“Murder had ceased to be an impersonal matter of technique by which a writer used a corpse merely to serve as a peg on which to hang a mystery.”
Classic FictionMore Classic Fiction
“The world is full of children. Thousands of them. Millions. And I hate them all — every last one — because they are alive and my little boy is dead.”
“He’d asked for it—and got it. With a torpedo on each side of him he marched to face the gangster who would kill him in slow stages.”
“When you slug a racket king, you’ve marked yourself for murder. But if you’ve waited eight years for revenge, you’ll take your chances with the devil himself.”
Contemporary FictionMore Contemporary Fiction
“If one wasn’t careful, the entire revolution of one’s days could be ticked away like this, one tinder-dry, trussed-up Thanksgiving turkey after another.”
Can a 5-year-old outwit a pair of drugstore bandits?
When an intense squall took out the electricity in Birchwood Village on the Fourth of July, it looked to be a disaster at first. Then something wonderful happened.
Dad’s obsession was pretty overwhelming, so he wouldn’t settle for a normal family photo.
Fiction by Jack London
In this short story, a frivolous game turns deadly.
A wealthy city woman strikes up a surprising camaraderie with a late-night intruder, and they discover what lies beneath the surface of each person’s intentions.
A barn burner fight with a nimble fighter stands between an aging boxer and his prize money.
Old San Francisco, which is the San Francisco of only the other day, the day before the earthquake, was divided midway by the Slot. The Slot was an iron crack that ran along the center of Market Street, and from the Slot arose the burr of the ceaseless, endless cable that was hitched at will to the cars it dragged up and down.