Elias Crowl - Author & Writer

The snow drifted in from the Hudson over the unfinished streets, gummed up the rails of the horsecar, and settled into the folds of coats like the cold flour bakers dust over their hands. In the gaslamp before my window the flame trembled, as if it meant to duck. The wind pressed it flat, and for an instant it looked like a tongue licking at something unspeakable. I had spent the day turning over files—money disputes, adultery, a boy who had vanished in a slaughterhouse—until my eyes burned. When I unfastened my cuff, the paper-dust gray clung to my wrist, and I smelled of ink and old sweat. My watch ticked. Each beat was a tiny hammer against the silence. Then there was a knock. Not the polite knock of a neighbor, not the bewildered knock of a messenger. It was two quick raps, a short pause, then another, as if someone were knocking on the inside of a box. I opened. On the landing stood a man with his collar turned up, cap in hand, hair wet and stuck thinly to his forehead. His breath...

The wharf wasn't a place where a man could stand still for long without someone shoving a sack into his arms or putting a story in his mouth. Wood groaned under wet boots, ropes sang like old strings, and somewhere water was always slapping against pilings, like the sea was practicing a rhythm it planned to teach the city later. Samuel Reed stood still anyway. He stood in the doorway of the countinghouse, where it smelled of wet leather and cold smoke, and looked at the quill in his hand as if it were some foreign creature that might spring up any second and jab him in the eye. In front of him lay the ledger-the big book you didn't call a book, but the book, the way in a small settlement you only have one church and one fort and one truth you're allowed to say out loud. The paper was thick, the edges frayed from the salt in the air. Samuel had opened the ledger often enough that it felt like it knew where his fingers belonged. Today, though, it didn't. Today the ink glu...

The city wasn't quieter at night, just more honest. Marc stood under the entrance awning, his coat collar pulled up, letting his breath drift out of his mouth in small clouds. The wind smelled of exhaust, wet concrete, and the sugary haze of a food cart that had been locked up for hours. Above him a lamp flickered, like it couldn't decide whether it wanted to give light or just pretend. He held the phone so close to his face it could warm his nose. Two-something. The time was a stubborn animal that barely moved. His head felt like a spreadsheet after a crash: cells shifted, formulas gone, everything somehow still there, but no longer where it belonged. "Just get home," he muttered, not noticing he'd said it out loud. Beside him a woman with shopping bags went down the steps, the bags so full the plastic edge cut into her fingers. She didn't look at him. People rarely looked at anyone at night unless they had to. Marc tapped "Show route." The screen s...

When the morning in Manhattan is still sleeping and the first taxis are little more than dim lights in the gray haze, I’m already sitting at my desk – the window cracked open a bit, the scent of two strong cups of coffee in the air. This scene could easily be from one of my urban psychological thrillers, but for me, it's both routine and ritual : the foundation of a productive life as a writer. My day starts early. As the city slowly wakes up and the sounds of traffic, conversations, and construction blend into a quiet hum, I dive deep into my work. Right now, I’m in the middle of the first round of editing and proofreading for the second book in my celebrated KLEIO Trilogy – a process that requires precision, focus, and a keen editorial ear. This phase is a milestone: it’s where the narrative vision is sharpened and the next step of the trilogy journey begins to take shape for readers. In the morning, I start by reviewing the latest chapters. Sentence by sentence, I check for sty...