Short Fiction by Ray Bradbury (autobiographies to read .txt) 📕
Description
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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Mink banged away at the soup.
“Slow down,” said Mom.
“Can’t,” said Mink. “Drill’s waiting for me.”
“Who’s Drill? What a peculiar name,” said Mom.
“You don’t know him,” said Mink.
“A new boy in the neighborhood?” asked Mom.
“He’s new all right,” said Mink. She started on her second bowl.
“Which one is Drill?” asked Mom.
“He’s around,” said Mink, evasively. “You’ll make fun. Everybody pokes fun. Gee, darn.”
“Is Drill shy?”
“Yes. No. In a way. Gosh, Mom, I got to run if we want to have the Invasion!”
“Who’s invading what?”
“Martians invading Earth—well, not exactly Martians. They’re—I don’t know. From up.” She pointed with her spoon.
“And inside,” said Mom, touching Mink’s feverish brow.
Mink rebelled. “You’re laughing! You’ll kill Drill and everybody.”
“I didn’t mean to,” said Mom. “Drill’s a Martian?”
“No. He’s—well—maybe from Jupiter or Saturn or Venus. Anyway, he’s had a hard time.”
“I imagine.” Mrs. Morris hid her mouth behind her hand.
“They couldn’t figure a way to attack earth.”
“We’re impregnable,” said Mom, in mock-seriousness.
“That’s the word Drill used! Impreg—That was the word, Mom.”
“My, my. Drill’s a brilliant little boy. Two-bit words.”
“They couldn’t figure a way to attack, Mom. Drill says—he says in order to make a good fight you got to have a new way of surprising people. That way you win. And he says also you got to have help from your enemy.”
“A fifth column,” said Mom.
“Yeah. That’s what Drill said. And they couldn’t figure a way to surprise Earth or get help.”
“No wonder. We’re pretty darn strong,” laughed Mom, cleaning up. Mink sat there, staring at the table, seeing what she was talking about.
“Until, one day,” whispered Mink, melodramatically, “they thought of children!”
“Well!” said Mrs. Morris brightly.
“And they thought of how grownups are so busy they never look under rosebushes or on lawns!”
“Only for snails and fungus.”
“And then there’s something about dim-dims.”
“Dim-dims?”
“Dimens-shuns.”
“Dimensions?”
“Four of ’em! And there’s something about kids under nine and imagination. It’s real funny to hear Drill talk.”
Mrs. Morris was tired. “Well, it must be funny. You’re keeping Drill waiting now. It’s getting late in the day and, if you want to have your Invasion before your supper bath, you’d better jump.”
“Do I have to take a bath?” growled Mink.
“You do. Why is it children hate water? No matter what age you live in children hate water behind the ears!”
“Drill says I won’t have to take baths,” said Mink.
“Oh, he does, does he?”
“He told all the kids that. No more baths. And we can stay up till ten o’clock and go to two televisor shows on Saturday ’stead of one!”
“Well, Mr. Drill better mind his p’s and q’s. I’ll call up his mother and—”
Mink went to the door. “We’re having trouble with guys like Pete Britz and Dale Jerrick. They’re growing up. They make fun. They’re worse than parents. They just won’t believe in Drill. They’re so snooty, cause they’re growing up. You’d think they’d know better. They were little only a coupla years ago. I hate them worst. We’ll kill them first.”
“Your father and I, last?”
“Drill says you’re dangerous. Know why? Cause you don’t believe in Martians! They’re going to let us run the world. Well, not just us, but the kids over in the next block, too. I might be queen.” She opened the door. “Mom?”
“Yes?”
“What’s—lodge … ick?”
“Logic? Why, dear, logic is knowing what things are true and not true.”
“He mentioned that,” said Mink. “And what’s im—pres—sion—able?” It took her a minute to say it.
“Why, it means—” Her mother looked at the floor, laughing gently. “It means—to be a child, dear.”
“Thanks for lunch!” Mink ran out, then stuck her head back in. “Mom, I’ll be sure you won’t be hurt, much, really!”
“Well, thanks,” said Mom.
Slam went the door.
At four o’clock the audio-visor buzzed. Mrs. Morris flipped the tab. “Hello, Helen!” she said, in welcome.
“Hello, Mary. How are things in New York?”
“Fine, how are things in Scranton? You look tired.”
“So do you. The children. Underfoot,” said Helen.
Mrs. Morris sighed, “My Mink, too. The super Invasion.”
Helen laughed. “Are your kids playing that game, too?”
“Lord, yes. Tomorrow it’ll be geometrical jacks and motorized hopscotch. Were we this bad when we were kids in ’48?”
“Worse. Japs and Nazis. Don’t know how my parents put up with me. Tomboy.”
“Parents learn to shut their ears.”
A silence.
“What’s wrong, Mary?” asked Helen.
Mrs. Morris’ eyes were half-closed; her tongue slid slowly, thoughtfully over her lower lip. “Eh,” She jerked. “Oh, nothing. Just thought about that. Shutting ears and such. Never mind. Where were we?”
“My boy Tim’s got a crush on some guy named—Drill, I think it was.”
“Must be a new password. Mink likes him, too.”
“Didn’t know it got as far as New York. Word of mouth, I imagine. Looks like a scrap drive. I talked to Josephine and she said her kids—that’s in Boston—are wild on this new game. It’s sweeping the country.”
At this moment, Mink trotted into the kitchen to gulp a glass of water. Mrs. Morris turned. “How’re things going?”
“Almost finished,” said Mink.
“Swell,” said Mrs. Morris. “What’s that?”
“A yo-yo,” said Mink. “Watch.”
She flung the yo-yo down its string. Reaching the end it—
It vanished.
“See?” said Mink. “Ope!” Dibbling her finger she made the yo-yo reappear and zip up the string.
“Do that again,” said her mother.
“Can’t. Zero hour’s five o’clock! ’Bye.”
Mink exited, zipping her yo-yo.
On the audio-visor, Helen laughed. “Tim brought one of those yo-yo’s in this morning, but when I got curious he said he wouldn’t show it to me, and when I tried to work it, finally, it wouldn’t work.”
“You’re not impressionable,” said Mrs. Morris.
“What?”
“Never mind. Something I thought of. Can I help you, Helen?”
“I wanted to get that black-and-white cake recipe—”
The hour drowsed by. The day waned. The sun lowered in the peaceful blue sky. Shadows lengthened on the green lawns. The laughter and excitement continued. One little girl ran away, crying.
Mrs. Morris came out the front door.
“Mink, was that Peggy Ann crying?”
Mink was bent over in the yard, near the rosebush. “Yeah. She’s a scarebaby. We won’t let her play, now. She’s getting too old to play. I guess she grew up all of a sudden.”
“Is that why she cried? Nonsense. Give
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