All stories are short amid the vast, reachless, spumy extents of time and space. Even the great bulking ones, such as Sherba Xenoren’s ten million-word novel, The Glass Continent, is as but a millisecond tone burst to a deaf dog. But some are really short. Barely there at all. Almost of no significance whatsoever. These we call ‘short stories’.
In the republic of letters a work’s being good, or, in a way, even more disappointingly, ‘very good’, is no compelling recommendation. These dozen short stories that I have, through careful deliberation, chosen to engage your interest, are probably even better than that.

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