Short Stories

[Van Gogh]

The newlywed spider nervously walked back to the honeymoon web. Last night was fun, but this morning he noticed the red dot on her abdomen. That afternoon, he said nothing while they drank medfly cocktails. She put an arm around him. "You're awful quiet. What's eating you?" The last thing he saw was flashing mandibles.

[Van Gogh]

She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live.I drove immediately to this beach,when I felt all alone.She was building a sand castle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea. “Hello,” she said. I nodded.I was not really in the mood to talk with a small child. ”What are you doing?” I asked.“I’m building,” she said.“I see that .What is it?” I asked. “Oh,I don’t know.I just like the feel of the sand.” A sandpiper glided by.
“That’s a joy,” the child said happily. “It’s what?” “It’s a joy.My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy.” The bird flew away. “Goodbye, joy,” I said to myself.I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.

“What’s your name?” She asked suddenly. “Ruth,” I answered. “I’m Ruth Peterson.” “Mine’s Windy.And I’m six.Come again,Mrs. P,” she said. “We’ll have another happy day.”

Days and weeks passed by.“I need a sandpiper,” I said to myself one morning. putting on my coat,I went to the beach.It shocked me when she appeared.

“Where do you live?” I asked. “There.” She pointed towards some summer cottages. We talked for a long time. “It was a happy day” Windy said.I smiled at her kindly and agreed.

Three weeks later, I was on my beach. I saw Windy again. “I’d like to be alone” I shouted angrilly.She seemed pale and out of breath. “Why?” she asked.

“Because my mother died!” “Oh,” she said quietly, “so this is a bad day.” “Yes, and yesterday and the day before that and-oh,go away!” “Did it hurt?”-“When she died?” “Of course it did!” I shouted and left there.

A month after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn’t there.I felt guilty and ashamed.I went to the cottage and knocked at the door.A young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Ruth Peterson.I missed your little girl today.” “Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in.Wendy talked of you so much.” “Where is she?” I said impatiently. “Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson.She had leukemia.Maybe she didn’t tell you.” My breath caught.I found a chair and sat down.

“She loved this beach so much;so when she asked to come,we couldn’t say no.She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days.but the last few weeks she became weaker and weaker.She left something for you.”

She gave me an envelope with Mrs.P printed in childish letters.Inside the envelope was a drawing in bright colors – a yellow beach, a blue sea, a brown bird.There was a sentence under the picture:

A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy

Tears came out of my eyes.I took Wendy’s mother in my arms.The precious little picture still hangs in my study. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color of sand who taught me the gift of love!!!

[shoeib]

i just can thank you but wish you put some short stories in a file for download
you now becuse of our slow dialup connection we can not read your stories online
so put some links for downloading short stories or put your stories on a pdf file and upload it and put its link for downloading anybody
thank you

hi
the solution of your problem is easier than what you think
just clicking on the save botton and give a direction to save it in one of your hard drives !
it doesn't need to make a whole pack for download but it can be done for enhancing the performance of the topic

[Mitamo]

A small truth Story
*
Once upon a time ...

There was a rich King who had 4 wives.*



*

He loved the 4th wife the most and adorned her with
rich robes and
treated
her to the finest of delicacies. He gave her nothing
but the best. *


*
He also loved the 3rd wife very much and was always
showing her off to
neighboring kingdoms. However, he feared that one day
she would leave
him
for another. *

*

He also loved his 2nd wife. She was his confidante and
was always kind,
considerate and patient with him. Whenever the King
faced a problem, he
could confide in her to help him get through the
difficult times.



The King's 1st wife was a very loyal partner and had
made great
contributions in maintaining his wealth and kingdom.
However, he did
not
love the first wife and although she loved him deeply,
he hardly took
notice
of her. *

*

One day, the King fell ill and he knew his time was
short. *

*

He thought of his luxurious life and pondered, "I now
have 4 wives with
me,
but when I die, I'll be all alone.

Thus, he asked the 4th wife, "I have loved you the
most, endowed you
with
the finest clothing and showered great care over you.
Now that I'm
dying,
will you follow me and keep me company?"



"No way!" replied the 4th wife and she walked away
without another
word. *

*

Her answer cut like a sharp knife right into his heart.
*

*

The sad King then asked the 3rd wife, "I have loved
you all my life.
Now
that I'm dying, will you follow me and keep me
company?"



"No!" replied the 3rd wife. "Life is too good!
When you die, I'm going to remarry!" *

*

His heart sank and turned cold.*

*

He then asked the 2nd wife, "I have always turned to
you for help and
you've
always been there for me. When I die, will you follow
me? And keep me
company?" *

*

"I'm sorry, I can't help you out this time!" replied
the 2nd wife. "At
the
very most, I can only send you to your grave." *

*

Her answer came like a bolt of thunder and the King
was devastated. *

*

Then a voice called out:* *

"I'll leave with you and follow you no matter where
you go." The King
looked
up and there was his first wife. She was so skinny,
she suffered from
malnutrition. **

Greatly grieved, the King said, "I should have taken
much better care
of you
when I had the chance!" *



In Truth, we all have 4 wives in our lives ... *

Our 4th wife is our body. No matter how much time and
effort we lavish
in
making it look good, it'll leave us when we die. *

*

Our 3rd wife is our possessions, status and wealth.
When we die, it will all go to others.*

*

Our 2nd wife is our* *friends. No matter how much they
have been there
for
us, the furthest they can stay by us is up to the
grave.* *

And our 1st wife is our Parents *,

*

Often neglected in pursuit of wealth, power and
pleasures of the ego.*
***However,
our Parents are* *the only thing that will follow us
and guide*
*wherever we
go.*

*

So Love them at our best*..... *They need and Love you
most!!!* *
You* *are* *their greatest gift *
*

Let them* *Smile and cherish...*

[r_azary]

The House of 1000 Mirrors

Our life is actually a reflection of our thoughts and actions.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Long ago in a small, far away village, there was place known as the House of 1000 Mirrors.



A small, happy little dog learned of this place and decided to visit. When he arrived, he bounced happily up the stairs to the doorway of the house.



He looked through the doorway with his ears lifted high and his tail wagging as fast as it could.



To his great surprise, he found himself staring at 1000 other happy little dogs with their tails wagging just as fast as his.



He smiled a great smile, and was answered with 1000 great smiles just as warm and friendly.



As he left the House, he thought to himself, "This is a wonderful place. I will come back and visit it often."



In this same village, another little dog, who was not quite as happy as the first one, decided to visit the house.



He slowly climbed the stairs and hung his head low as he looked into the door. When he saw the 1000 unfriendly looking dogs staring back at him, he growled at them and was horrified to see 1000 little dogs growling back at him.



As he left, he thought to himself, "That is a horrible place, and I will never go back there again."



ALL THE FACES IN THE WORLD ARE MIRRORS.



JUST OBSERVE WHAT KIND OF REFLECTIONS DO YOU SEE IN THE FACES OF THE PEOPLE YOU MEET?

[r_azary]

Bad Luck, Good Luck, Who knows?
by: Jean Jacques Rousseau
A farmer had a horse but one day, the horse ran away and so the farmer
and
his son had to plow their fields themselves. Their neighbors said, "Oh,
what
bad luck that your horse ran away!" But the farmer replied, "Bad luck,
good
luck, who knows?"
The next week, the horse returned to the farm, bringing a herd of wild
horses with him. "What wonderful luck!" cried the neighbors, but the
farmer
responded, "Good luck, bad luck, who knows?"
Then, the farmer's son was thrown as he tried to ride one of the wild
horses, and he broke his leg. "Ah, such bad luck," sympathized the
neighbors. Once again, the farmer responded, "Bad luck, good luck, who
knows?"
A short time later, the ruler of the country recruited all young men to
join
his army for battle. The son, with his broken leg, was left at home.
"What
good luck that your son was not forced into battle!" celebrated the
neighbors. And the farmer remarked, "Good luck, bad luck, who knows?"
"Observe! Do not judge, and you will never be mistaken."

[r_azary]

[LEFT]A RESUMED IDENTITY

by Ambrose Bierce


1: The Review as a Form of Welcome

ONE summer night a man stood on a low hill overlooking a wide expanse of forest and field.
By the full moon hanging low in the west he knew what he might not have known otherwise: that it was near the hour of dawn.
A light mist lay along the earth, partly veiling the lower features of the landscape, but above it the taller trees showed in well- defined masses against a clear sky.
Two or three farmhouses were visible through the haze, but in none of them, naturally, was a light.
Nowhere, in- deed, was any sign or suggestion of life except the barking
of a distant dog, which, repeated with mechanical iteration, served
rather to accentuate than dispel the loneliness of the scene.
The man looked curiously about him on all sides, as one who among
familiar surroundings is unable to determine his exact place and part in
the scheme of things. It is so, perhaps, that we shall act when, risen
from the dead, we await the call to judgment.
A hundred yards away was a straight road, show- ing white in the
moonlight. Endeavouring to orient himself, as a surveyor or navigator
might say, the man moved his eyes slowly along its visible length and at
a distance of a quarter-mile to the south of his station saw, dim and
grey in the haze, a group of horsemen riding to the north. Behind them
were men afoot, marching in column, with dimly gleaming rifles aslant
above their shoulders. They moved slowly and in silence. Another group
of horsemen, another regiment of infantry, another and another --all in
unceasing motion toward the man's point of view, past it, and beyond. A
battery of artillery followed, the cannoneers riding with folded arms on
limber and caisson. And still the interminable procession came out of
the obscurity to south and passed into the obscurity to north, with
never a sound of voice, nor hoof, nor wheel.
The man could not rightly understand: he thought himself deaf; said
so, and heard his own voice, al- though it had an unfamiliar quality
that almost alarmed him; it disappointed his ear's expectancy in the
matter of timbre and resonance. But he was not deaf, and that for the
moment sufficed.
Then he remembered that there are natural phe- nomena to which some
one has given the name 'acoustic shadows.' If you stand in an acoustic
shadow there is one direction from which you will hear nothing. At the
battle of Gaines's Mill, one of the fiercest conflicts of the Civil War,
with a hundred guns in play, spectators a mile and a half away on the
opposite side of the Chickahominy Valley heard nothing of what they
clearly saw. The bombardment of Port Royal, heard and felt at St.
Augustine, a hundred and fifty miles to the south, was inaudible two
miles to the north in a still atmosphere. A few days before the
surrender at Ap- pomattox a thunderous engagement between the commands
of Sheridan and Pickett was unknown to the latter commander, a mile in
the rear of his own line.
These instances were not known to the man of whom we write, but less
striking ones of the same character had not escaped his observation. He
was profoundly disquieted, but for another reason than the uncanny
silence of that moonlight march.
'Good Lord! ' he said to himself--and again it was as if another had
spoken his thought--'if those people are what I take them to be we have
lost the battle and they are moving on Nashville!'
Then came a thought of self--an apprehension --a strong sense of
personal peril, such as in an- other we call fear. He stepped quickly
into the shadow of a tree. And still the silent battalions moved slowly
forward in the haze.
The chill of a sudden breeze upon the back of his neck drew his
attention to the quarter whence it came, and turning to the east he saw
a faint grey light along the horizon--the first sign of return- ing day.
This increased his apprehension.
'I must get away from here,' he thought, 'or I shall be discovered
and taken.'
He moved out of the shadow, walking rapidly toward the greying east.
From the safer seclusion of a clump of cedars he looked back. The entire
column had passed out of sight: the straight white road lay bare and
desolate in the moonlight!
Puzzled before, he was now inexpressibly astonished. So swift a
passing of so slow an army!--he could not comprehend it. Minute after
minute passed unnoted; he had lost his sense of time. He sought with a
terrible earnestness a solution of the mystery, but sought in vain. When
at last he roused himself from his abstraction the sun's rim was visi-
ble above the hills, but in the new conditions he found no other light
than that of day; his understanding was involved as darkly in doubt as
before.
On every side lay cultivated fields showing no sign of war and war's
ravages. From the chimneys of the farmhouses thin ascensions of blue
smoke signalled preparations for a day's peaceful toil. Having stilled
its immemorial allocution to the moon, the watch-dog was assisting a
negro who, prefixing a team of mules to the plough, was flatting and
sharping contentedly at his task. The hero of this tale stared
stupidly at the pastoral picture as if he had never seen such a thing in
all his life; then he put his hand to his head, passed it through his
hair and, withdrawing it, attentively considered the palm--a singular
thing to do. Apparently reassured by the act, he walked confidently
toward the road.

[r_azary]

2: When You have Lost Your Life Consult a Physician
Dr. Stilling Malson, of Murfreesboro, having visited a patient six
or seven miles away, on the Nash- ville road, had remained with him all
night. At daybreak he set out for home on horseback, as was the custom
of doctors of the time and region. He had passed into the neighbourhood
of Stone's River battlefield when a man approached him from the road-
side and saluted in the military fashion, with a movement of the right
hand to the hat-brim. But the hat was not a military hat, the man was
not in uniform and had not a martial bearing. The doctor nodded
civilly, half thinking that the stranger's uncommon greeting was
perhaps in deference to the historic surroundings. As the stranger
evidently desired speech with him he courteously reined in his horse
and waited.
'Sir,' said the stranger, 'although a civilian, you are perhaps an
enemy.'
'I am a physician,' was the non-committal reply.
'Thank you,' said the other. 'I am a lieutenant, of the staff of
General Hazen.' He paused a moment and looked sharply at the person whom
he was addressing, then added, 'Of the Federal army.' The physician
merely nodded.
'Kindly tell me,' continued the other, 'what has happened here.
Where are the armies? Which has won the battle?'
The physician regarded his questioner curiously with half-shut eyes.
After a professional scrutiny, prolonged to the limit of politeness,
'Pardon me,' he said; 'one asking information should be willing to
impart it. Are you wounded?' he added, smiling.
'Not seriously--it seems.'
The man removed the unmilitary hat, put his hand to his head, passed
it through his hair and, withdrawing it, attentively considered the
palm.
'I was struck by a bullet and have been unconscious. It must have
been a light, glancing blow: I find no blood and feel no pain. I will
not trouble you for treatment, but will you kindly direct me to my
command--to any part of the Federal army--if you know?'
Again the doctor did not immediately reply: he was recalling much
that is recorded in the books of his profession--something about lost
identity and the effect of familiar scenes in restoring it. At length he
looked the man in the face, smiled, and said:
'Lieutenant, you are not wearing the uniform of your rank and
service.'
At this the man glanced down at his civilian attire, lifted his
eyes, and said with hesitation:
'That is true. I--I don't quite understand.'
Still regarding him sharply but not unsympathetically, the man of
science bluntly inquired:
'How old are you?'
'Twenty-three--if that has anything to do with it.'
'You don't look it; I should hardly have guessed you to be just
that.'
The man was growing impatient. 'We need not discuss that,' he said:
'I want to know about the army. Not two hours ago I saw a column of
troops moving northward on this road. You must have met them. Be good
enough to tell me the colour of their clothing, which I was unable to
make out, and I'll trouble you no more.'
'You are quite sure that you saw them?'
'Sure? My God, sir, I could have counted them!'
'Why, really,' said the physician, with an amusing consciousness of
his own resemblance to the loquacious barber of the Arabian Nights,
'this is very in- teresting. I met no troops.'
The man looked at him coldly, as if he had himself observed the
likeness to the barber. 'It is plain,' he said, 'that you do not care to
assist me. Sir, you may go to the devil!'
He turned and strode away, very much at random, across the dewy
fields, his half-penitent tormentor quietly watching him from his
point of vantage in the saddle till he disappeared beyond an array of
trees.

.

[r_azary]

3: The Danger of Looking into a Pool of Water
After leaving the road the man slackened his pace, and now went
forward, rather deviously, with a distinct feeling of fatigue. He
could not account for this, though truly the interminable loquacity of
that country doctor offered itself in explanation. Seating himself upon
a rock, he laid one hand upon his knee, back upward, and casually looked
at it. It was lean and withered. He lifted both hands to his face. It
was seamed and furrowed; he could trace the lines with the tips of his
fingers. How strange!--a mere bullet-stroke and a brief unconsciousness
should not make one a physical wreck.
'I must have been a long time in hospital,' he said aloud. 'Why,
what a fool I am! The battle was in December, and it is now summer!' He
laughed. 'No wonder that fellow thought me an escaped luna- tic. He was
wrong: I am only an escaped patient.'
At a little distance a small plot of ground enclosed by a stone wall
caught his attention. With no very definite intent he rose and went to
it. In the centre was a square, solid monument of hewn stone. It was
brown with age, weather-worn at the angles, spotted with moss and
lichen. Between the massive blocks were strips of grass the leverage of
whose roots had pushed them apart. In answer to the challenge of this
ambitious structure Time had laid his destroying hand upon it, and it
would soon be 'one with Nineveh and Tyre.' In an inscription on one side
his eye caught a familiar name. Shaking with excitement, he craned his
body across the wall and read:
HAZEN'S BRIGADE
to
The Memory of Its Soldiers
who fell at Stone River, Dec. 31, 1862.
The man fell back from the wall, faint and sick. Almost within an
arm's length was a little depression in the earth; it had been filled by
a recent rain--a pool of clear water. He crept to it to revive himself,
lifted the upper part of his body on his trembling arms, thrust forward
his head and saw the reflection of his face, as in a mirror. He uttered
a terrible cry. His arms gave way; he fell, face downward, into the pool
and yielded up the life that had spanned another life

[r_azary]

A Haunted House by Virginia Woolf
Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple.

"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."

But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps its upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?

A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. 'The Treasure yours."

The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.

"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning--" "Silver between the trees--" "Upstairs--" 'In the garden--" "When summer came--" 'In winter snowtime--" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."

Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.

"Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years--" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure--" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart."