The Changed Man (Maps in a Mirror, Book 1)

The Changed Man (Maps in a Mirror, Book 1)

Orson Scott Card

Language: English

Pages: 186

ISBN: 0812533658

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Eleven chilling tales, including the author's introductions and afterword comments, provoke the dreaded dark side of the reader's imagination.

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upstairs, thick with the mucus of a child’s sleep; Colly’s deep breaths as she labored with the dough. It set Dale to thinking, the newspapers forgotten. He wondered how often people did that—breathed perfectly together for minutes on end. He began to wonder about coincidence. And then, because he was easily distracted, he remembered that he had to change his clothes and went upstairs. When he came down in his jeans and sweatshirt, ready for a good game of outdoor basketball now that it was

Barth would have asked him what his assignment had been, but there was nothing in the old man’s voice that invited the question, and there was nothing in their relationship in the past that would allow the question to be asked. Instead, they stood in silence as the young man reached into the helicopter and helped a man get out. An immensely fat man, stark-naked and white as the flesh of a potato, looking petrified. The old man strode purposefully toward him. “Hello, I,” the old man said. “My

gently under his feet. He glanced behind him. Two furrows down the bank showed his path. I have a mark in this world after all, he thought. It’ll make no difference, but there is a sign of me in this time when men could still leave signs. Then dazzling lights far up the road. The truck was coming. Gemini sniffed the air. He couldn’t smell anything—and yet the books all stressed how smelly gasoline engines had been. Perhaps it was too far. Then the lights swerved away. The curve. In a moment it

like the marker between B.C. and A.D., I found the courage to carry out an abrupt and terrible plan that I did not first submit for your approval. Or has this, too, happened before? Will I, in the maze of memory, be unable to recall which of many head-explodings was the particular one that led me to write this message to you? Will I find, when I open the drawer, that on its underside there is already a thick sheaf of papers tied there around a single hundred-dollar bill? There is nothing new

flipper arms drowning in a toilet seemed fascinating, even poignant. I had recently read whatever story collection of Harlan Ellison’s was current at the time, and I had discerned a pattern in his toughest, meanest tales—a sin-and-punishment motif in which terrible things only seemed to happen to the most appropriate people. It seemed obvious to me that the way to develop this deformed baby into a story was to have it come into the life of someone who deserved to be confronted with a twisted

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