wolfe sam (139 résultats)

Etat : New.

Etat : As New. Unread book in perfect condition.

Spiral Bound. Etat : Fair. Age stains and wear.; 4to - over 9¾" - 12" tall.

Etat : New. In.

Etat : New.

Etat : As New. Unread book in perfect condition.

Soft cover. Etat : Near Fine. Near fine softcover booklet (one corner slightly curled). Rowena Morrill full page front cover and rear cover artwork. Articles by Stephen King, Algis Budrys, Gene Wolfe,Jack Williamson, Robert Weinberg, Robert Bloch, Sam Moskowitz. "All new fantasy fiction" stories by Gene Wolfe, Philip Jose Farmer, Ramsey Campbell, Brian Lumley, Karl Edward Wagner.No previous owner name, no underlining, not ex library, not a remainder.Shelf CL4.We ship within one day after recAlgis eiving your order.

Hardcover. Etat : Very Good. Sam Wolfe connelly (illustrateur). Folio Society hardcover in near mint condition, appears unread. No slip case. Decorative boards Ships from Berlin Bookshop bxn46.

Soft cover. Etat : As New. As new softcover booklet. Rowena Morrill full page front cover and rear cover artwork. Articles by Stephen King, Algis Budrys, Gene Wolfe,Jack Williamson, Robert Weinberg, Robert Bloch, Sam Moskowitz. "All new fantasy fiction" stories by Gene Wolfe, Philip Jose Farmer, Ramsey Campbell, Brian Lumley, Karl Edward Wagner.No previous owner name, no underlining, not ex library, not a remainder.Shelf CL4.We ship within one day after recAlgis eiving your order.

Hardcover. Etat : Near Fine. Etat de la jaquette : Near Fine. Sam Wolfe Connelly, dj art (illustrateur). 1st U.S. Edition. Signed by Author(s). The dust jacket is unclipped ($29.99). 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 number line. Signed by the author on the title page.

Paperback. Etat : new. Paperback. The air in the Marcy Projects was a thick, gritty stew, a permanent miasma composed of exhaust fumes from idling cars, the metallic tang of decay, and the ever-present, acrid scent of desperation. It clung to everything, to the cracked concrete sidewalks, to the faded graffiti that snaked its way up the sides of the monolithic brick buildings, and most of all, to the people. For Marcus, it was the only air he'd ever known, the suffocating embrace of the block that had molded him since birth. He was seventeen, old enough to feel the weight of the world pressing down, yet too young to comprehend the full scope of the trap he was in. The buildings themselves seemed to exhale a perpetual sigh of weariness. They were skeletal giants, their windows like vacant eyes staring out at a world that had long forgotten them. Some panes were boarded up, crude wooden crosses against the encroaching darkness, while others were shattered, jagged teeth biting at the sky. A constant symphony played out in the concrete canyons: the distant, mournful wail of sirens, a familiar lullaby that never truly faded, punctuated by the sharp bark of arguments spilling from open windows, the rhythmic thud of basketballs on asphalt, and the ceaseless rumble of traffic on the nearby expressway, a river of metal and ambition flowing by, carrying lives far from this forgotten land. This was Marcus's universe, a world painted in shades of grey and rust, a constant reminder of what was just out of reach. Poverty wasn't a concept here; it was the very fabric of existence. It was in the flickering fluorescent lights that cast long, dancing shadows in the cramped two-bedroom apartment Marcus shared with his mother and younger sister, a dance that always seemed to be on the verge of ceasing altogether, plunging them into utter darkness. It was in the thin, worn blankets that did little to ward off the perpetual chill that seeped through the poorly insulated walls. Most acutely, it was in the gnawing hunger that was a constant companion, a dull ache in the gut that Marcus had learned to ignore, a learned survival mechanism as ingrained as breathing. He'd seen his mother, a woman whose youth had been leached away by hardship, stretch a loaf of bread and a can of beans into meals that fed three, her own plate often remaining conspicuously empty. He'd felt the phantom pangs of hunger during late-night study sessions, the desperate need for sustenance warring with the knowledge that there simply wasn't enough. Marcus often found himself staring out of the grimy window, the glass smudged with the fingerprints of countless hands, tracing the jagged skyline of downtown in the distance. It was a different world, a world of gleaming towers and clean streets, a world that felt as alien and unattainable as the moon. He knew, with a certainty that settled cold and heavy in his chest, that his life was meant to be more than this. This item is printed on demand. Shipping may be from multiple locations in the US or from the UK, depending on stock availability.

PAP. Etat : New. New Book. Shipped from UK. THIS BOOK IS PRINTED ON DEMAND. Established seller since 2000.

Etat : New. Print on Demand.

PAP. Etat : New. New Book. Shipped from UK. THIS BOOK IS PRINTED ON DEMAND. Established seller since 2000.

Paperback. Etat : new. Paperback. The true shift in the atmosphere, however, began with Rico. He was different from the other Crows. He moved with a fluid grace that belied the hardness in his eyes, a charisma that could disarm the wary and beguile the desperate. He wasn't just another street tough; there was an intelligence in his gaze, a calculating depth that Maya recognized from the patrons at the diner who tipped generously but never met her eyes. He was the lieutenant, the sharp end of the Crows' spear, and he had started to focus his attention on her. Their first real conversation wasn't on the street, but at the back door of the diner, just as Maya was leaving for the night. The alley, usually a refuge of relative solitude, felt suddenly claustrophobic. He leaned against the grimy brick wall, a faint smile playing on his lips, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Maya, right?" he said, his voice a low rumble, smooth as worn velvet. "Heard a lot about you. Good things." Maya's stomach tightened. She didn't reply, just clutched her worn canvas bag a little tighter, her gaze fixed on the flickering fluorescent light above the door. "You're the one who keeps everything running, huh? Abuela Elena, the little ones. strong woman." "I just do what I have to," she replied, her voice barely a whisper. She wanted to bolt, to disappear into the anonymity of the darkening street, but his presence felt like a physical barrier. Rico chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "'What you have to.' That's the spirit. That's what we appreciate. Resourcefulness. Grit. You've got it in spades." He pushed off the wall, taking a step closer. Maya instinctively flinched. "Look, Maya, it's getting tough out here. Tougher than usual. The cops are getting antsy, rival crews are making noise. It's not a good time to be flying solo." "I'm not flying solo," she said, forcing a steadiness into her voice she didn't feel. "I have my family." This item is printed on demand. Shipping may be from multiple locations in the US or from the UK, depending on stock availability.

Etat : New. Print on Demand.

PAP. Etat : New. New Book. Delivered from our UK warehouse in 4 to 14 business days. THIS BOOK IS PRINTED ON DEMAND. Established seller since 2000.

PAP. Etat : New. New Book. Shipped from UK. THIS BOOK IS PRINTED ON DEMAND. Established seller since 2000.

Etat : New. Print on Demand.

PAP. Etat : New. New Book. Delivered from our UK warehouse in 4 to 14 business days. THIS BOOK IS PRINTED ON DEMAND. Established seller since 2000.

Paperback. Etat : new. Paperback. The TrapThe air hung thick and heavy, a miasma of stale cigarette smoke, cheap weed, and something else. something indefinably rotten. It clung to the peeling wallpaper, to the stained mattress shoved against the wall, to the very fabric of the room itself. This wasn't just a dilapidated apartment in Harlem; it was a tomb, a suffocating cage built from neglect and despair. Rose-Lee, her eyes sharp and assessing, took it all in, the grime, the shadows, the sense of impending doom that settled like a shroud. Across the room, Alice huddled beneath a threadbare blanket, her eyes wide and fearful, a stark contrast to Rose-Lee's steely gaze. Dollar, their captor, paced like a caged animal. His movements were jerky, unpredictable, fueled by the relentless buzz of crack cocaine coursing through his veins. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his eyes darted nervously, reflecting the paranoia that gripped him. He wasn't just high; he was unraveling, a frayed rope threatening to snap at any moment. The air crackled with his volatile energy, a palpable tension that tightened the already suffocating atmosphere. He muttered to himself, a stream of incoherent ramblings punctuated by the occasional curse, his voice a low growl that vibrated in the confined space. The apartment was a testament to urban decay. The paint peeled from the walls in ragged strips, revealing layers of grime beneath. The floorboards groaned underfoot, a symphony of creaks and sighs that mirrored the building's slow, agonizing decline. A single bare bulb hung precariously from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows that danced and writhed across the walls, creating an unsettling, almost hallucinatory effect. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and decay, a constant reminder of the neglect and squalor that had overtaken this once-proud building. Outside, the city roared, a cacophony of sirens, car horns, and distant shouts. The sounds filtered through the thin walls, a stark contrast to the oppressive silence within. It was a constant, jarring reminder of the world beyond their prison walls, a world they desperately longed to return to. But escape seemed impossible, a distant, unattainable dream. Dollar's unpredictable moods and the ever-present threat of violence made any attempt at escape fraught with deadly risks. Rose-Lee's mind, however, worked tirelessly, a relentless engine churning through possibilities. She was a survivor, honed by the harsh realities of the streets, possessing a cunning intelligence that belied her youthful appearance. She studied Dollar's every move, looking for weaknesses, for cracks in his fragile composure. She observed the way he clutched his drugs, the tremor in his hands, the wild gleam in his eyes. It was a dance of predator and prey, a silent battle of wills played out in the confines of their crumbling apartment. This item is printed on demand. Shipping may be from multiple locations in the US or from the UK, depending on stock availability.

Etat : New. Print on Demand.

Etat : New. Print on Demand.

Taschenbuch. Etat : Neu. Neuware.

Taschenbuch. Etat : Neu. Neuware - The TrapThe air hung thick and heavy, a miasma of stale cigarette smoke, cheap weed, and something else. something indefinably rotten. It clung to the peeling wallpaper, to the stained mattress shoved against the wall, to the very fabric of the room itself. This wasn't just a dilapidated apartment in Harlem; it was a tomb, a suffocating cage built from neglect and despair. Rose-Lee, her eyes sharp and assessing, took it all in, the grime, the shadows, the sense of impending doom that settled like a shroud. Across the room, Alice huddled beneath a threadbare blanket, her eyes wide and fearful, a stark contrast to Rose-Lee's steely gaze. Dollar, their captor, paced like a caged animal. His movements were jerky, unpredictable, fueled by the relentless buzz of crack cocaine coursing through his veins. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his eyes darted nervously, reflecting the paranoia that gripped him. He wasn't just high; he was unraveling, a frayed rope threatening to snap at any moment. The air crackled with his volatile energy, a palpable tension that tightened the already suffocating atmosphere. He muttered to himself, a stream of incoherent ramblings punctuated by the occasional curse, his voice a low growl that vibrated in the confined space. The apartment was a testament to urban decay. The paint peeled from the walls in ragged strips, revealing layers of grime beneath. The floorboards groaned underfoot, a symphony of creaks and sighs that mirrored the building's slow, agonizing decline. A single bare bulb hung precariously from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows that danced and writhed across the walls, creating an unsettling, almost hallucinatory effect. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and decay, a constant reminder of the neglect and squalor that had overtaken this once-proud building. Outside, the city roared, a cacophony of sirens, car horns, and distant shouts. The sounds filtered through the thin walls, a stark contrast to the oppressive silence within. It was a constant, jarring reminder of the world beyond their prison walls, a world they desperately longed to return to. But escape seemed impossible, a distant, unattainable dream. Dollar's unpredictable moods and the ever-present threat of violence made any attempt at escape fraught with deadly risks. Rose-Lee's mind, however, worked tirelessly, a relentless engine churning through possibilities. She was a survivor, honed by the harsh realities of the streets, possessing a cunning intelligence that belied her youthful appearance. She studied Dollar's every move, looking for weaknesses, for cracks in his fragile composure. She observed the way he clutched his drugs, the tremor in his hands, the wild gleam in his eyes. It was a dance of predator and prey, a silent battle of wills played out in the confines of their crumbling apartment.

PAP. Etat : New. New Book. Shipped from UK. THIS BOOK IS PRINTED ON DEMAND. Established seller since 2000.

Etat : New. Brand New.

PAP. Etat : New. New Book. Shipped from UK. THIS BOOK IS PRINTED ON DEMAND. Established seller since 2000.

PAP. Etat : New. New Book. Delivered from our UK warehouse in 4 to 14 business days. THIS BOOK IS PRINTED ON DEMAND. Established seller since 2000.

PAP. Etat : New. New Book. Shipped from UK. THIS BOOK IS PRINTED ON DEMAND. Established seller since 2000.