Beagle, Peter S. (ed) - The New Voices of Fantasy / Бигл, Питер С. (ред) - Новые голоса фэнтези [2017, EPUB, ENG]

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Peter S. Beagle (ed.) - The New Voices of Fantasy

Название: The New Voices of Fantasy / Новые голоса фэнтези
Год выпуска: 2017
Под редакцией: Beagle, Peter S. & Weisman, Jacob / Бигл, Питер С. & Уэйсман, Джекоб
Издательство: Tachyon Publications
ISBN: 978-1-61696-258-6
Формат: EPUB
Качество: eBook
Язык: английский

Антология новых авторов фэнтези
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Tornado's Siren short story by Brooke Bolander
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A Kiss with Teeth short story by Max Gladstone
Jackalope Wives short story by Ursula Vernon
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The Practical Witch's Guide to Acquiring Real Estate short story by A. C. Wise
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The Haunting of Apollo A7LB / Скафандр с привидениями short story by Hannu Rajaniemi
Here Be Dragons short fiction by Chris Tarry
The One They Took Before short story by Kelly Sandoval
Tiger Baby short fiction by JY Yang
The Duck short story by Ben Loory
Wing short story by Amal El-Mohtar
The Philosophers short fiction by Adam Ehrlich Sachs
My Time Among the Bridge Blowers short story by Eugene Fischer
The Husband Stitch / Шов для мужа novelette by Carmen Maria Machado
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Sarah Pinsker

The pond only looks bottomless.
Clambering up the moss-slick stones beside the waterfall, finding purchase with cramping toes and fingers, if I chance a look back over my shoulder, the pond is a moon-black sky even on a sunny summer’s day. It absorbs light. I push back off the narrow ledge, as hard as I can, always feet first, hoping I miss the rocks, hoping I don’t overshoot the middle, hoping I won’t lose my bathing suit on the way back up because Otis and Kat are here too, and I’d become a legend in all the wrong ways.
When I’m in the water, plunging, sinking, one hand dragging my sagging waistband back to something approximating my waist, wondering why I let Kat convince me to buy this suit in the first place, I let myself drop as deep as I possibly can. I trail my toes in the silt, and there is silt, and some kind of tough grass that wraps long fingers around my calves, and silt and grass mean there is a bottom. If I open my eyes, if I ignore the grit, I might catch a glimpse of trout silvering between the grasses. Or a water snake, black in the blackness.
. . .
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