Short Fiction by Ray Bradbury (autobiographies to read .txt) 📕
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Ray Bradbury is a giant of science fiction and fantasy. His childlike imagination, yearning for Mars, and love of all that is scary, horrible, and mysterious, reverberate throughout modern speculative fiction and our culture as a whole.
He has received countless awards including the Sir Arthur Clark Award, the World Fantasy Award for Life Achievement, an Emmy Award, and a National Medal of Arts. Along with terrestrial honorary street names, there are many extraterrestrial locations named in Bradbury’s honor such as Bradbury Landing, the landing site of the Mars Curiosity rover.
Some of his first published stories appear in Futuria Fantasia, a fanzine he created when he was 18 years old. All of his stories published in Futuria Fantasia are included in this collection. This collection also includes stories written well into his career, like “Zero Hour,” a story that was later republished in his famous collection The Illustrated Man.
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- Author: Ray Bradbury
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Hathaway said it, loud: “Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of this mess! Here—”
He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film, the beasts, and how the film couldn’t be wrong. If the film said the monsters weren’t there, they weren’t there.
“Yeah,” said Marnagan. “But step outside this cave—”
“If my theory is correct I’ll do it, unafraid,” said Click.
Marnagan scowled. “You sure them beasts don’t radiate ultraviolet or infrared or something that won’t come out on film?”
“Nuts! Any color we see, the camera sees. We’ve been fooled.”
“Hey, where you going?” Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller man tried pushing past him.
“Get out of the way,” said Hathaway.
Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. “If anyone is going anywhere, it’ll be me does the going.”
“I can’t let you do that, Irish.”
“Why not?”
“You’d be going on my say-so.”
“Ain’t your say-so good enough for me?”
“Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess—”
“If you say them animals ain’t there, that’s all I need. Now, stand aside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle their bones.” He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn’t exist except under an inch of porous metal plate. “Your express purpose on this voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol later for teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. Firsthand education. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give me profile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into The Lion’s Den.”
“Irish, I—”
“Shut up and load up.”
Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it.
“Ready, Click?”
“I—I guess so,” said Hathaway. “And remember, think it hard, Irish. Think it hard. There aren’t any animals—”
“Keep me in focus, lad.”
“All the way, Irish.”
“What do they say … ? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera!”
Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one, two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters were waiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking.
Right out into the middle of them. …
That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and the monsters!
Only now it was only Marnagan.
No more monsters.
Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. “Hey, Click, look at me! I’m in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail and ran away!”
“Ran, hell!” cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed and animated. “They just plain vanished. They were only imaginative figments!”
“And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, you coward!”
“Smile when you say that, Irish.”
“Sure, and ain’t I always smilin’? Ah, Click boy, are them tears in your sweet grey eyes?”
“Damn,” swore the photographer, embarrassedly. “Why don’t they put window-wipers in these helmets?”
“I’ll take it up with the Board, lad.”
“Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in one hunk, I couldn’t help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are part of his setup. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased back into their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothing suspicious about animals. And if the tourists don’t leave, the animals kill them.”
“Shaw, now. Those animals can’t kill.”
“Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they could have frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. If that isn’t being dangerous—”
The Irishman whistled.
“But, we’ve got to move, Irish. We’ve got twenty minutes of oxygen. In that time we’ve got to trace those monsters to their source, Gunther’s Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters.” Click attached his camera to his mid-belt. “Gunther probably thinks we’re dead by now. Everyone else’s been fooled by his playmates; they never had a chance to disbelieve them.”
“If it hadn’t been for you taking them pictures, Click—”
“Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident—” Click stopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head and felt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steady himself, and swayed. “I—I don’t think my oxygen is as full as yours. This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick.”
Marnagan’s homely face grimaced in sympathy. “Hold tight, Click. The guy that invented these fishbowls didn’t provide for a sick stomach.”
“Hold tight, hell, let’s move. We’ve got to find where those animals came from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to come back!”
“Come back? How?”
“They’re waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if we believe in them again, they’ll return.”
Marnagan didn’t like it. “Won’t—won’t they kill us—if they come—if we believe in ’em?”
Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. “Not if we believe in them to a certain point. Psychologically they can both be seen and felt. We only want to see them coming at us again.”
“Do we, now?”
“With twenty minutes left, maybe less—”
“All right, Click, let’s bring ’em back. How do we do it?”
Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. “Just think—I will see the monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them. Think it over and over.”
Marnagan’s hulk stirred uneasily. “And—what if I forget to remember all that? What if I get excited … ?”
Hathaway didn’t answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking at Irish.
Marnagan cursed. “All right, lad. Let’s have at it!”
The monsters returned.
A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarming in malevolent anticipation about the two men.
“This way, Irish. They come from this way! There’s a focal point, a sending station for these telepathic brutes. Come on!”
Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contorted faces, silvery fat bodies misting as he plowed through them.
Marnagan was making good progress ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped and raised his gun and made quick moves with it. “Click! This one here! It’s real!” He fell back and something struck him down. His immense frame slammed against rock, noiselessly.
Hathaway darted forward, flung
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