What would you like to read?Search books, authors, genres, shelves, users...
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What would you like to read?Search books, authors, genres, shelves, users...
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18 books
Robert Franklin Young (June 8, 1915 – June 22, 1986) was an American science fiction writer born in Silver Creek, New York. Except for the three and a half years he served in the Pacific Theatre during World War II, he spent most of his life in New York State. He owned a property on Lake Erie. He remained little-known by the public, in the United States as well as abroad. His career spanned more than thirty years, and he wrote fiction until he died. Only near the end of his life did the science fiction community learn he had been a janitor in the Buffalo public school system. His production started in 1953 in Startling Stories, then Playboy, The Saturday Evening Post and Collier's. It mainly consisted of a long list of short stories with a poetic and romantic style which led to his work being compared to Ray Bradbury and Theodore Sturgeon. A good deal of these stories have been published in France by Galaxie, Fiction and the science fiction anthologies in the Livre de Poche. In Italy most of his short stories were published at Urania.
That afternoon she was wearing a yellow dress the same shade as her hair, and again his throat tightened when he saw her, and again he could not speak. But when the first moment passed and words came, it was all right, and their thoughts flowed together like two effervescent brooks and coursed gaily through the arroyo of the afternoon. This time when they parted, it was she who asked, "Will you be here tomorrow?"—though only because she stole the question from his lips—and the words sang in his ears all the way back through the woods to the cabin and lulled him to sleep after an evening spent with his pipe on the porch.
That afternoon she was wearing a yellow dress the same shade as her hair, and again his throat tightened when he saw her, and again he could not speak. But when the first moment passed and words came, it was all right, and their thoughts flowed together like two effervescent brooks and coursed gaily through the arroyo of the afternoon. This time when they parted, it was she who asked, "Will you be here tomorrow?"—though only because she stole the question from his lips—and the words sang in his ears all the way back through the woods to the cabin and lulled him to sleep after an evening spent with his pipe on the porch.
