Louise Guy: 16 books

New Year's Eve is a collection of short stories produced by an online workshopping group formed by the Australian Writer’s Centre. The stories are based around the theme of New Year's Eve and span different genres; some embracing celebration, others following a darker journey into the New Year. The...

Hidden Depths is a collection of short stories produced by an online workshopping group formed by the Australian Writer's Centre. The stories span different genres; from domestic noir to eco-fiction, YA sweet romance, dark fantasy and more. Some provide light entertainment, others follow a darker...

Fifteen-year-old Jason’s New Year’s Eve plans are a source for family heartbreak, not celebration. As the final hours of the year countdown, reflections and remembrance bring no comfort, instead place Jason on a path capable of destroying his already grieving family.

The "Vampire Tales" is the biggest, hungriest, undeadliest collection of vampire stories ever assembled. Dark, stormy, and delicious, once it sinks its teeth into you there's no escape. Vampires! Whether imagined by Bram Stoker or Anne Rice, they are part of the human lexicon and as old...

Lemonnier had remained a widower with one child. He had loved his wife devotedly, with a tender and exalted love, without a slip, during their entire married life. He was a good, honest man, perfectly simple, sincere, without suspicion or malice.

The household lived frugally on the meager income derived from the husband's insignificant appointments. Two children had been born of the marriage, and the earlier condition of the strictest economy had become one of quiet, concealed, shamefaced misery, the poverty of a noble family— which in spite of misfortune never forgets its rank.

“I entered literary life as a meteor, and I shall leave it like a thunderbolt. ” These words of Maupassant to Jose Maria de Heredia on the occasion of a memorable meeting are, in spite of their morbid solemnity, not an inexact summing up of the brief career during which, for ten years, the writer,...

There were seven of us on a drag, four women and three men; one of the latter sat on the box seat beside the coachman. We were ascending, at a snail's pace, the winding road up the steep cliff along the coast.

The warm autumn sun was beating down on the farmyard. Under the grass, which had been cropped close by the cows, the earth soaked by recent rains, was soft and sank in under the feet with a soggy noise, and the apple trees, loaded with apples, were dropping their pale green fruit in the dark green grass.

The old ship's surgeon, holding out his glass, watched it as it slowly filled with the golden liquid. Then, holding it in front of his eyes, he let the light from the lamp stream through it, smelled it, tasted a few drops and smacked his lips with relish. Then he said

How strange those old recollections are which haunt us, without our being able to get rid of them.

This entire stretch of country was amazing; it was characterized by a grandeur that was almost religious, and yet it had an air of sinister desolation.

George's father was sitting in an iron chair, watching his little son with concentrated affection and attention, as little George piled up the sand into heaps during one of their walks. He would take up the sand with both hands, make a mound of it, and put a chestnut leaf on top. His father saw no one but him in that public park full of people.

He was known for thirty miles round was father Toine— fat Toine, Toine-my-extra, Antoine Macheble, nicknamed Burnt-Brandy— the innkeeper of Tournevent.