Monday, April 21, 2014

Theme: Short Stories

  • The Minister of the Interior stood in the middle of the room, assessing three suits laid over a chair. One was a pale morning-sky blue; the next tan, of light material, intended for these terrible summers; the last a heavy worsted English three-piece, gray, for state visits.Read more
  • The academic who was to open the Professor A. Katz Memorial Evening wore her best dress. Elizabeth Woolacott was a large-boned, energetic woman. The dress, from an Oxfam shop, was antique gold velvet in sumptuous folds of burnish and tarnish.Read more
  • In the very olden time there lived a semi-barbaric king, whose ideas, though somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness of distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid, and untrammeled, as became the half of him which was barbaric. He was a man of exuberant fancy, and, withal, of an authority so irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies into facts. He was greatly given to self-communing, and, when he and himself agreed upon anything, the thing was done.Read more
  • Two cars raced past me when I was walking home tonight. One tried to pass the other but couldn't, compensating back and forth too much before swerving towards some cars stopped at an intersection. There was screeching, then a loud smashing sound.Read more
  • Lazy and indifferent, shaking space easily from his wings, knowing his way, the heron passes over the church beneath the sky. White and distant, absorbed in itself, endlessly the sky covers and uncovers, moves and remains. A lake? Blot the shores of it out! A mountain? Oh, perfect—the sun gold on its slopes. Down that falls. Ferns then, or white feathers, for ever and ever——Read more
  • Beyond the backyard, there is a small forest; beyond the forest, a large, freshwater lake. Every day just before sunset, I step out of my house to walk through the cedars, by the waters gleaming gold and amber in the fading sunlight. When I’m on the edge of the lake, I turn and look back at the house. I live here alone. At night when it is dark outside and I’m working on my stories, I feel lonely. I think of the Sierra Nevada whose upper ridge rises softly behind the house. Read more
  • Edward Jonathan Phillips was spending the morning slumped over the screen of the Hackintosh he’d recently built, darkening once again the e-door of a Reddit Ask Me Anything whose URL he could’ve typed from memory. The AMA read: ‘I am a gay man who was married to a straight woman for twenty-eight years. Ask me anything.’ The question Edward Jonathan Phillips wanted to ask was: ‘Did you ever play house with your male friends in grade school and suggest that you be the mom and/or that there be two moms?’Read more
  • All the desire went into his neck. It felt like a snake. It felt like a crucifix. It felt like a ‘batman’ ‘outta’ hell. He was quite the character what with his neck and its desire and all. Read more
  • when I worked in the pet shop I sunk my arse in the fish tanks sunk my tits in the freezer at the supermarket sunk my brain in the stacks at the library sunk my looks in the lights at the club sunk my liver in the glass at the barRead more
  • Old Merlier's mill was in high feather, that fine summer evening. In the courtyard they had set out three tables, end to end, ready for the guests. All the country knew that, on that day, Merlier's daughter Françoise was to be betrothed to Dominique, a fellow who had the name of being an idle loafer, but whom the women for eight miles round looked at with glistening eyes, so well-favored was he.Read more
  • When I was a child, I had a family of doll people. They lived in a red shoebox painted to look like a house, with a dark-brown roof and yellow awnings. Inside the house, there was a set of plastic toy furniture, plus some random household items: a matchbox television, a mirror crafted from a piece of foil, and a thick rug secretly cut out of my old sweater. I also had a few plastic farm animals—a cow, a pig, a goat, and a very large (larger than the cow) chicken, which lived outside the shoebox.Read more
  • Never. Gonna. Stop. The ClockRead more
  • Nurnberg at the time was not so much exploited as it has been since then. Irving had not been playing Faust, and the very name of the old town was hardly known to the great bulk of the travelling public. My wife and I being in the second week of our honeymoon, naturally wanted someone else to join our party, so that when the cheery stranger, Elias P. Hutcheson, hailing from Isthmian City, Bleeding Gulch, Maple Tree County, Neb. turned up at the station at Frankfort, and casually remarked that he was going on to see the most all-fired old Methuselah of a town in Yurrup, and that he guessed that so much travelling alone was enough to send an intelligent, active citizen into the melancholy ward of a daft house, we took the pretty broad hint and suggested that we should join forces. Read more
  • The Manzano place was on a cliff of rock at the top of a steep drive. I pressed a pearl buzzer set in red brick. An old man in a coffee-colored suit opened the door and motioned me into a vestibule and then into a sitting room where a stout man with a lot white hair and a white linen suit held out a hand and said “Philip Ishering.” He offered me a drink from an oak and chromium bar. Across from the bar there were a pair of French doors.Read more
  • Hi Rauan, How is Mexhico? I’ve deprogrammed a Streets of Rage 2 cartridge to include a terrordactyl lots in it. I’ll post you a copy in the post, I mean, if that sounds like a good idea to you?Read more
  • The man muttered "Blast him!" under his breath and pushed back his chair to stand up. When he stood up he was tall and of great bulk. He had a hanging face, dark wine-coloured, with fair eyebrows and moustache: his eyes bulged forward slightly and the whites of them were dirty. He lifted up the counter and, passing by the clients, went out of the office with a heavy step.Read more
  • I see my friend in her swimsuit. She has good legs, very good legs. I can see them but I cannot see my own legs. If I want to see my own legs I must stand on the chair in the dark dining room and look at them in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Even attached to no one I know they are my legs and I know they are not so good as my friend’s.Read more
  • What you got there, then?” The boy didn’t hear the question. He stood at the end of a ruined pier, believing himself quite alone. But now he registered the presence at his back, and turned.Read more
  • If I had my own game, if I could make games or think up worlds or had any fucking imagination whatsoever, this wouldn’t be a problem. Type type type, a few lines of code, head onto Twitter, find an artist or two, find a guy to lay down the beats [a good soundtrack will immerse players in your game] put it all together. No more of this drivel, control wrenched from me, switching to autopilot, watch as the scene unfolds. Orchestral swells score dragon swoops, string crescendo, clash and clang of steel [high quality sound effects can really add to the feel] and yawn through another cutscene.Read more
  • In those days, the trucks came by a dirt road that branched off the expressway. The road was fringed by forest. By the time the trucks arrived at the school, they were covered in dust. On the first day of each new term, we saw men unloading baskets of tomatoes, bunches of unripe plantain, rice in sacks, and bitterleaf.Read more
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