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The Shape of Things
The Shape of Things
The Shape of Things
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The Shape of Things

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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, Peter Horn, laughed and kissed her. “Honey, you’ll be home in six hours,” he said. Famous last words...

LanguageEnglish
Release dateFeb 4, 2023
ISBN9781667681528
Author

Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury (22 August 1920 – 5 June 2012) published some 500 short stories, novels, plays and poems since his first story appeared in Weird Tales when he was twenty years old. Among his many famous works are 'Fahrenheit 451,' 'The Illustrated Man,' and 'The Martian Chronicles.'

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    The Shape of Things - Ray Bradbury

    Table of Contents

    COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

    INTRODUCTION

    THE SHAPE OF THINGS, by Ray Bradbury

    COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

    Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

    Originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, February 1948.

    Published by Wildside Press LLC.

    wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com | blackcatweekly.com

    INTRODUCTION

    I only met Ray Bradbury once, though I worked with him for years. That one meeting occurred at the World Science Fiction Convention in Atlanta, Georgia in 1986, late on a Saturday night (or more accurately early Sunday morning). I was on my way back to my room on one of the upper floors. My hotel had a huge open atrium, and I had paused to look down at the still-bustling ground floor. Dozens—perhaps hundreds—of fans were still up and about, attending room parties, gaming, attending late panels, doing the sort of things that fans do at this hour. Then the elevator doors opened and Ray Bradbury stepped out. He was dressed in his signature white suit, face a bit red, dark circles under his eyes.

    I smiled and gave him a not, then turned back to gazing down at the bottom of the atrium.

    He had looked tired. I was certain he was heading back to his room for the night, and I didn’t want to hold him up.

    He didn’t recognize me, of course. At the time, I worked for Byron Preiss Visual Publications, a book packager who did quite a few projects with Bradbury, and just a few weeks before I had sent him copies of one of his books. He had no reason to speak with me. But despite this, he joined me at the railing and also looked down at the lobby for a minute.

    Quite a convention, he said.

    I agreed. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and a few minutes later we said good-night and headed in opposite directions toward our rooms. I never introduced myself. (To be fair, neither did he.)

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