Greenberg, Martin H. (ed) - Smart Dragons, Foolish Elves / Гринберг, Мартин (ред) - Умные драконы, глупые эльфы [1991, epub, ENG]

As Is / Без гарантии novelette by Robert Silverberg The Same to You Doubled / Предел желаний short story by Robert Sheckley The Egg of the Glak / Яйцо глака novelette by Harvey Jacobs Beibermann's Soul / Байберманн и его душа short story by Mike Resnick Thimgs short story by Theodore R. Cogswell Ms. Lipshutz and the Goblin short story by Marvin Kaye Unferno novelette by George Alec Effinger Unicorn Variations / Вариант Единорога novelette by Roger Zelazny Yes Sir That's My short story by Daniel P. Dern Please Stand By / Пожалуйста, будь наготове! short story by Ron Goulart Bottle Party / На дне бутылки short story by John Collier My Mother Was a Witch / А моя мама — ведьма! short story by William Tenn Djinn, No Chaser / Джинн, безо льда novelette by Harlan Ellison Up the Wall novelette by Esther M. Friesner Trouble with Water / Трудности с водой short story by H. L. Gold Savage Breasts / Неистовые груди short story by Nina Kiriki Hoffman Or the Grasses Grow / До тех пор, пока будет светить солнце short story by Avram Davidson Snulbug / Клоподав short story by Anthony Boucher

I spent most of my boyhood utterly convinced that my mother was a witch. No psychological trauma was involved; instead, this belief made me feel like a thoroughly loved and protected child. My memory begins in the ragged worst of Brooklyn’s Brownsville—also known as East New York—where I was surrounded by witches. Every adult woman I knew was one. Shawled conventions of them buzzed and glowered constantly at our games from nearby “stoops.” Whenever my playmates swirled too boisterously close, the air turned black with angry magic: immense and complicated curses were thrown. “May you never live to grow up” was one of the simpler, cheerier incantations. “But if you do grow up, may it be like a radish, with your head in the ground and your feet in the air.” Another went: “May you itch from head to foot with scabs that drive you crazy—but only after your fingernails have broken off so you can’t scratch.” . . .