The Secret History of Fantasy
Language: English
Pages: 379
ISBN: 1892391996
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Fantasy is more than just sword-and-sorcery novels of epic adventures. Here are innovative tales where mythology, fairy tales, and archetypes are reimagined into a new style of storytelling.
Anthologist Peter S. Beagle knows fantasy. The author of the inventive fantasy novel The Last Unicorn and the introduction to The Lord of the Rings now introduces the gifted writers that returned to the classics and thoroughly redefined the genre: Gregory Maguire, Francesca Lia Block, Robert Holdstock, Patricia McKillip, and Steven Millhauser, and others who have lead the way to expanding imaginative frontiers.
From the depths of a dangerous English forest to the top of the Tower of Babel, on a caffeinated journey to the empire of ice cream, discover The Secret History of Fantasy.
that be? You have a journey to continue." The bitterness rose so fast in her throat that it almost made her throw up. "If you know my name, if you know about my family, if you know things I'd forgotten about, then you already know why. Alan's dead, and Talley my Mouse, oh God, my little Mouse and so am I, do you understand? I'm dead too, and I'm just driving around and around until I rot." She started to double over, coughing and gagging on the rage. "I wish I were dead with them, that's what I
take his body back. She hit the bird a couple of times, then another came. Then someone took the bone out of her hand, drew her back from the wall. "He's dead," Ran said simply. "It doesn't matter to him whether you throw bones at the birds or at him." "I have to watch," she said shortly. She added, her eyes on the jagged line the parapet made against the sky, like blunt worn dragon's teeth, "You keep coming, and dying. Why do you all keep coming? Is treasure worth being breakfast for the
Ofeig caught an arrow in the air, looked at the head on it, and collapsed laughing: it was made of flint. Flint. Can you believe it? Here we'd come Frigg knows how many miles for plunder and the best we could do was a bunch of Stone Age aborigines who thought that a necklace of dogs' teeth was the height of fashion. Oh how we longed for those clever Irish and their gold brooches and silver-inlaid bowls. Anyway, we subdued these screechers as we called them, sacrificed the whole lot of them to the
And she was barefoot and hadn't brought a hat. "If you would like to shop while you are waiting," the woman behind the counter said, and gestured with her hand. There were signs above them that said "Terminal A/Gates 1-2,4N' with an arrow, and "Terminal B/Gates i-i5B." "There are shops along the concourse," the Chinese woman said. Rachel looked at her ticket. Amidst the Chinese letters it said "Gate 4A." She looked back up at the sign. "Thank you," she said. The feeling of fear had drained
chest, and I stumbled backward onto the floor. "I don't want this. It's not real," she said, and began to hurriedly gather her things. "Wait, I'm sorry," I said. I tried to scrabble to my feet, and that's when the sum total of my lack of sleep, the gallons of caffeine, the fraying of my nerves came together like the twining voices in a fugue and struck me in the head as if I'd been kicked by a horse. My body was shaking, my vision grew hazy, and I could feel myself phasing in and out of