“Am I a crook? Is that it? Why, of course I am, and a good one — not a bloomin’ beginner like you!”
Classic FictionMore Classic Fiction
“They were like the Chinese Communists, these old alumnae still attached to the college; what they lacked in equipment they made up for in dedication and tactics and sheer number — they just kept coming in human waves.”
“There was nothing to prepare him for his father’s hat on the hall table at three-thirty in the afternoon. His father’s hat kept regular hours.”
“Of course, they’re all dears, my family, but as fiction material there is nothing to them; no drama, you know; no color; just nice, ordinary, unimaginative dears.”
Contemporary FictionMore Contemporary Fiction
A young man from a small Iowa town learns the hard way the darkness he is capable of creating.
With America plunged into World War II, Martha must make a tough decision about her daughter’s future.
For draft dodgers and gold-star parents alike, the losses of war run deep.
Along the Iron Line, there’s more to repairing the damage left by vandals than simply cleaning up the mess they left behind.
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.