Story. Страница 11

The Fulness Of Life. Edith Wharton

I For hours she had lain in a kind of gentle torpor, not unlike that sweet lassitude which masters one in the hush of a midsummer noon, when the heat seems to have silenced the very birds and insects, and, lying sunk in the tasselled meadow-grasses, one looks up through a level roofing of maple-leaves at the vast shadowless, and unsuggestive blue. Now and then, at ever-lengthening intervals, a flash of pain darted through her, like the ripple of sheet-lightning across such a midsummer sky; but it was too transitory…

My Friend Luke. Fernando Sorrentino

I have a friend who must be the sweetest, shyest person in the world. His name is brittle and ancient (Luke), his age modestly intermediate (forty). He is rather short and skinny, has a thin moustache and even thinner hair on his head. Since his vision is not perfect, he wears glasses: they are small, round and frame-less.

The Girl And The Graft. O. Henry

The other day I ran across my old friend Ferguson Pogue. Pogue is a conscientious grafter of the highest type. His headquarters is the Western Hemisphere, and his line of business is anything from speculating in town lots on the Great Staked Plains to selling wooden toys in Connecticut, made by hydraulic pressure from nutmegs ground to a pulp.

Invisible. Steve White

The lorry's cab eased over the speed bump giving its occupants a gentle bounce. Mick glanced across to his side mirror, checking the trailer followed safely, and saw the security gate come down as he cleared the yard.     "This is it," he said. "This is the big one. After years of carrying crap, we've finally got us a job that's going to change our bank accounts and bloat our pensions. We've got to be careful, though. We've got to treat the load as if we're carrying fresh eggs, with the value of the crown jewels."

two words a day

здесь тебя научат английскому только полезное и интересное, ничего лишнего

Mrs. Manstey's View. Edith Wharton

The view from Mrs. Manstey's window was not a striking one, but to her at least it was full of interest and beauty. Mrs. Manstey occupied the back room on the third floor of a New York boardinghouse, in a street where the ash-barrels lingered late on the sidewalk and the gaps in the pavement would have staggered a Quintus Curtius. She was the widow of a clerk in a large wholesale house, and his death had left her alone, for her only daughter had married in California, and could not afford the long journey to…

Responsibility and Corruption on Elm Avenue. Corbitt Nesta

Maybelle said she wouldn't be coming with me to the library. I asked why, and she said she could get all the short stories she wanted off the Internet. Saved walking all the way to the library, and putting up with my chatter on the way there, and on the way back. Maybelle is very direct like that, always has been.     "But, Maybelle, we've been walking to the library every Monday for the last fifty years!"     She said, "Why don't you get Internet? We can send each other emails."

Strangers. E.B. Axelrod

Ted and Martha were late. Having lingered over French-press coffee and a true English Trifle at the nearby brasserie, they now had little chance of getting prime seats for the cabaret performance at Club Zee. Martha raced across Leicester Square, several paces ahead of Ted who seemed to be unaware of the need to hurry. She had purchased the tickets well in advance of their departure from Chicago, but that wouldn't matter if they ended up stuck behind a pillar.

Molly's Bath. Doug Simms

Braving traffic on the highway after a long, dry day at work left Molly feeling drained and dehydrated. She leaned on the horn and shouted, "Move your fat behind, you darn fool!" Spoiled rich people with their perfect lives and their pretty cars. Her own car was ten years old and dented all over. They should make way for her because they all had more to lose than she did. She punched at the horn, producing a series of short, staccato beeps. She felt dry as a bone.