Short why stories

Cities, once they are old enough, must be born. New York City is ready to be born, and must be led into the world by a reluctant midwife. Well, you must go out now and read this story and then read Stories of Your Life and Others and his new collection Exhalation: Stories , which comes out in May.

I was shocked by how good and complex his writing was. I had no idea that the movie The Arrival was based on one of his short stories. A story about the people of Earth deciding to throw away the Moon. Green means up your shirt; blue means down his pants. Purple means in your mouth. Black means all the way. CW: Strong languageI forgot the word lightbulb today.

I was trying to tell Michael how the laundry room went dark. I think we need a new… do we have any of those The word had been redacted from my vocabulary.

I tried to listen for it, to hear the word in my voice. All I got was static, like the old televisions used to have. Would you change that thing in the ceiling?

We used t TW: suicideDr. It goes like this: she knocks three times, in succession, but with no particular rhythm; she calls out our name through the door, softly, and only once; she leaves. Though she intrudes on our treasured evenings together, we admire her persistence, her punctuality.

Still, we cannot comply with her wishes—even if we begin to listen for the staccato of her feet outside the door. Tonight is no different. She arrives, she knocks, she waits, and s He comes to me in pieces as I watch the stillness of space, envisioning new constellations in the array of unrecognized stars.

I trace the sparks of light with my finger, connecting the dots and smudging the glass as a result. How many stars do you think there are in space? I imagine him asking. Can there really be other ones out there as big as or even bigger than the sun? I always admired his genuine curiosity, how he viewed things with a particular interest It was something so ephemeral that it seemed to have lost its meaning. It was unlikely that one of the children would somehow become infected with the virus.

Life with the Bishop was simple: mornings with prayers and a plate of fried bananas; afternoons with Jesus and rosaries and seashells; evenings with stories and hymns. There was no way a child living with Bishop would end up being contaminated I saw a tree and thought of you, or rather, thought of the way you see trees. I remembered when we walked through the Ramble in Central Park, a wild place in the center of a place wilder still, resplendent and emerald in the early summer sun.

You stopped suddenly when you saw it. I remember how you cocked your head in appreciation, a tendril of hair escaped from behind your ear. You brushed it back with an unconscious ha Colleen is packing to leave for university. She folds her clothes into neat piles, her fair hair arranged in an artfully messy bun, with gold strands curling around her face.

She packs her rolled up socks into the maze of groves left by the clothes piles. Her movements are thoughtful and tender, like she is tucking them into bed. I watch her from my quiet corner outside the door of her room, chewing on a hangnail. I stare at her, willing her to hea Yet here I am, groping for a light switch in a kitchen that I spend more time inside than my own We could talk about the wind and waves. We could talk about the boat. We could talk about the life jackets.

We could talk about the men and the lake. We could talk about why they went so far out from shore. I am spinning slowly in my tank, suspended in doped-up air, buoyant, bobbing. Piano music Beethoven? Dark, dark wood.

Dick Whittington. Dinosaur Dig. Elizabeth I. Emmeline Pankhurst. Eric the engine. Florence Nightingale. George and the dragon. Goldilocks and the three bears. I couldn't believe my eyes. I'm too ill. Isaac Newton. Jack and the beanstalk. Little Red Riding Hood. Monster shopping trip. Much Ado About Nothing. My dad. My favourite clothes. My favourite day - Chinese New Year. What could be more universal than the story of the man who wakes up to find himself transformed into an enormous insect?

Widely adapted , but one of my favorite versions is the episode of Dollhouse in which a Richard Connell no relation except the obvious hunts Echo with a bow. In a good way, obviously.

Philip K. Or Adrian Tomine. Either way. Ursula K. A quick Google search will reveal that the framing has been used for almost everything you can think of. This was the first short story Amy Hempel ever wrote. Open the floodgates, baby.