Rusch, Kristine Kathryn (ed) - The Best of Pulphouse / Раш, Кристин Кэтрин (ред) - Лучшее из журнала "Pulphouse" [1991, EPUB, ENG]

While She Was Out short story by Edward Bryant Foresight short story by Michael Swanwick The Moral Virologist / Моральный вирусолог short story by Greg Egan Jamais Vu short story by Geoffrey A. Landis The Third Sex short story by Alan Brennert The Two-Headed Man short story by Nancy A. Collins Bits and Pieces short story by Lisa Tuttle Savage Breasts / Неистовые груди short story by Nina Kiriki Hoffman Willie of the Jungle short story by Steve Perry Honeymouth short story by Harry Turtledove On a Phantom Tide short story by William F. Wu Illusions in Relief short story by Kathe Koja Boat People short story by Joyce Thompson A Traveller at Passover short story by Lisa Goldstein Offerings short story by Susan Palwick Sendings short story by Robert Frazier Why Pop-Pop Died short story by Francis J. Matozzo The Murderer Chooses Sterility short story by Bradley Denton Public Places short story by J. N. Williamson Clearance to Land novelette by Adam-Troy Castro Creationism: An Illustrated Lecture in Two Parts short story by Jane Yolen She's a Young Thing and Cannot Leave Her Mother / Она — юное создание, и не может оставить мать short story by Harlan Ellison Chopped Liver short story by George Alec Effinger Nobody's Perfect short story by Thomas F. Monteleone The Soft Whisper of Midnight Snow short story by Charles de Lint

This morning I woke to the infinitely sweet, yet lonely sound of Clair de Lune coming to me through closed windows, upstairs in a high-ceilinged suite of this century-old hotel; in a land that is not my own. I lay in bed and at first thought I was still in the dream: it was so ethereal and melancholy. Then I heard Camilla stir, where she lay wrapped in blankets on the floor, and I knew the dream was past. The bed had been too soft for her, an old fluffy mattress with a gully down the middle. She had chosen to sleep beyond the foot of the bed, even a scintilla, of the dream. It was the memory of something I was certain I’d lost among the ruins of the years that lay strewn behind me. Years in which Camilla and I had fled from place to place, neither citizens of a certain land nor citizens of the world: simply refugees whose most prominent baggage was fear. Years that bore our footprints on their every hour. Years like a pale golden desert stretching back and back, on the side of me that has no eyes; a desert in which lay items from my life’s rucksack; items that I had jettisoned so I could continue walking. Because there was no possibility of ending the flight. I had untied those items and dropped them to lighten my load, because the flight had grown ever more arduous: the walking through years. . .the caretakership of the woman I loved. Like a wanderer without water, or a soldier separated from his companions, I moved forward with her minute by minute, discarding casual acquaintances and toys I had outgrown; names and faces of people with whom we had briefly traveled; the taste of candy no longer manufactured and songs no longer sung; books I had read simply because they had been at hand when there was time to be filled waiting for a train; all dropped in the shifting sand and quickly covered by time, and all that I retained, all that sustained me, was this love we shared, and the fear we shared. . . .