Poe: New Horror Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe
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To coincide with the 200th anniversary of the birth of Edgar Allan Poe, this anthology celebrates the depth and diversity of one of the most important figures in literature. Compiled by multi-award winning editor, Ellen Datlow, it presents some of the foremost talents of the genre, who have come together to reimagine tales inspired by Poe.Sharyn McCrumb, Lucius Shepard, Pat Cadigan, M. Rickert, and more, have lent their craft to this anthology, retelling such classics as "The Fall of the House of Usher," "The Tell-Tale Heart" and "The Masque of the Red Death," exploring the very fringes of the genre.
it was my heart. There were other sounds, but I couldn't unscramble them. An instant before I lost consciousness, I had the intimation of an androgynous, childlike face, similar to one Claudia had assembled on the floor of the Castle. I didn't see it, not exactly, but seemed to know its lineaments like those of my own face. When I regained my senses, the sun was high and I was naked, lying closer to the tents than where I had fallen. My vision rippled. With an effort, I propped myself on an
T-shirts she picked from to wear to bed. "I'm so tired." "Get some sleep. I've got the baby." "My husband--" She still couldn't say it aloud. D nodded and kept on singing. Toni was starting to hear nuances in the words and phrases, complexities of inflection and pause. She thought Matt's name was scattered in there like bits of eggshell, and, though it broke her heart every time, she listened desperately for it in the sonorous chant. Outside, the noise of the other pickers had stopped, and
his drunken stupor, it seems clear he would've escaped this most gruesome fate. He is paralyzed by disbelief and so perishes. I do not think any other piece of literature has ever so expertly provoked in me such a feeling of dread and revulsion; certainly, it remains a haunting tale. The influence of "The Masque of the Red Death" is much different. Where "The Cask of Amontillado" has always struck me in a visceral, almost physical way, "The Masque of the Red Death" remains a much more visual
an exotic look about his wiry frame, his black hair and dark almond eyes, that told me the boy was "local." I do not even think "hillbilly." Liam would not allow anyone to use that word. He said that political correctness had not made the public any kinder or wiser, only more careful about whom they bullied. He said he wouldn't have his people belittled by bigots too cowardly to pick on any of the more protected ethnic groups. His people. Even when he owned a jet, a yacht, and two beach houses,
its usual barking cheerfulness. On both sides of them, the houses vanished. The road cut through cropless farm fields now, divided only by stands of oak and elm, a few half-hearted wooden fences. "So," Daniel finally said, if only to break the strangely pregnant silence. "I guess Buddy still lives there?" "He still does," Zippo said. "And he still keeps random animals, just for fun? Buffalo? Cheetahs? Remember when he had that elephant? How is he even allowed to have animals like that? Ooh,