検索キーワード： ナレーター "Stephen Mendel" すべてのカテゴリー

Described as both “one of the most important novels ever written” and “the gospel of evil,” 120 Days of Sodom was written by the Marquis de Sade, a notorious eighteenth-century aristocrat who waged a campaign of mayhem and debauchery across France, evaded execution, and inspired the word “sadism,” which came to mean receiving pleasure from pain. Despite all his crimes, Sade considered this work to be his greatest transgression.

"Are you one of us?" a patient once asked Marsha Linehan, the world-renowned psychologist who developed dialectical behavior therapy. "Because if you were, it would give all of us so much hope." Over the years, DBT had saved the lives of countless people fighting depression and suicidal thoughts, but Linehan had never revealed that her pioneering work was inspired by her own desperate struggles as a young woman. Only when she received this question did she finally decide to tell her story. 

When Peter receives a phone call at four a.m., it's the start of a dangerous whirlwind that threatens to drag him and his loved ones into its centre. The caller is Peter's closest friend, Lewis. Lewis has left his criminal past behind him, but when an associate of his goes missing from his home in upstate Wisconsin, dark secrets from their shared history may be about to come to light.

Back when he was still a student, Stan Goldman and his friends used to play a game of make-believe. “How long do you think it would take Isaac Newton to solve this homework set?” they would ask each other. Or, “If Einstein were alive today, do you think he’d bother with graduate school?”

Perhaps it’s something basic to the nature of late night talk shows, or the topics I’m invited to discuss on radio (space and the future), but there are certain evenings, often when the moon is full, that bring the UFO zealots out in swarms. Collectively and individually, they mob the phone banks, converging to defend the faith, and repulse the big, bad doubter-scientist.

Elvis roams the interstates in a big white Cadillac. It has to be him. Flywheel-bus and commuter-zep riders see plumes of dust trailing like rocket exhaust behind something too fast and glittery for the naked eye. Squint though, and you might glimpse him behind the wheel, steering with one wrist, fiddling the radio dial, then reaching for that always frosty can of beer. “Thank you, honey,” he tells the blonde next to him as he steps on the accelerator.

It all began when my publisher sent me out on what used to be called a Chautauqua circuit—public seminars and panels and rubber-chicken dinners—to promote my books. That’s when I began noticing something very strange about the way people have started thinking these days.

Nobody speaks much about the Talent, anymore—that aspect of our nature we were asked to give up, for the sake of pity. We gave it up, something precious and rare, for the Lentili. Or did we?

The preceding little fable, cribbed from my novel, Earth, is an example of the super-short story, which some call a “drabble.” Collections have been published in the 100 and 750-word categories, but my favorite length is precisely 250.

I earn my living as a writer. In other words, as a magician, shaman, metaphorist. By chant and incantation—and with the active collaboration of my clients, the readers—I create images, characters, alternate realities in other minds. It is an ancient, venerable profession. All tribes have had storytellers, who wove legends round the campfire. My specialty involves epics not about long ago, but times and places yet to come.

Jason let the flimsy message slip from his fingers, fluttering in the gentle, centrifugal pseudo-gravity of the station apartment. Coriolis force—or perhaps the soft breeze from the wall vents—caused it to drift past the edge of the table and land on the floor of the small dining nook.

This section, “Contact,” is devoted to that special, often maligned sub-genre of SF, the think piece. Once upon a time, such tales comprised nearly all of science fiction. An author would ask, “What if?” or “If this goes on?” and head off from there, working out what might result from a given premise.

We survived the transition to a new millennium…when the great digital clock of the common era squeaked, groaned and finally clicked a new digit upon the thousand-year slot. To all the planets and stars, rocks and trees, it was just another day. But none of them love celebrating milestones at the drop of a metaphor. We humans do.

I know, things taste better fresh, not packaged. They say hamburger clogs your arteries and hurts the rain forests. We should eat like our Stone Age ancestors, who dug roots, got plenty of exercise, and always stayed a little hungry. So they say. Still, I balked when my wife served me termites. “Come on honey, try one. They’re delicious.”

“...So you want to talk about flying saucers? I was afraid of that." This happens every damn time I’m blackmailed into babysitting you insomniacs, while Talkback Larry escapes to Bimini for a badly needed rest. I’m supposed to field call-in questions about astronomy and outer space for two weeks. You know, black holes and comets? But it seems we always have to spend the first night wrangling over puta UFOs.

In all of history, no organized system of thought has changed humanity as much as science. It's offspring technologies have brought unrivaled power and wealth to our lives, as well as unprecedented danger. Answers to countless questions that mystified our ancestors are now freely available to all.

You think you’re going to get me, don’t you? Well, you’ve got another thing coming, ‘cause I’m ready for you. That’s why there’s a forged card in my wallet saying my blood group is AB Negative, and a MedicAlert tag warning that I’m allergic to penicillin, aspirin, and phenylalanine. Another one states that I’m a practicing, devout Christian Scientist. All these tricks ought to slow you down when the time comes, as it’s sure to, sometime soon.

On planets, they say, water always runs downhill…Serena had no way of knowing if it was true. She had never been on a planet. Not in the brief million or so years she had been aware. Neither had any of her acquaintances. The very idea was ridiculous. Very few Grand Voyageurs ever got a chance to see a planet. And yet, even among them, the ancient truisms were still told.

It annoyed Io’s best friend to give birth to a four-kilo cylinder of tightly wound, medium grade, placental solvent filters. For five long months Perseph had kept to a diet free of sugar, sniff, or tobac—well, almost free. The final ten weeks she’d spent waddling around in the Bedouin drapery fashion decreed for pieceworkers this year. And all that for maybe two thousand dollars’ worth of industrial sieves little better than a fabricow might produce!

Black. As deep as night is black between the stars. Deeper than that. Night isn’t really black, but a solemn, utter shade of red. As black, then, as Tenembro Nought, which drinks all color, texture, substance from around it, giving back only its awful depth of presence.