I went through a couple of short stories (that I just couldn’t finish: this one and this one). This is a short story by Mark Twain called A Fine Old Man. This is a strange short story and I went to find out more about it but I didn’t find anything. I would love to hear what you think of this short story, and what it might mean in the comment section down below. Continue reading
I picked the author and Mike picked out of a list of stories I had of his, which was “The Beggar,” By Guy De Maupassant. I read it aloud to Mike, and I was disappointed in the story. Mike thought it to be predictable. I’m posting it because it is late, and it IS a short story and it counts for the night. Continue reading
It has been a couple of days since I’ve posted anything. My neck pain has caused me some migraines, which made it too much to sit at the computer and type. Today, I read
A great oak would never bow him for no wind, and a Reed which was at his foot bowed himself as much as the wind would. And the Oak said to him: “Why dost thou not abide still as I do?” And the Reed answered: “I have not the might which thou hast.” And the Tree said to the Reed proudly: “Then have I more strength than thou.” And anon after came a great wind which threw down to the ground the said great Tree and the Reed abode in his own being. For the proud shall be always humbled, and the meek and humble shall be enhanced, for the root of all virtue is obedience and humility.
Ray Bradbury’s short story, “The One Who Waits.”
I live in a well. I live like smoke in the well. Like vapor in a stone throat. I don’t move. I don’t do anything but wait. Overhead I see the cold stars of night and morning, and I see the sun. And sometimes I sing old songs of this world when it was young. How can I tell you what I am when I don’t know? I cannot. I am simply waiting. I am mist and moonlight and memory. I am sad and I am old. Sometimes I fall like rain into the well. Spider webs are startled into forming where my rain falls fast, on the water surface. I wait in cool silence and there will be a day when I no longer wait.
I found a website that provided a story a day, and today’s story was Desiree’s Baby by Kate Chopin.
I read “Shooting an Elephant” by George Orwell in my freshmen year of high school. We had to read three stories, poems or essays from the same author we chose to read, and then we had to write an essay comparing the three stories. I picked George Orwell, because Continue reading