e c l e c t i c a f i c t i o n
(These are excerpts—click on the title to view the whole story!)
The Tiny Speck in Amata's Rib
After I tell you this story, nothing will be the same again. Are you ready for that?
The Seven-Thousand-Year-Old Spirit
This night Nwafanim and two assigned policemen would lie in wait at the pyramid for the spirit when it came to collect the balance of last week's yams. Everybody at the station agreed that the request had the fittings of a scam. Doubtless, the mastermind had run the scheme over several months, years maybe. The D.P.O. and his deputy had shown an amused, intelligent interest in the case.
Love is not time's fool
An emergency room is a place where you bring a fear: that something new is wrong or something old has won. Fears brought to people you do not know and surely do not know you other than by the name of your disease. You enter their fluorescent world, one that engages her fear of anonymity and the costume the disease forces her to wear.
Joel B. Levine
Miller is one of the ones a good mother would warn you about—never too far away from women or parties, and nobody ain't have a clue how he getting the money to pay for either one.
Halfaman was an asymmetrical figure, one who always looked poised to keel over and fall, except when he would smile. He had a beaming grin that would expand right across his face. A massive smile, one that would have been a remarkable enough thing on its own, even on a man who was whole, but was miraculous here, that he could smile, let alone smile like this, when he was evidence of just how wicked life could be to a person.
Ernest Bazanye Sempebwa
Minor Fall, Major Lift
Nothing would please me more at this moment than to run out into the street and beat my fists against the ground, but I haven't missed a karaoke night at Max Rogan's all year, and above all else, the show must go on.
Scott, she knew, would want a hot shower to wash off the sweat and grime from the long flight. Then he'd want a big meal: a plate-sized Porterhouse, baked potatoes with butter and sour cream, and two or three chilled Heinekens. After that, he'd want to sleep, just sleep, in his own bed. The sex would come later.
A Perfectly Reasonable Request
Where she got her information remained a mystery, but it sure as hell wasn't psychic powers. Most days she had trouble just trying to determine which planet she inhabited. A far more likely explanation was Melman's mob connections.