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

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Kristine Kathryn Rusch (ed) - The Best of Pulphouse

Название: The Best of Pulphouse / Лучшее из журнала "Pulphouse"
Год выпуска: 1991
Под редакцией: Rusch, Kristine Kathryn / Раш, Кристин Кэтрин
Издательство: St. Martin's Press
ISBN: не указан
Формат: EPUB
Качество: OCR
Язык: английский

"Pulphouse" - странный журнал. Ограниченный тираж. Твердый переплет. И странные, экспериментальные истории ...
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
She’s a Young Thing and Cannot Leave Her Mother
Harlan Ellison

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.
. . .
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