Best Short StoriesMartha Foley, Edward Joseph Harrington O'Brien Houghton Mifflin Company, 1924 Includes the Yearbook of the American short story, 1978-1980. |
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ain't asked Beth Brandon Cardeezer Centreville Conrad Cora cried dark Darrow door Dump Echmet ergin eyes face feel feet feller felt Fiodr fire Fred girl goin hands Harper's Magazine head heard horse Ishmael James White Johnny Hines Kircubbin knew laughed Lieutenant little feller live looked Magazine Manya Mary Nickerson mate Maxim mind Miss Thompson Molla mother never nigger night old lady Palestine Pedro Pedro Cabrals Petroff Pictorial Review Ranzo Reina Rhoda Rhona samovar seemed Short Stories shouted silence sing skipper smiled standing stood Street Suva Sven talk Tcherkeszes tell Teptath There's things thought told tomorrow Tony Tony Beaver took town turned Valodja voice w'ich waiting walked watch What's whut Wispy Cavendish woman word yere York City young
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Página 260 - You got to take a lot of things in this world, Joe." And three days later we left Milan for good on the Turin train for Paris, after an auction sale out in front of Turner's stables of everything we couldn't get into a trunk and a suit case.
Página 260 - Want an ice, Joe?" Holbrook looked down at my old man and said slow and careful, "You son of a bitch," and he and the fat wop went out through the tables. My old man sat there and sort of smiled at me, but his face was white and he looked sick as hell and I was scared and felt sick inside because I knew something had happened and I didn't see how anybody could call my old man a son of a bitch, and get away with it.
Página 269 - I lay down beside my old man, when they carried the stretcher into the hospital room, and hung onto the stretcher and cried and cried, and he looked so white and gone and so awfully dead, and I couldn't help feeling that if my old man was dead maybe they didn't need to have shot Gilford.
Página 383 - Its yell echoed against the skeleton stone walls and sounded like a hundred yells. Like a hundred mobs yelling. Its yell thudded against the thick front wall and fell back. Ghost of a yell slipped through the flames and out the great door of the factory. It fluttered like a dying thing down the single street of factory town. Louisa, upon the step before her home, did not hear it, but her eyes opened slowly. They saw the full moon glowing in the great door. The full moon, an evil thing, an omen, soft...
Página 268 - Marat, a 4500 meter steeplechase. As soon as he'd gone out I beat it up in the stand with the new glasses my old man had bought for me to watch them. They started way over at the far end of the course and there was some trouble at the barrier. Something with goggle blinders on was making a great fuss and rearing around and busted the barrier once, but I could see my old man in our black jacket, with a white cross and a black cap, sitting up on Gilford, and patting him with his hand. Then they were...
Página 265 - I'd sit out in front of the Cafe de la Paix and watch the people go by. It's funny sitting there. There's streams of people going by and all sorts of guys come up and want to sell you things, and I loved to sit there with my old man. That was when we'd have the mos-t fun. Guys would come by selling funny rabbits that jumped if you squeezed a bulb and they'd come up to us and my old man would kid with them. He could talk French just like English and all those kind of guys knew him 'cause you can always...
Página 375 - Up from the skeleton stone walls, up from the rotting floor boards and the solid hand-hewn beams of oak of the pre-war cotton factory, dusk came. Up from the dusk the full moon came. Glowing like a fired pine-knot, it illumined the great door and soft showered the Negro shanties aligned along the single street of factory town. The full moon in the great door was an omen. Negro women improvised songs against its spell. Louisa sang as she came over the crest of the hill from the white folks
Página 269 - ... off hoof dangling and there was my old man laying there on the grass flat out with his face up and blood all over the side of his head. I ran down the stand and bumped into a jam of people and got to the rail and a cop grabbed me and held me and two big stretcherbearers were going out after my old man and around on the other side of the course I saw three horses, strung way out, coming out of the trees and taking the jump. My old man was dead when they brought him in and while a doctor was listening...
Página xvii - ... writer makes his selected facts or incidents. This test may be conveniently called the test of substance. But a second test is necessary if the story is to take rank above other stories. The true artist will seek to shape this living substance into the most beautiful and satisfying form, by skillful selection and arrangement of his materials, and by the most direct and appealing presentation of it in portrayal and characterization.
Página 380 - ... of the woods, that he might meet her. She was worth it. Beautiful nigger gal. Why nigger? Why not, just gal? No, it was because she was nigger that he went to her. Sweet. . . The scent of boiling cane came to him. Then he saw the rich glow of the stove. He heard the voices of the men circled around it. He was about to skirt the clearing when he heard his own name mentioned. He stopped. Quivering. Leaning against a tree, he listened. "Bad nigger. Yassur, he sho is one bad nigger when he gets started.