Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • They’d chosen a place well known to Nelson, a bar called The Wembley. It never changed. There were then and are now black-and-white photos of garlanded racehorses and women in wide, billowing dresses carrying parasols, men in dark suits and dark glasses who do not smile, and behind them, the barren hills that were once the frontiers of this city. The people from the photos, that nearly extinct class of quasi-aristocrats, are rarely seen now, but every so often, they stroll into The Wembley as if they have just come from the racetrack, or stepped off a steamer ship, or attended a baptism at the cathedral around the corner. Many left during the war, for reasons of security, some faded into a protective invisibility, and many others are poor now: having once owned the city, indeed the country itself, all that remained of their once-vast holdings were bars like The Wembley, thick with the musty air of a rarely-visited provincial museum.

    from: "At Night We Walk in Circles"
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.