10 (More) Wonderful Short Stories to Read for Free Online. The Lit Pub • Home. Photos du journal. Mithermages series by Orson Scott Card. Danny North's family is different, and he is different from them. His cousins have long been able to create fairies, ghosts, golems, trolls, werewolves, and other such miracles, but Danny has yet to find his talent. He's beginning to think he's a drekka--a mage with no magical ability. But when Danny finally discovers his gift, it is greater than he ever imagined--but that could earn him a death sentence.
So begins this contemporary fantasy saga from Orson Scott Card, award-winning author of Ende...moreDanny North's family is different, and he is different from them. His cousins have long been able to create fairies, ghosts, golems, trolls, werewolves, and other such miracles, but Danny has yet to find his talent.
So begins this contemporary fantasy saga from Orson Scott Card, award-winning author of Ender's Game. The series is designed to be read in order (1-3), as each one is a continuation of the story. Marital Deafness 01/12/2011. Being married is a lot like being deaf. If you hear the same person talking day-after-day, you literally lose the ability to hear what that person is saying. I will give you two examples from my own life. Both are true. This one happened last week: Shelly: Do you want some carrot cake?
Me: Hurricane? In that particular case, we eventually got to the bottom of it, but only because Shelly needed an answer. Within a day of the carrot cake incident, I made an offhand comment to Shelly to the effect that she might enjoy a certain sport. Me: That's your new game, honey. Shelly: What did you call me? Me: (slower and louder) I SAID, "THAT'S YOUR NEW GAME, HONEY. " Shelly: Oh. Me: Why would I call you Jimmy Dean Shelly: Not Dean, Bean. Me: Why would I call you Jimmy Bean? Shelly: That's what I wondered too. Me: No, I said, "That's your new game, honey. " Shelly: What's my new game? Me: I forget. Recently I discovered that spouses, like computers, must be booted up before they can hear what you say.
A Reporter at Large: The Interpreter. Correction appended. One morning last July, in the rain forest of northwestern Brazil, Dan Everett, an American linguistics professor, and I stepped from the pontoon of a Cessna floatplane onto the beach bordering the Maici River, a narrow, sharply meandering tributary of the Amazon. On the bank above us were some thirty people—short, dark-skinned men, women, and children—some clutching bows and arrows, others with infants on their hips.
The people, members of a hunter-gatherer tribe called the Pirahã, responded to the sight of Everett—a solidly built man of fifty-five with a red beard and the booming voice of a former evangelical minister—with a greeting that sounded like a profusion of exotic songbirds, a melodic chattering scarcely discernible, to the uninitiated, as human speech. Unrelated to any other extant tongue, and based on just eight consonants and three vowels, Pirahã has one of the simplest sound systems known.
Everett turned to me. “O.K.,” I said.