The revenge by faustina garcia calero
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Story published by Faustina García Calero in the third issue of COLLAGE, the EOI Fuengirola magazine.
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Kingdom Come: Deliverance - Barcamp Hradec Králové 2014
V roce 2013 jsme se s Warhorse Studios vydali do temných hvozdů, abychom hledali vydavatele, ale místo toho jsme našli jenom zpustlé tvrze a pár kejklířů.
Když nám nikdo nepodal pomocnou ruku, nakonec jsme oslovili prostý lid, který nás oproti očekáváním s nadšením podpořil. Našli jsme poklad!
Aneb jak získat 1.8 milionu dolarů za hru, kterou ještě nikdo neviděl.
http://barcamphk.cz/
http://kingdomcomerpg.com/
Internal control.. control env
This contents in this document is for academic purpose and those who are practicing internal and external audits. It is open for recommendations and opinions.
Decorating cupcakes
Slide Show that illustrates the article "How to make marshmallow fondant to decorate cupcakes" in the third issue of COLLAGE, the EOI Fuengirola magazine: http://eoifuengirolarevista3.wikispaces.com
Author: Miriam Gallardo Reiné
How we cracked Kickstarter for Kingdom Come: Deliverance
Presentation for Prague Startup Centre is in Czech, but the numbers are international :-]
1 A Worn Path Eudora Welty It was December—a br
1
A Worn Path
Eudora Welty
It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Far out in the country there was an old Negro
woman with her head tied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Her name was
Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and she walked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a
little from side to side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a
grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small cane made from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping
the frozen earth in front of her. This made a grave and persistent noise in the still air that seemed
meditative, like the chirping of a solitary little bird.
She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, and an equally long apron of bleached
sugar sacks, with a full pocket: all neat and tidy, but every time she took a step she might have fallen over
her shoelaces, which dragged from her unlaced shoes. She looked straight ahead. Her eyes were blue with
age. Her skin had a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles and as though a whole little tree
stood in the middle of her forehead, but a golden color ran underneath, and the two knobs of her cheeks
were illumined by a yellow burning under the dark. Under the red rag her hair came down on her neck in
the frailest of ringlets, still black, and with an odor like copper.
Now and then there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenix said, 'Out of my way, all you foxes, owls,
beetles, jack rabbits, coons and wild animals! ... Keep out from under these feet, little bob-whites ... Keep
the big wild hogs out of my path. Don't let none of those come running my direction. I got a long way.'
Under her small black-freckled hand her cane, limber as a buggy whip, would switch at the brush as if to
rouse up any hiding things.
On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made the pine needles almost too bright to look at,
up where the wind rocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers. Down in the hollow was the mourning
dove—it was not too late for him.
The path ran up a hill. 'Seem like there is chains about my feet, time I get this far,' she said, in the voice of
argument old people keep to use with themselves. 'Something always take a hold of me on this hill—
pleads I should stay.'
After she got to the top, she turned and gave a full, severe look behind her where she had come. 'Up
through pines,' she said at length. 'Now down through oaks.'
Her eyes opened their widest, and she started down gently. But before she got to the bottom of the hill a
bush caught her dress.
Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full and long, so that before she could pull them free
in one place they were caught in another. It was not possible to allow the dress to tear. 'I in the thorny
bush,' she said. 'Thorns, you doing your appointed work. Never want to let folks pass—no, sir. Old eyes
thought you was a ...
A Worn PathEUDORA WELTY[1909–2001]It was December—a bright f.docx
A Worn Path
EUDORA WELTY
[1909–2001]
It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Far out in the country there was an old Negro woman with her head tied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Her name was Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and she walked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a little from side to side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small cane made from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping the frozen earth in front of her. This made a grave and persistent noise in the still air, that seemed meditative like the chirping of a solitary little bird.
She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, and an equally long apron of bleached sugar sacks, with a full pocket: all neat and tidy, but every time she took a step she might have fallen over her shoelaces, which dragged from her unlaced shoes. She looked straight ahead. Her eyes were blue with age. Her skin had a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles and as though a whole little tree stood in the middle of her forehead, but a golden color ran underneath, and the two knobs of her cheeks were illumined by a yellow burning under the dark. Under the red rag her hair came down on her neck in the frailest of ringlets, still black, and with an odor like copper.
Now and then there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenix said, “Out of my way, all you foxes, owls, beetles, jack rabbits, coons and wild animals! … Keep out from under these feet, little bobwhites… . Keep the big wild hogs out of my path. Don’t let none of those come running my direction. I got a long way.” Under her small black-freckled hand her cane, limber as a buggy whip, would switch at the brush as if to rouse up any hiding things.
On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made the pine needles almost too bright to look at, up where the wind rocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers. Down in the hollow was the mourning dove—it was not too late for him.
The path ran up a hill. “Seem like there is chains about my feet, time I get this far,” she said, in the voice of argument old people keep to use with themselves. “Something always take a hold of me on this hill—pleads I should stay.”
After she got to the top she turned and gave a full, severe look behind her where she had come. “Up through pines,” she said at length. “Now down through oaks.”
Her eyes opened their widest, and she started down gently. But before she got to the bottom of the hill a bush caught her dress.
Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full and long, so that before she could pull them free in one place they were caught in another. It was not possible to allow the dress to tear. “I in the thorny bush,” she said. “Thorns, you doing your appointed work. Never want to let folks pass, no sir. Old eyes thought you was a pretty little green bush.”
Finally, trembling a.
REBIRTH.docx
FOR THOSE WHO BELIEVE, OUR JOURNEY IN THIS WORLD IS OFTEN REPEATED, DEPENDING ON WHAT OUR PURPOSE IS. IT EXISTS IN A CONTINUUM OF A SERIES OF REBIRTHS.
TO THOSE WHO REFUSE TO BELIEVE; WE COME ONLY ONCE .... AND DIE. ONLY ONCE.
TO THOSE WHOSE PURPOSE IS UNFULFILLED; WE JUST HAVE TO BE BORN AGAIN.
A Worn PathEudora Welty (1941)iIt was December—a bright froz.docx
A Worn Path
Eudora Welty (1941)
i
It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Farout in the country there was an old Negro woman with her headtied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Hername was Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and shewalked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a little from sideto side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of apendulum in a grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small canemade from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping the frozenearth in front of her. This made a grave and persistent noise in thestill air that seemed meditative, like the chirping of a solitary littlebird.
She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, andan equally long apron of bleached sugar sacks, with a full pocket:all neat and tidy, but every time she took a step she might havefallen over her shoelaces, which dragged from her unlaced shoes.She looked straight ahead. Her eyes were blue with age. Her skinhad a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles and asthough a whole little tree stood in the middle of her forehead, buta golden color ran underneath, and the two knobs of her cheekswere illumined by a yellow burning under the dark. Under the redrag her hair came down on her neck in the frailest of ringlets, stillblack, and with an odor like copper.
Now and then there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenixsaid, "Out of my way, all you foxes, owls, beetles, jack rabbits,coons and wild animals! . . . Keep out from under these feet, littlebob-whites . . . Keep the big wild hogs out of my path. Don't letnone of those come running my direction. I got a long way."Under her small black-freckled hand her cane, limber as a buggywhip, would switch at the brush as if to rouse up any hidingthings.
On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made thepine needles almost too bright to look at, up where the windrocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers. Down in thehollow was the mourning dove—it was not too late for him.
i
The path ran up a hill. "Seem like there is chains about my feet,time I get this far," she said, in the voice of argument old peoplekeep to use with themselves. "Something always take a hold ofme on this hill—pleads I should stay."
5
After she got to the top she turned and gave a full, severe lookbehind her where she had come. "Up through pines," she said atlength. "Now down through oaks." Her eyes opened their widest,and she started down gently. But before she got to the bottom ofthe hill a bush caught her dress.
i
Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full andlong, so that before she could pull them free in one place theywere caught in another. It was not possible to allow the dress totear. "I in the thorny bush," she said. "Thorns, you doing yourappointed work. Never want to let folks pass, no sir. Old eyesthought you was a pretty little green bush." Finally, trembling allover, she stood free, ...
Travel Through Time in the Miniature Garden
The fairy’s translucent wings sparkled in the sunlight as she relaxed in the miniature garden with her friends. It was a typical fairy garden afternoon filled with tea parties, naps, and long conversations in the shade of a miniature tree.
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Kingdom Come: Deliverance - Barcamp Hradec Králové 2014
V roce 2013 jsme se s Warhorse Studios vydali do temných hvozdů, abychom hledali vydavatele, ale místo toho jsme našli jenom zpustlé tvrze a pár kejklířů.
Když nám nikdo nepodal pomocnou ruku, nakonec jsme oslovili prostý lid, který nás oproti očekáváním s nadšením podpořil. Našli jsme poklad!
Aneb jak získat 1.8 milionu dolarů za hru, kterou ještě nikdo neviděl.
http://barcamphk.cz/
http://kingdomcomerpg.com/
Internal control.. control env
This contents in this document is for academic purpose and those who are practicing internal and external audits. It is open for recommendations and opinions.
Decorating cupcakes
Slide Show that illustrates the article "How to make marshmallow fondant to decorate cupcakes" in the third issue of COLLAGE, the EOI Fuengirola magazine: http://eoifuengirolarevista3.wikispaces.com
Author: Miriam Gallardo Reiné
How we cracked Kickstarter for Kingdom Come: Deliverance
Presentation for Prague Startup Centre is in Czech, but the numbers are international :-]
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Similar to The revenge by faustina garcia calero
1 A Worn Path Eudora Welty It was December—a br
1
A Worn Path
Eudora Welty
It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Far out in the country there was an old Negro
woman with her head tied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Her name was
Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and she walked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a
little from side to side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a
grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small cane made from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping
the frozen earth in front of her. This made a grave and persistent noise in the still air that seemed
meditative, like the chirping of a solitary little bird.
She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, and an equally long apron of bleached
sugar sacks, with a full pocket: all neat and tidy, but every time she took a step she might have fallen over
her shoelaces, which dragged from her unlaced shoes. She looked straight ahead. Her eyes were blue with
age. Her skin had a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles and as though a whole little tree
stood in the middle of her forehead, but a golden color ran underneath, and the two knobs of her cheeks
were illumined by a yellow burning under the dark. Under the red rag her hair came down on her neck in
the frailest of ringlets, still black, and with an odor like copper.
Now and then there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenix said, 'Out of my way, all you foxes, owls,
beetles, jack rabbits, coons and wild animals! ... Keep out from under these feet, little bob-whites ... Keep
the big wild hogs out of my path. Don't let none of those come running my direction. I got a long way.'
Under her small black-freckled hand her cane, limber as a buggy whip, would switch at the brush as if to
rouse up any hiding things.
On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made the pine needles almost too bright to look at,
up where the wind rocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers. Down in the hollow was the mourning
dove—it was not too late for him.
The path ran up a hill. 'Seem like there is chains about my feet, time I get this far,' she said, in the voice of
argument old people keep to use with themselves. 'Something always take a hold of me on this hill—
pleads I should stay.'
After she got to the top, she turned and gave a full, severe look behind her where she had come. 'Up
through pines,' she said at length. 'Now down through oaks.'
Her eyes opened their widest, and she started down gently. But before she got to the bottom of the hill a
bush caught her dress.
Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full and long, so that before she could pull them free
in one place they were caught in another. It was not possible to allow the dress to tear. 'I in the thorny
bush,' she said. 'Thorns, you doing your appointed work. Never want to let folks pass—no, sir. Old eyes
thought you was a ...
A Worn PathEUDORA WELTY[1909–2001]It was December—a bright f.docx
A Worn Path
EUDORA WELTY
[1909–2001]
It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Far out in the country there was an old Negro woman with her head tied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Her name was Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and she walked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a little from side to side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small cane made from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping the frozen earth in front of her. This made a grave and persistent noise in the still air, that seemed meditative like the chirping of a solitary little bird.
She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, and an equally long apron of bleached sugar sacks, with a full pocket: all neat and tidy, but every time she took a step she might have fallen over her shoelaces, which dragged from her unlaced shoes. She looked straight ahead. Her eyes were blue with age. Her skin had a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles and as though a whole little tree stood in the middle of her forehead, but a golden color ran underneath, and the two knobs of her cheeks were illumined by a yellow burning under the dark. Under the red rag her hair came down on her neck in the frailest of ringlets, still black, and with an odor like copper.
Now and then there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenix said, “Out of my way, all you foxes, owls, beetles, jack rabbits, coons and wild animals! … Keep out from under these feet, little bobwhites… . Keep the big wild hogs out of my path. Don’t let none of those come running my direction. I got a long way.” Under her small black-freckled hand her cane, limber as a buggy whip, would switch at the brush as if to rouse up any hiding things.
On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made the pine needles almost too bright to look at, up where the wind rocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers. Down in the hollow was the mourning dove—it was not too late for him.
The path ran up a hill. “Seem like there is chains about my feet, time I get this far,” she said, in the voice of argument old people keep to use with themselves. “Something always take a hold of me on this hill—pleads I should stay.”
After she got to the top she turned and gave a full, severe look behind her where she had come. “Up through pines,” she said at length. “Now down through oaks.”
Her eyes opened their widest, and she started down gently. But before she got to the bottom of the hill a bush caught her dress.
Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full and long, so that before she could pull them free in one place they were caught in another. It was not possible to allow the dress to tear. “I in the thorny bush,” she said. “Thorns, you doing your appointed work. Never want to let folks pass, no sir. Old eyes thought you was a pretty little green bush.”
Finally, trembling a.
REBIRTH.docx
FOR THOSE WHO BELIEVE, OUR JOURNEY IN THIS WORLD IS OFTEN REPEATED, DEPENDING ON WHAT OUR PURPOSE IS. IT EXISTS IN A CONTINUUM OF A SERIES OF REBIRTHS.
TO THOSE WHO REFUSE TO BELIEVE; WE COME ONLY ONCE .... AND DIE. ONLY ONCE.
TO THOSE WHOSE PURPOSE IS UNFULFILLED; WE JUST HAVE TO BE BORN AGAIN.
A Worn PathEudora Welty (1941)iIt was December—a bright froz.docx
A Worn Path
Eudora Welty (1941)
i
It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Farout in the country there was an old Negro woman with her headtied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Hername was Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and shewalked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a little from sideto side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of apendulum in a grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small canemade from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping the frozenearth in front of her. This made a grave and persistent noise in thestill air that seemed meditative, like the chirping of a solitary littlebird.
She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, andan equally long apron of bleached sugar sacks, with a full pocket:all neat and tidy, but every time she took a step she might havefallen over her shoelaces, which dragged from her unlaced shoes.She looked straight ahead. Her eyes were blue with age. Her skinhad a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles and asthough a whole little tree stood in the middle of her forehead, buta golden color ran underneath, and the two knobs of her cheekswere illumined by a yellow burning under the dark. Under the redrag her hair came down on her neck in the frailest of ringlets, stillblack, and with an odor like copper.
Now and then there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenixsaid, "Out of my way, all you foxes, owls, beetles, jack rabbits,coons and wild animals! . . . Keep out from under these feet, littlebob-whites . . . Keep the big wild hogs out of my path. Don't letnone of those come running my direction. I got a long way."Under her small black-freckled hand her cane, limber as a buggywhip, would switch at the brush as if to rouse up any hidingthings.
On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made thepine needles almost too bright to look at, up where the windrocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers. Down in thehollow was the mourning dove—it was not too late for him.
i
The path ran up a hill. "Seem like there is chains about my feet,time I get this far," she said, in the voice of argument old peoplekeep to use with themselves. "Something always take a hold ofme on this hill—pleads I should stay."
5
After she got to the top she turned and gave a full, severe lookbehind her where she had come. "Up through pines," she said atlength. "Now down through oaks." Her eyes opened their widest,and she started down gently. But before she got to the bottom ofthe hill a bush caught her dress.
i
Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full andlong, so that before she could pull them free in one place theywere caught in another. It was not possible to allow the dress totear. "I in the thorny bush," she said. "Thorns, you doing yourappointed work. Never want to let folks pass, no sir. Old eyesthought you was a pretty little green bush." Finally, trembling allover, she stood free, ...
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Read the Biography
John Steinbeck
The high grey-flannel fog of winter closed off the Salinas Valley° from the sky and from all the rest of the world. On every side it sat like a lid on the mountains and made of the great valley a closed pot. On the broad, level land floor the gang plows bit deep and left the black earth shining like metal where the shares had cut. On the foothill ranches across the Salinas River, the yellow stubble fields seemed to be bathed in pale cold sunshine, but there was no sunshine in the valley now in December. The thick willow scrub along the river flamed with sharp and positive yellow leaves.
It was a time of quiet and of waiting. The air was cold and tender. A light wind blew up from the southwest so that the farmers were mildly hopeful of a good rain before long; but fog and rain do not go together.
Across the river, on Henry Allen's foothill ranch there was little work to be done, for the hay was cut and stored and the orchards were plowed up to receive the rain deeply when it should come. The cattle on the higher slopes were becoming shaggy and rough-coated.
Elisa Allen, working in her flower garden, looked down across the yard and saw Henry, her husband, talking to two men in business suits. The three of them stood by the tractor shed, each man with one foot on the side of the little Fordson. They smoked cigarettes and studied the machine as they talked.
5Elisa watched them for a moment and then went back to her work. She was thirty-five. Her face was lean and strong and her eyes were as clear as water. Her figure looked blocked and heavy in her gardening costume, a man's black hat pulled low down over her eyes, clodhopper shoes, a figured print dress almost completely covered by a big corduroy apron with four big pockets to hold the snips, the trowel and scratcher, the seeds and the knife she worked with. She wore heavy leather gloves to protect her hands while she worked.
She was cutting down the old year's chrysanthemum stalks with a pair of short and powerful scissors. She looked down toward the men by the tractor shed now and then. Her face was eager and mature and handsome; even her work with the scissors was over-eager, over-powerful. The chrysanthemum stems seemed too small and easy for her energy.
She brushed a cloud of hair out of her eyes with the back of her glove, and left a smudge of earth on her cheek in doing it. Behind her stood the neat white farm house with red geraniums close-banked around it as high as the windows. It was a hard-swept looking little house with hard-polished windows, and a clean mud-mat on the front steps.
Elisa cast another glance toward the tractor shed. The strangers were getting into their Ford coupe. She took off a glove an.
My respect to a Legend, his Brilliance and his Creative Words....
How does the story 'The Castaway' highlight the emotional turbulence in the life of Nilkanta! How much does the story show Kiran's attachment and loyalty to Nilkanta! How far do you approve of her attitude towards, Nilkanta------------------------"I was not a thief," his heart cried out, "not a thief!". He could never explain to Kiran ....
6Lu Xun (1881 - 1936)Diary of a MadmanChineseModernismD
6
Lu Xun (1881 - 1936)
Diary of a MadmanChineseModernism
"Diary of a Madman" is a famous short story by Lu Xun, who is regarded as a great writer of modern Chinese literature. Lu Xun (surname: Lu, and the pen name of Zhou Shuren) was a short story writer, translator, essayist, and literary scholar. Although Lu was educated in the Confucian tradition when he was young, he later received a modern western education; he studied modern medicine in Japan and was exposed to western literature (including English, German, and Russian literatures). In 1918, "Diary of a Madman" was published in New Youth, a magazine of the New Culture Movement that promoted democracy, egalitarianism, vernacular literature, individual freedom, and women's rights. Inspired by the Russian writer Nikolai Gogol's story of the same title, Lu wrote this story, which is the first western-style story in vernacular Chinese. The cannibalistic society that the madman narrator sees is generally interpreted as a satirical allegory of traditional Chinese society based on Confucianism. Although Lu and his works were associated with leftist ideas (and Mao Zedong favored Lu's works), Lu never joined the Communist Party of China. The English translations of this short story include a version by William A. Lyell, a former professor of Chinese at Stanford University.Consider while reading:What elements of detective fiction does Borges include in "The Garden of Forking Paths"?How does having multiple possible outcomes influence the resolution of the text?How does Borges use the symbolism of the labyrinth?Borges is known for his use of magical realism and his work in the science fiction genre. How does Borges incorporate magical realism into "The Garden of the Forking Paths?" What effect does it create?
Kwon, Kyounghye. (n.d.). Compact Anthology of World Literature: The 17th and 18th Centuries (Part 6). Dahlonega, GA: University of North Georgia Press.
CC-BY-SA.
5
10
THE GARDEN PARTY
License: Public Domain
Katherine Mansfield
And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more perfect
day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky without a
cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light gold, as it is sometimes in
early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the lawns and
sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants
had been seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help feeling they
understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties;
the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally
hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down as
though they had been visited by archangels.
Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee.
"Where do you want the marquee put, mother?"
"My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm determined to leave everything to
you children this year. Forget I ...
Discuss the Nurse Practice Act in your state. How does the Nurse
Discuss the Nurse Practice Act in your state. How does the Nurse Practice Act affect your practice as a professional? As an individual? Give clear examples.
Pale Horse, Pale Rider
By Katherine Anne Porter
In sleep she knew she was in her bed, but not the bed
she had lain down in a few hours since, and the room
was not the same but it was a room she had known
somewhere. Her heart was a stone lying upon her breast
outside of her; her pulses lagged and paused, and she
knew that something strange was going to happen, even
as the early morning winds were cool through the lat-
tice, the streaks of light were dark blue and the whole
house was snoring in its sleep.
Now I must get up and go while they are all quiet.
Where are my things? Things have a will of their own
in this place and hide where they like. Daylight will
strike a sudden blow on the roof startling them all up
to their feet; faces will beam asking. Where are you
going. What are you doing. What are you thinking.
How do you feel. Why do you say such things. What
do you mean? No more sleep. Where are my boots and
what horse shall I ride? Fiddler or Graylie or Miss Lucy
with the long nose and the wicked eye? How I have
loved this house in the morning before we are all awake
and tangled together like badly cast fishing lines. Too
many people have been born here, and have wept too
much here, and have laughed too much, and have been
too angry and outrageous with each other here. Too
many have died in this bed already, there are far too
many ancestral bones propped up on the mantelpieces,
there have been too damned many antimacassars in this
house, she said loudly, and oh, what accumulation of
storied dust never allowed to settle in peace for one
moment.
And the stranger? Where is that lank greenish stran-
ger I remember hanging about the place, welcomed by
my grandfather, my great-aunt, my five times removed
cousin, my decrepit hound and my silver kitten? Why
did they take to him, I wonder? And where are they
now? Yet I saw him pass the window in the evening.
What else besides them did I have in the world? Noth-
ing. Nothing is mine, I have only nothing but it is
enough, it is beautiful and it is all mine. Do I even walk
about in my own skin or is it something I have borrowed
to spare my modesty? Now what horse shall I borrow
for this journey I do not mean to take, Graylie or Miss
Lucy or Fiddler who can jump ditches in the dark and
knows how to get the bit between his teeth? Early
morning is best for me because trees are trees in one
stroke, stones are stones set in shades known to be grass,
there are no false shapes or surmises, the road is still
asleep with the crust of dew unbroken. I’ll take Graylie
because he is not afraid of bridges.
Come now, Graylie, she said, taking his bridle, we
must outrun Death and the Devil. You are no good for
it, she told the other horses standing saddled before the
stable gate, among them the horse ...
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The revenge by faustina garcia calero
- 1. By Faustina García Calero THE REVENGE A Scary Story for Children
- 2. By Faustina García Calero It was the night. Maynard had been waiting for this Halloween night for the last ten years. It was the perfect day, the perfect autumn. The rain was dropping slowly and the stormy weather had accompanied Maynard for the last few days. He was delighted, his tiny eyes glittering with impatience, staring at the darkness through his window. The fireplace lit up his greenish face while he smirked.
- 3. By Faustina García Calero On the other side of Veggyvillage, Arline felt miserable. She slumped onto her favourite armchair lifting her head to the marvellous custome she had chosen for the Halloween party. She was concerned about the weather. This awful rain would ruin her special night. “This is unfair”, she wailed, “I have been waiting for the party a loooooong year and now look what a disastrous weather”. She couldn’t imagine that danger was hiding on the other side of the town.
- 4. By Faustina García Calero Maynard was ready, it was the time. In his rucksack a rope, chilling spray, and a knife were waiting for the right moment. He left the house and rushed towards the town hall, where the party was going to be celebrated. He strode along the long street between his hideout and the town hall. When he arrived, he hid in the nearest house corner; where the light was so dim that nobody could see him, but he could peep at the people coming to the party.
- 5. By Faustina García Calero After a while, Arline got out of the car and trudged among the puddles, clinging to her umbrella with one hand and the flounce of her skirt with the other. She panicked when a huge shadow dashed for the corner, covering her mouth and drugging her into the darkness. Suddenly she could glance at a greenish face with tiny eyes and a terrifying smile that was so close that she could perceive his stinking breath. At that moment she remembered everything.
- 6. By Faustina García Calero “ It happened about ten years ago, I was only a teenager, an arrogant, vain and beautiful girl. Maynard asked me for a dance and I despised and mocked him. Just then the music stopped and everyone stared at us. Maynard felt so embarrassed that fled the party in anger. He swore revenge and now I am lost.”
- 7. By Faustina García Calero Arlene felt the blade glowing on her face and wailed “please cucumber don’t do that, I’ m terribly sorry about what happened, please”. Maynard mumbled with his stinky breath: “It’s too late, my little pumpkin. I’ve been waiting for this all my life. I’m going to make the most delicious cake with you, darling ”.
- 8. By Faustina García Calero There was nothing she could do, Arline closed her eyes and resigned herself to her dreadful destiny. Suddenly somebody snatched her from this fatal embrace.Then she saw Eduard Scissorhands cutting this horrible cucumber into slices. She sighed with relief as he put every slice into a big basket. This year the Zombies would have fantastic eyes instead of the nasty bloodshot look they had every year.
- 9. By Faustina García Calero And this is the reason why you have never heard about a cucumber in a Halloween story. But if you find one in your party this year, remember the story and…RUN AWAY FROM HIM. Especially if you are a pumpkin. Faustina García Calero. 5ºB