Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Yesterday House by Fritz Leiber (ereader for android .txt) 📖
- Author: Fritz Leiber
Book online «Yesterday House by Fritz Leiber (ereader for android .txt) 📖». Author Fritz Leiber
"Mary, wait for me!"
The figure was halfway across when it lurched, started forward again, then was jerked back as if something had caught its ankle. Out of the darkness, the next wave sent a line of white at it neck-high, crashed.
Jack hesitated, but another great gust of wind tore at the half-raised sail, and it was all he could do to keep the sloop from capsizing and head her into the wind again.
Mary was tugging at his shoulder. "You must help him," she was saying. "He's caught in the rocks."
He heard a voice crying, screaming crazily above the surf:
The sloop rocked. Jack had it finally headed into the wind. He looked around for Mary.
She had jumped out and was hurrying back, scrambling across the rocks toward the dark, struggling figure that even as he watched was once more engulfed in the surf.
Letting go the lines, Jack sprang toward the stern of the sloop.
But just then another giant blow came, struck the sail like a great fist of air, and sent the boom slashing at the back of his head.
His last recollection was being toppled out onto the rocks and wondering how he could cling to them while unconscious.
VII
The little cove was once again as quiet as time's heart. Once again the Annie O. was a sloop embedded in a mirror. Once again the rocks were warm underfoot.
Jack Barr lifted his fiercely aching head and looked at the distant line of the mainland, as tiny and yet as clear as something viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. He was very tired. Searching the island, in his present shaky condition, had taken all the strength out of him.
He looked at the peacefully rippling sea outside the cove and thought of what a churning pot it had been during the storm. He thought wonderingly of his rescue—a man wedged unconscious between two rock teeth; kept somehow from being washed away by the merest chance.
He thought of Mrs. Kesserich sitting alone in her house, scanning the newspapers that had nothing to tell.
He thought of the empty island behind him and the vanished motorboat.
He wondered if the sea had pulled down Martin Kesserich and Mary Alice Pope. He wondered if only Hani and Hilda had sailed away.
He winced, remembering what he had done to Martin and Mary by his blundering infatuation. In his way, he told himself, he had been as bad as the two old women.
He thought of death, and of time, and of love that defies them.
He stepped limpingly into the Annie O. to set sail—and realized that philosophy is only for the unhappy.
Mary was asleep in the stern.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Yesterday House, by Fritz Leiber
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