The Mammoth Book of Nebula Awards SF (aka Nebula Awards Showcase 2011)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
This is the very best short SF fiction of any given year as recommended and nominated by the members of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America: the best novella, novelette and short story. Here you will find the cream of the crop of science fiction and fantasy - startling ideas, the intricate construction of new worlds and mind-bending experimental writing. This anthology includes not only the Nebula Award-winning works in each short-form category, but also all the nominees in the novelette and short story categories. Here you will find colourful fantasy, outstanding speculative fiction, steampunk, edgy writing on the fringes of the mainstream and uncompromisingly hard SF in stories set in the distant past, an off-kilter present day, the far future or sometimes in between.
metal ones I must work at, smashing one upon another until they are twisted out of all recognition. I save the sable mask for last out of a sense of propriety. Although it is metal, it is oddly malleable, and it crumbles between my hands. The lenses fall out of the eyeholes and tumble among the broken bits of ceramic and glass on my floor. I stand amidst the debris that was my life and don the only mask I spared, Pena’s green and toffee one. My lover glances at me in her cerulean-with-voile
I do not have their loops or their strength, but I know how to murder so that my victims will not wake. Pena also taught me to know who I am. I am chaos in this ordered society, the flaw in a carefully wrought plan. I am turbulence in the queen’s eternal river. Eugie Foster calls home a mildly haunted, fey-infested house in metro Atlanta that she shares with her husband, Matthew. After receiving her master’s degree in psychology, she retired from academia to pen flights of fancy. She also
Lycan uttered the requisite condolences, and she pretended they were appropriate. She held no illusions about why she had agreed to host her mother. It was, in a sense, a purely selfish motive: she knew she couldn’t live with the guilt if she said no. It was emotional blackmail, what her mother did, but it was flawlessly executed. But I’m dying. Mira, I’m scared. Please. Even across eighty years and death, Mira could still hear her mother’s voice, its perpetually aggrieved tone. An awful
and books by Neal before they were printed. It was great to spend time on the phone talking. We talked about everything under the sun, but mostly we talked about writing. Of course we met in person as often as possible, but we certainly burned those phone wires down, and faxed each other back and forth. In fact, one time Neal sent me a fax sheet with only a spot on it. It said, “Smell. Indian Food.” He, who had introduced me to it, knew how much I loved Indian food, so he sent me the fax, called
suggests an analogy even more distasteful. But what else do you have to do? Okay. As you walk, the father offers you a rice cake and an ampoule of red-wine vinegar from a communion kit sewn into his jacket lining. For your spiritual sustenance, he says, but you bemusedly shake your head. Two gurneys trundle up behind you, one pushed by a dormitron, the other by a young woman in uniform. To let them pass in tandem, you press your backs to opposite walls of the tunnel. The first gurney takes a