An Alpine Divorce

  by Robert Barr In some natures there are no half-tones; nothing but raw primary colours. John Bodman was a man who was always at one extreme or the other. This probably would have mattered little had he not married a wife whose nature was an exact duplicate of his own. Doubtless there exists in…

A Dynamite Explosion

No one can tell, when two people walk closely together, what unconscious communication one mind may have with another.
Robert Barr


The artist must possess the courageous soul that dares and defies.
Kate Chopin

The Last Sixty Minutes

A clock is a little machine that shuts us out from the wonder of time.
Susan Glaspell

The Lumber Room

The young have aspirations that never come to pass, the old have reminiscences of what never
H.H. Munro (SAKI)

The Cactus

The most notable thing about Time is that it is so purely relative. A large amount of reminiscence is, by common consent, conceded to the drowning man; and it is not past belief that one may review an entire courtship while removing one’s gloves.

The Hanging Stranger

On his own writing, Dick commented, “In my writing I even question the universe; I wonder out loud if it is real, and I wonder out loud if all of us are real.”

A Dead Woman’s Secret

The woman had died without pain, in silence, as a woman whose life would have been blameless…

The Aged Mother, by Matsuo Basho

  Long, long ago there lived at the foot of the mountain a poor farmer and his aged, widowed mother. They owned a bit of land which supplied them with food, and they were humble, peaceful, and happy. Shining was governed by a despotic leader who though a warrior, had a great and cowardly shrinking…

What You Want

  By O. Henry Night had fallen on that great and beautiful city known as Bagdad-on-the-Subway. And with the night came the enchanted glamour that belongs not to Arabia alone. In different masquerade the streets, bazaars and walled houses of the occidental city of romance were filled with the same kind of folk that so…

The power of a finger

  The Finger By Feng Meng-lung A poor man found himself on his way to an old friend. This had a supernatural power that allowed him to perform miracles. As the poor man were always complainig about the difficulties of his life, his friend touched a brick that immediately became gold. He offered it to…

About Love

Anton Chekhov,
one of the parents of the short story.

The Selfish Giant

By Oscar Wilde Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant’s garden. It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into…

How the Widow Won the Deacon

By William James Lampton Of course the Widow Stimson never tried to win Deacon Hawkins, nor any other man, for that matter. A widow doesn’t have to try to win a man; she wins without trying. Still, the Widow Stimson sometimes wondered why the deacon was so blind as not to see how her fine…

After Twenty Years

By O. Henry The policeman on the beat moved up the avenue impressively. The impressiveness was habitual and not for show, for spectators were few. The time was barely 10 o’clock at night, but chilly gusts of wind with a taste of rain in them had well nigh depeopled the streets. Trying doors as he…

The Model Millionaire

A note of admiration Unless one is wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow. Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the unemployed.

The story of an hour

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.

A Dead Woman’s Secret

by  Guy de Maupassant The woman had died without pain, quietly, as a woman should whose life had been blameless. Now she was resting in her bed, lying on her back, her eyes closed, her features calm, her long white hair carefully arranged as though she had done it up ten minutes before dying.

Desde el olvido, por Irene Matarredona

Text in Spanish Los recuerdos de aquella anciana mujer poco a poco se iban desvaneciendo. Recordaba ya muy vagamente que fue madre una vez; que dos preciosos querubines fueron la luz de su existencia. Que por ellos y para ellos, sus días siempre grises, los imaginaba de un color azul intenso. También olvidó a aquel…