algo parecido a una incipiente alianza se ha fraguado al calor del fuego y de las explosiones entre la disidente Black Alice y el oscuro guardían de la ciudad. Sin embargo, el verdadero rostro del enemigo aún no ha sido revelado.
El poder y el alcance real de la corrupción del Amo Gris, todavía sigue siendo un misterio incluso para sus seguidores.
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El intimidante Kaleb ha invitado a todos los implicados a reunirse en la urbe subterránea y aportar cuanta información de valor posean, pero cuando hay fuerzas tan poderosas en juego, las cosas rara vez salen como uno se lo espera.
Aunque pueda ver el futuro.
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Author Bio:
“It’s not on any map. True places never are.” Herman Melville (Moby Dick)
Life consumes us. The days pass you executing tasks, almost always routine, while you move in little less than circles of obligations and needs. One day, and another, and another. From time to time some getaway, a respite, although always looking at the clock and remembering that there is a Monday behind every corner. And it’s not that you feel bad, or frustrated…… but you perceive that something is wrong. And then a thing called Covid 19 comes along and the machinery stops with a dry crackle. Suddenly, you are not free to go where you please, but you own your time again. Time, possibly our most valuable asset, always scarce and in constant decline from the very moment of our birth.
Luckily for me, Tiempo was accompanied by Reflection, which I did not remember seeing since I became independent and joined the labor market. The thing is, when you already have debts and bills to pay every month, the thing is: “Who are we? and where are we going?, ceases to have the same importance as during adolescence. You no longer look for your identity, you are only worried about making ends meet. And then existence becomes a wheel from which it is difficult to get out. I’m not going to say I had an epiphany, but almost. There was less noise in my head, less interference. Everything had been postponed at the expense of the damn virus. I found myself one morning sitting in the dark on my bed, listening to my wife’s slow breathing. His hand slid over mine when he sensed that I was getting up, and I quietly returned the squeeze as I put my shoes on.
Always in the dark, I went up to the attic and contemplated the origin of my restlessness. An old and wrinkled folder, rescued a few days ago from the bottom of a closet. It did not contain much, just a few manuscript folios, yellowed by the passage of time. Some dated from my time in high school. A few more were later, from when the military service. They were notes, sketches. Short stories and a chapter or two of something that smelled like DragonLance and that had been published in the barracks magazine. I repeat, they were not a big deal but… I closed my eyes as I leaned back in the chair, and breathed hard. There was something there.
A tremendous energy still remained accumulated in those crispy sheets of paper. I rubbed my temples as the possibilities danced endlessly behind my eyelids. Then, a door opened in my head. I would say that in the back of it, because despite not moving, I remember turning to contemplate it. A fine rain came through it, pushed by an air that was both cold and hot, like the one that precedes the storm. I went out through it to a poorly lit and not too clean alley, which led to a cobbled street covered in fog. I was not surprised to find people there, waiting sitting on the steps of access to a house that might well belong to Victorian England, with their hair stuck to their foreheads due to humidity. But I did admire that they had so many things to say, so many stories to pass on to me. And that I could understand their voices with such ease after so many years without paying attention to them.
Because I confess that I limit myself to being his chronicler. Nothing comes from my imagination. I only listen to his whispers, attentive and sharpening his ear in the solitude of the night. And I try to narrate, in the best possible way, what they are kind enough to tell me: their stories impregnated with fantasy and terror. What we take for fiction. So, if at any time his wanderings are strange to you, his cryptic words and his indecipherable emotions, blame me for my poor talent, because I will undoubtedly have misinterpreted them. Because they fight almost every night with beings formed by the material that populates our darkest nightmares, just so that the rest of us have a chance to be happy in our ignorance. Ignorance of the worlds beyond veils. And they deserve the utmost respect.
Translated with google.
Valencia – Spain – End of 2021 – Second Year of the Pandemic
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