We were walking along the boardwalk in Ocean Park one summer evening, arm in arm, my friend Sid and me, when we saw a familiar sight on one of the benches just ahead, not far from the surf.
"Look," I said, "and listen."
We looked and listened.
There was this old Jewish couple, he I would say about seventy and she maybe sixty-five, moving their mouths and hands at the same time, everyone talking, nobody listening.
"I told you more than once," he said.
"What did you tell? Nothing!" she said.
Tale of the Mangledomvritch, 1941
The Terrible Conflagration up at the Place, 1969
That Bird that Comes out of the Clock, 1997
That Old Dog Lying in the Dust, 1997
That Woman on the Lawn, 1996
Very late at night he heard the weeping on the lawn in front of his house. It was the sound of a woman crying. By its sound he knew it was not a girl or a mature woman, but the crying of someone eighteen or nineteen years old. It went on, then faded and stopped, and again started up, now moving this way or that on the late-summer wind.
He lay in bed listening to it until it made his eyes fill with tears. He turned over, shut his eyes, let the tears fall, but could not stop the sound. Why should a young woman be weeping long after midnight out there?
There Was an Old Woman, 1944
"No, there's no lief arguin'. I got my mind fixed. Run along with your silly wicker basket. Land, where you ever get notions like that? You just skit out of here; don't bother me, I got my tattin' and knittin' to do, and no never minds about tall, dark gentlemen with fangled ideas."
The tall, dark young man stood quietly, not moving. Aunt Tildy hurried on with her talk.
"You _heard_ what I said! If you got a mind to talk to me, well, you can talk, but meantime I hope you don't mind if I pour myself coffee. There. If you'd been more polite, I'd offer you some, but you jump in here high and mighty and you never rapped on the door or nothin'. You think you own the place."
There Will Come Soft Rains (из "Марсианских хроник"), ?
They All Had Grandfathers, 1947
They Knew What They Wanted, 1954
Father took a deep breath. “What,” he asked, “is that smell?” “Our daughters have taken up painting,” said mother.
“Meg and Marie?” Father hung up his hat and proceeded into the living room, holding mother's arm. “Painting pictures?”
“The latter-day Van Goghs are upstairs in their inner sanctum. If you knock three times and are very polite, they might let you see.”
“By all means. This I must investigate.”
Advancing alone into the rarefied upper country of the house, which smelled of sun-tan powder, perfume and bubble baths, he rapped discreetly on the door of his daughters' room. The smell was stronger here, the sharp autumnal smell of turpentine and oil, a creative odor, the odor of genius and imagination. He was smiling quietly when the door opened.
They Never Got Mad, 2008
The Thing at the Top of the Stairs, 1988
The Third Expedition (из "Марсианских хроник"), ?
Thunder in the Morning, 1997
Time in Thy Flight, 1953
The Time Machine (из "Вина из одуванчиков"), ?
The Time of Going Away, 1956
To the Chicago Abyss, 1963
The Tombling Day, 1952
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The Tombstone, 1945
Tomorrow and Tomorrow, 1943
Tomorrow's Child, 1948
He did not want to be the father of a small blue pyramid. Peter Horn hadn't planned it that way at all. Neither he nor his wife imagined that such a thing could happen to them. They had talked quietly for days about the birth of their coming child, they had eaten normal foods, slept a great deal, taken in a few shows, and, when it was time for her to fly in the helicopter to the hospital, her husband held her and kissed her.
"Honey, you'll be home in six hours," he said. "These new birth-mechanisms do everything but father the child for you."
A Touch of Petulance, 1980
Touched with Fire, 1954
They stood in the blazing sunlight for a long while, looking at the bright faces of their old-fashioned railroad watches, while the shadows tilted beneath them, swaying, and the perspiration ran out under their porous summer hats. When they uncovered their heads to mop their lined and pinkened brows, their hair was white and soaked through, like something that had been out of the light for years. One of the men commented that his shoes felt like two loaves of baked bread and then, sighing warmly, added:
The Town Where No One Got Off, 1958
Crossing the continental United States by night, by day, on the train, you flash past town after wilderness town where nobody ever gets off. Or rather, no person who doesn't belong, no person who hasn't roots in these country graveyards ever bothers to visit their lonely stations or attend their lonely views.
I spoke of this to a fellow-passenger, another salesman like myself, on the Chicago-Los Angeles train as we crossed Iowa.
"True," he said. "People get off in Chicago, everyone gets off there. People get off in New York, get off in Boston, get off in L.A. People who don't live there go there to see and come back to tell. But what tourist ever just got off at Fox Hill, Nebraska, to look at it? You? Me? No! I don't know anyone, got no business there, it's no health resort, so why bother?"
The Toynbee Convector, 1984
The Transformation, 1948
The Traveller, 1946
The Troll, 1950
The Trolley (из "Вина из одуванчиков"), ?
The Trunk Lady, 1944
The Twilight Greens, 2009
Tyrannosaurus Rex, 1962
He opened a door on darkness. A voice cried, "Shut it!" It was like a blow in the face. He jumped through. The door banged. He cursed himself quietly. The voice, with dreadful patience, intoned, "Jesus. You Terwilliger?"
"Yes," said Terwilliger. A faint ghost of screen haunt-ed the dark theatre wall to his right. To his left, a cigarette wove fiery arcs in the air as someone's lips talked swiftly around it.
"You're five minutes late!"
Don't make it sound like five years, thought Terwilliger. "Shove your film in the projection room door. Let's move."