Short Stories!

[Nossa]

Hey everyone...
I was wondering if any of you have any recommendations for good short stories?
I have my short story course this year...and I wanna read more stories in order to improve my skills in reading and analysis and all...
I'd be thankful if any of you suggested some for me..
Doesn't have to be written by english or american authors...or to be originally in english...
Any writer is okay, and translated books are good too..since i'm having an international short stories course..
Thanks ALOT in advance:D

[Mark F.]

The Snows of Kilimanjaro by Hemingway
Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness by Bukowski
Nine Stories by J. D. Salinger

[Nossa]

Thanks alot..
Lets just hope I find them in the libirary here..
Thanks again..

[Bita]

Try Anton Chekhov or Henry James.

I also found this:
http://shortstory.byethost6.com/


And good luck with it ;)

[subterranean]

Hello, Nosa!

Maupassant's works should be in your list too :)

And you can check out this thread too: http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=1025
There are many titles of short stories there recommended by other members.

Welcome!

[Virgil]

We have a thread on this already. Perhaps Logos can find it and merge it with this.

[Nossa]

Yeah..I just fingured out we have one...
I'm sorry for making a new thread...I just didn't pay attention that there was another one.
But thank you all for being so helpful :D

[Nightwalk]

Hello Nossa, here are the ones that have left the deepest effect in me.

Edgar Allan Poe - "The Black Cat" and "The Tell-Tale Heart"

Arthur Conan Doyle - "A Scandal in Bohemia"

J.D. Salinger - "For Esme - With Love and Squalor"

Robert Coover - "The Square-Shooter and the Saint"

Jack Kerouac - "The Good Blonde"

Willa Cather - "Coming, Aphrodite!"

[Guzmán]

Here are some that I enjoy:
"The fall of the house of Usher" Poe
"The last question" Asimov
"The Visitor" Dylan Thomas
any by Fredric Brown

[Pendragon]

One's that are generally overlooked but are still excellent are those by Algernon Blackwood, Ambrose Bierce, H.P. Lovecraft and Hugh B. Cave. Or for that matter, Robert E. Howard. ;)

[Schokokeks]

Some of my favourites are Hearts and Hands by O' Henry and Dr. Heidegger's Experiment by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Also, East, West by Salman Rushdie, if you're into something modern. I remember having enjoyed several short stories by Ernest Hemingway, but I don't remember their titles...
If it's an international course, you might want to have a look at Kafka's short stories, too :nod:

Hope you'll enjoy your course :)

[Nossa]

Oh...thank you SOOOOOOOO much guys..
Really appreciate it..
You've been great help :D

[Kurtz]

"The Willows" by Algernon Blackwood. This is a great short story. H.P. Lovecraft considered it the finest supernatural tale in English literature.

[Nossa]

Thankies :D

[superunknown]

"The Continuity of Parks" by Julio Cortázar. Only about two pages long. In fact, I can post it right here:

He had begun to read the novel a few days before. He had put it aside because of some urgent business conferences, opened it again on his way back to the estate by train; he permitted himself a slowly growing interest in the plot, in the characterizations. That afternoon, after writing a letter giving his power of attorney and discussing a matter of joint ownership with the manager of his estate, he returned to the book in the tranquility of his study which looked out upon the park with its oaks. Sprawled in his favorite armchair, its back toward the door--even the possibility of an intrusion would have irritated him, had he thought of it--he let his left hand caress repeatedly the green velvet upholstery and set to reading the final chapters. He remembered effortlessly the names and his mental image of the characters; the novel spread its glamour over him almost at once. He tasted the almost perverse pleasure of disengaging himself line by line from the things around him, and at the same time feeling his head rest comfortably on the green velvet of the chair with its high back, sensing that the cigarettes rested within reach of his hand, that beyond the great windows the air of afternoon danced under the oak trees in the park. Word by word, licked up the sordid dilemma of the hero and heroine, letting himself be absorbed to the point where the images settled down and took on color and movement, he was witness to the final encounter in the mountain cabin. The woman arrived first, apprehensive; now the lover came in, his face cut by the backlash of a branch. Admirably, she stanched the blood with her kisses, but he rebuffed her caresses, he had not come to perform again the ceremonies of a secret passion, protected by a world of dry leaves and furtive paths through the forest. The dagger warmed itself against his chest, and underneath liberty pounded, hidden close. A lustful, panting dialogue raced down the pages like a rivulet of snakes, and one felt it had all been decided from eternity. Even to those caresses which writhed about the lover's body, as though wishing to keep him there, to dissuade him from it; they sketched abominably the fame of that other body it was necessary to destroy. Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, unforeseen hazards, possible mistakes. From this hour on, each instant had its use minutely assigned. The cold-blooded, twice-gone-over reexamination of the details was barely broken off so that a hand could caress a cheek. It was beginning to get dark.

Not looking at each other now, rigidly fixed upon the task which awaited them, they separated at the cabin door. She was to follow the trail that led north. On the path leading in the opposite direction, he turned for a moment to watch her running, her hair loosened and flying. He ran in turn, crouching among the trees and hedges until, in the yellowish fog of dusk, he could distinguish the avenue of trees which led up to the house. The dogs were not supposed to bark, and they did not bark. The estate manager would not be there at this hour, and he was not there. He went up the three porch steps and entered. The woman's words reached him over a thudding of blood in his ears: first a blue chamber, then a hall, then a carpeted stairway. At the top, two doors. Noone in the first room, noone in the second. The door of the salon, and then, the knife in his hand, the light from the great windows, the high back of an armchair covered in green velvet, the head of the man in the chair reading a novel.