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General Washington's Negro Body-Servant. (A Biographical Sketch) Mark Twain

The stirring part of this celebrated colored man's life properly began with his death -- that is to say, the notable features of his biography began with the first time he died. He had been little heard of up to that time, but since then we have never ceased to hear of him; we have never ceased to hear of him at stated, unfailing intervals. His was a most remarkable career, and I have thought that its history would make a valuable addition to our biographical literature. Therefore, I have carefully collated…

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A Drama of Our Time. Fernando Sorrentino

It happened when youth and optimism were my boon companions.     The breezes of spring came wafting down Matienzo street in Las Cañitas around 11:00 o'clock on a Thursday, the only day of the week that my teaching schedule left me free. I taught Language and Literature in more than one high school, I was twenty-seven and full of enthusiasm for books and imagination.

The Open Window. Saki

"My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel," said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; "in the meantime you must try and put up with me."     Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.

Squirrel. Iain Grant

1 It was when Squirrel Nutkin appeared at the October Board meeting that Mr Ramsay began to acquire his reputation for eccentricity. And that's putting it mildly. A mild mannered man like him, too. Never said a word, usually. Kept his contributions to meetings to shaking his head in disapproval. Let everybody walk all over him. Especially Mr Giles.

A Wicked Woman. Jack London

It was because she had broken with Billy that Loretta had come visiting to Santa Clara. Billy could not understand. His sister had reported that he had walked the floor and cried all night. Loretta had not slept all night either, while she had wept most of the night. Daisy knew this, because it was in her arms that the weeping had been done. And Daisy's husband, Captain Kitt, knew, too. The tears of Loretta, and the comforting by Daisy, had lost him some sleep.

The Green Wagon. Norm Scanlon

Joey Mason lived in a small farming community at the end of a long, stony drive. The house backed onto an abandoned cemetery that saw its last burial at the turn of the century. In it, one could find scores of different gravestones. Some stones were whole, while others were broken down, decayed remains of past distinction-remnants of fieldstone, granite, and marble all on display from a long and forgotten past. This sacred resting place laying in disregard was Joey Mason's playground.

The Idea. Ronita Sinha

Sitting on the plane to Chicago, Mila wondered when exactly the idea had taken hold of her. Did the idea have an infancy or a childhood, or did it ground itself in the soil of her imagination like a full-grown poison tree? What Mila did know was when the idea finally hit it grew within seconds, its roots clawing their way into the depths of Mila's mind, drawing on her thoughts and the very marrow of her dreams. The branches grew robust with leaves that rustled in the wind of every breath that Mila took.