Lafayette, Farewell, 1988
The Lake, 1944
The wave shut me off from the world, from the birds in the sky, the children on the beach, my mother on the shore. There was a moment of green silence. Then the wave gave me back to the sky, the sand, the children yelling. I came out of the lake and the world was waiting for me, having hardly moved since I went away.
I ran up on the beach.
Mama swabbed me with a furry towel. "Stand there and dry," she said.
I stood there, watching the sun take away the water beads on my arms. I replaced them with goose-pimples.
The Last Circus, 1980
Last Laughs, 2009
The Last Night of the World, 1951
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Last Rites, 1994
Harrison Cooper was not that old, only thirty-nine, touching at the warm rim of forty rather than the cold rim of thirty, which makes a great difference in temperature and attitude. He was a genius verging on the brilliant, unmarried, unengaged, with no children that he could honestly claim, so having nothing much else to do, woke one morning in the summer of 1999, weeping.
Out of bed, he faced his mirror to watch the tears, examine his sadness, trace the woe. Like a child, curious after emotion, he charted his own map, found no capital city of despair, but only a vast and empty expanse of sorrow, and went to shave.
The Laurel and Hardy Alpha Centauri Farewell Tour, 2000
The Laurel and Hardy Love Affair, 1987
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Lazarus Come Forth, 1944
Let's Play "Poison", 1946
The Library, 1947
The Life Work of Juan Diaz, 1963
A Literary Encounter, 2009
A Little Journey, 1951
The Little Mice, 1955
They're very odd," I said. "The little Mexican couple."
"How do you mean?" asked my wife.
"Never a sound," I said. "Listen."
Ours was a house deep back in among tenements, to which another half-house had been added. When my wife and I purchased the house, we rented the additional quarter which lay walled up against one side of our parlour. Now, listening at this particular wall, we heard our hearts beat.
"I know they're home," I whispered. "But in the three years they've lived here I've never heard a dropped pan, a spoken word, or the sound of a light switch. Good God, what are they doing in there?"
Lo, the Dear, Daft Dinosaurs!, 1983
The Lonely Ones, 1949
Long After Midnight, 1963
The police ambulance went up into the palisades at the wrong hour. It is always the wrong hour when the police ambulance goes anywhere, but this was especially wrong, for it was long after midnight and nobody imagined it would ever be day again, because the sea coming in on the light-less shore below said as much, and the wind blowing salt cold in from the Pacific reaffirmed this, and the fog muffling the sky and putting out the stars struck the final, unfelt-but-disabling blow. The weather said it had been here forever, man was hardly here at all, and would soon be gone. Under the circumstances it was hard for the men gathered on the cliff, with several cars, the headlights on, and flashlights bobbing, to feel real, trapped as they were between a sunset they hardly remembered and a sunrise that would not be imagined.
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Long Division, 1988
The Long Night, 1944
The Long Rain, 1946
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The Long Way Home, 1945
The Long Years (из "Марсианских хроник"), ?
The Lost City of Mars, 1967
The Love Affair, 1982
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Love Contest, 1952
“He's tall,” said Meg, seventeen.
“He’s very dark,” said Marie, almost eighteen.
“And he's coming here tonight —this very night — to see us.”
“To see both of you?” cried father. He was always crying out. After twenty years of marriage and seventeen years of daughters it was his natural tone of voice. “To see both of you?” cried father, again.
“To see both of us,” said Meg.
“Both of us,” said Marie, and smiled at her supper steak.
Love Potion, 2007
Luana the Living, 1940