First contact comes not by hand of man, but by metal of machine.
fantasy science-fiction speculative-fiction short-story
As though she had entered a fable, as though she were no more than words crawling along a dry page, or as though she were becoming that page itself, that surface on which her story would be written and across which there blew a hot and merciless wind, turning her body to papyrus, her skin to parchment, her soul to paper.
fiction short-story
She should have told me that times slides away on a hillside of lose shale and takes everything in its path-dreams, opportunities, hopes. And youth. It takes that fastest of all.
The pupil of a goat's eye is elongate like a cat's, but if you look closely you'll see that it's in the horizontal position, and if you look closer still you'll see that it's less gracefully shaped, more of a ragged slot, dirty yellow. And you'll see that the white of a goat's eye is all black.
And yet it was also true that the tumor could not be removed by our doctor, and as a result of that a strange medication had been given him that enabled my brother to become even more of an enigma than he was before, and as a result of that there came to exist not only the machine and the inertia that came with it, but a change of perspective among the townsfolk that was a result of their interactions with the various phases of my brother. And so it was that when the flood began to rear its terrible head, not only was there the inertia that we all had to deal with, but a sense of the sublime that we had begun to feel for the waters which had roared upon the horizon.
fiction fable short-story short-story-collection fiction-writing
When the boy was with his father in the house outside of the city, he was drilled about visitors to the apartment. His father took careful notes. Were there men? He said. And all the boy could think of were the men who brought their dinners, who fixed their sink and toilet. What about late nights? Does she go out at night? Does she leave you alone? The light on those mornings streaming through the windows made him yearn for the the diffuse gray light of the city, its cool tones, like the side of a ship gliding into a harbor.- third eye
I was cautious in what I said before the young lady; for I could not be sure that she was sane; and, in fact, there was a certain restless brilliancy about her eyes that half led me to imagine she was not.
insanity sanity edgar-allan-poe short-story
He admired bears because everyone was afraid to disturb them while they slept and fish were so in love with bears that they jumper right into their mouths. He ate meat and never felt bad about it unless he saw how the animal was slaughtered or if the meat was not cooked properly but he thought thrice about killing bus.
man short-story
She was the curator of her marriage, collector of swift quotes and unremarked-upon sensations.
marriage short-story
We let ourselves loose on that simple blank piece of paper, and our bodies spill. The terror, the loveembodying our stories page after page. In a sense, the pen was our tongue, it is how we delineate the world.
stories inspirational terror overcoming writers-block quotes writers-on-writing write short-story pages writers-quotes paper pen jamie-weise trains journaling writers-world
Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils.. - Louis Hector Berlioz
science-fiction short-story kindle
Shh, mi amor. The neighbors will hear and call the police.
short-story erotic-romance the-edge
Inside a wool jacket the man had made a pocket for the treasure and from time to time he would jiggle the pocket, just to make sure that it was still there. And when on the train he rode to work he would jiggle it there also, but he would disguise his jiggling of the treasure on the train by devising a distraction. For example, the man would pretend to be profoundly interested in something outside the train, such as the little girl who seemed to be jumping high up on a trampoline, just high enough so that she could spy the man on the train, and in this way he really did become quite interested in what occurred outside the train, although he would still jiggle the treasure, if only out of habit. Also on the train he'd do a crossword puzzle and check his watch by rolling up his sleeve; when he did so he almost fell asleep. Antoine often felt his life to be more tedious with this treasure, because in order not to be overly noticed he had deemed it wise to fall into as much a routine as possible and do everything as casually as possible, and so, as a consequence, despite the fact that he hated his wife and daughter, he didn't leave them, he came home to them every night and he ate the creamed chicken that his wife would prepare for him, he would accept the large, fleshy hand that would push him around while he sat around in his house in an attempt to read or watch the weather, he took out the trash, he got up on time every morning and took a quick, cold shower, he shaved, he accepted the cold eggs and orange juice and coffee, he picked the newspaper off the patio and took it inside with him to read her the top headlines, and of course he went to the job.
funny humor mythology short-story short-story-collection fiction-writing
Alice is fictional. This isn't.
lady-gaga satire dark-humor pop-culture popular-culture zombies parody short-story
He had read much of things as they are, and talked with too many people. Well-meaning philosophers had taught him to look into the logical relations of things, and analyse the processes which shaped his thoughts and fancies. Wonder had gone away, and he had forgotten that all life is only a set of pictures in the brain, among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things and those born of inward dreamings, and no cause to value the one above the other.
dreaming short-story
We leave such a trail of bodies through our teens and twenties that it's hard to tell which one is us. How many versions do we abandon over the years
teenagers short-story
Happy birthday, she said. And next time? Eat the stupid cupcake.
birthday short-story cupcake morganville-vampires shane-collins claire-danvers
I wondered how it could be that people could love God and hate one another.
short-story
What can you do if you are thirty and, turning the corner of your own street, you are overcome, suddenly, by a feeling of bliss - absolute bliss - as though you'd suddenly swallowed a bright piece of that late afternoon sun and it burned in your bosom, sending out a little shower of sparks into every particle into every finger and toe?..
Why ruin my sister's birthday simply because the entire planet was going to hell in a hand basket?
If a nuclear disaster occurred, and you had to live out those final painful days just stretched out somewhere thinking about your life--This is who I am. This is what I love. This is what I believe--who would you want hearing your whispers? Or perhaps better: Who do you trust to hear your whispers? Whose breath do you want mingled with your own? Whose flesh still warm beside you?
He could not wait to get rid of them so he could enjoy remembering them.
Short fiction seems more targeted - hand grenades of ideas, if you will. When they work, they hit, they explode, and you never forget them. Long fiction feels more like atmosphere: it's a lot smokier and less defined.
short-story short-stories
I'm either on the cusp of greatness or the edge of insanity.
It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions.
feminism short-story brilliant
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