The Story of An Hour" Kate Chopin

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.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

ادامه مطلب: The Story of An Hour" Kate Chopin




DEMİR ATLI/ Tolga Gümüşay

Bağbozumu zamanı, oluklarından üzüm suyu akan daracık sokaklardan birinde, aniden çıkıverir karşınıza. Ne gölgesi, ne de motorunun sesi hızına yetişebilmiştir. Olağanüstü bir devinimle, sessizce çağlayarak dönmüştür köşeyi. Setinden henüz kurtulmuş, coşkun bir nehir gibi. Ve siz daha ne ile karşı karşıya olduğunuzu kavrayamadan mızrak gibi saplar gri bakışlarını, tam göz bebeklerinizin ortasına.

ادامه مطلب: DEMİR ATLI/ Tolga Gümüşay




Responsibility American Style/ M. Stanley Bubien

ادامه مطلب: Responsibility American Style/ M. Stanley Bubien




FARUK DUMAN / Eriyen Gelin

Kar yağıp ortalık ağarmıştı. Ağaçlar da öyle; gelin gibi giyinip. Duvaklı başlarıyla, rüzgâr esmeyegörsün. Ağabeyim gelecek diye ormana bakıp durmuştuk bir zaman. Bir ağabey nedir? Mesela yolda karşınıza ansızın bir elma ağacı çıksa? Dev, dallı budaklı bir ağaç? O zaman ağabeyin o ağaçtan farkı neden bulunsun? Baş niyetine bir de meyve bulunur. Kırmızı, tatlı mı tatlı bir baş. Böylece eğilir, sizi boynunuzdan tutar. Ama, yaz aylarının ağabeyidir bu çoğunlukla. Karakışın değil. Kar zamanı bu kişi ormanın derinliklerinden gelir ve güz aylarında verdiği haber için bekletir sizi; bir gelinle dönecektir eve. Hem de ne gelin.

ادامه مطلب: FARUK DUMAN / Eriyen Gelin




BABAM VE KİRAZ AĞACI/ Feridun Andaç

                     İnsanları konuşmaya, çektikleri acılar-

                     dan daha çok hiçbir şey itemez.                     

   Michel del Castillo

         Yağmur hafifçe çiselemeye başlamıştı. Babamla, bin yıllık ayrılığın özlemini giderircesine, söze dalmıştık. Kiraz ağacının dalları hışırdıyordu. Arada bir kulağım o seslere gidiyordu. Annem, ”bu sohbet çaysız gitmez”, deyip, semaveri yeniden alevlendirmişti. Babam, sırtını ağacın gövdesine yaslamış, çevredeki kirlilikten söz ediyordu. Buradan,bu bahçeden dışarıya adım atmak istemediğini;atınca,bir başka dünyayla karşılaşmanın dayanılmazlığını dile getiriyordu.

ادامه مطلب: BABAM VE KİRAZ AĞACI/ Feridun Andaç




Gooseberries / Anton Chekhov

THE whole sky had been overcast with rain-clouds from early morning; it was a still day, not hot, but heavy, as it is in grey dull weather when the clouds have been hanging over the country for a long while, when one expects rain and it does not come. Ivan Ivanovitch, the veterinary surgeon, and Burkin, the high-school teacher, were already tired from walking, and the fields seemed to them endless. Far ahead of them they could just see the windmills of the village of Mironositskoe; on the right stretched a row of hillocks which disappeared in the distance behind the village, and they both knew that this was the bank of the river, that there were meadows, green willows, homesteads there, and that if one stood on one of the hillocks one could see from it the same vast plain, telegraph-wires, and a train which in the distance looked like a crawling caterpillar, and that in clear weather one could even see the town. Now, in still weather, when all nature seemed mild and dreamy, Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were filled with love of that countryside, and both thought how great, how beautiful a land it was.

ادامه مطلب: Gooseberries / Anton Chekhov




BEAUTY AND THE BRANTENS • by J.D. Carelli

 I shuffled down the gangplank, trying my best to avoid eye contact.

“Welcome to Branten,” the creature said. “This visit is a most… pleasant surprise.”

That was easy for it to say. It didn’t have to travel across the Barren Sea on the King’s errand. And amongst these abominations! “I’m here to pick up the portrait.” The words stuck in my mouth. “From the artist.”

“Ah,” it said, eyeing the passenger ship I had arrived on. “Will your companions be joining us?”

ادامه مطلب: BEAUTY AND THE BRANTENS • by J.D. Carelli




Misery by Anton Chekhov (1860-1904)

دانلود فایل صوتی این داستان اینجا

"To whom shall I tell my grief?"

The twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box without stirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent. If a regular snowdrift fell on him it seems as though even then he would not think it necessary to shake it off.... His little mare is white and motionless too. Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the stick-like straightness of her legs make her look like a halfpenny gingerbread horse. She is probably lost in thought. Anyone who has been torn away from the plough, from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into this slough, full of monstrous lights, of unceasing uproar and hurrying people, is bound to think.

ادامه مطلب: Misery by Anton Chekhov (1860-1904)




FOOD FOR THOUGHT • by Jemma Marie Beggs

ادامه مطلب: FOOD FOR THOUGHT • by Jemma Marie Beggs




BELKİ DE KAYBEDEN ZAMAN/ ÖZCAN KARABULUT

 

SAN GIOVANNI'YE MEKTUPLAR

1

San Giovanni, ben sizin bir adıyla `Küçük Paris'e, öteki adıyla `Boğalar Kenti'ne gelmek istememiştim. Sokak çocuklarının toplu infazlarına tanık olmak üzere işçi konfederasyonunun davetlisi olarak bir başıma Brezilya'ya gitmeyi tercih etmemden dolayı değil yalnızca, bir başka neden, yüzlerini bir arada görmek istemediğim yedi kişilik bir grupla ülke dışına yolculuk yapmanın bana acı vermesidir. Hiç değilse Hindistan'a gidebilsem, Tac Mahal'i, Ganj Nehri'ni, bölgenin bitki örtüsü ve hayvanlarıyla tatlı bir uyumu yaşayan yerli halkı, en önemlisi, küçük elleriyle tuğla taşıyan, halı dokuyan, ayaktopu üreten `tez parmaklar'ı yerinde görüp ülkeme dönebilseydim. Sokak çocuklarını katleden `Ölüm Mangaları'nı, çocukları acımasızca çalıştıran işverenleri çıplak gözlerle görüp, dünyanın bu en eski sırlarından birine dikkat çekmenin uygulanmakta olan sosyal politikalara olumlu bir katkısının olacağını iddia etmek en azından safdillik olurdu. Ne de olsa `mutlak yoksulluk' kadar insanlık suçlarının da küreselleştiği bir dünyada yaşıyorduk ve timsahın gözyaşlarının sorunların çözümüne çare olamayacağını biliyordum.

ادامه مطلب: BELKİ DE KAYBEDEN ZAMAN/ ÖZCAN KARABULUT




COMATOSE • by Megan Manzano

Emmet exited the hospital with anchors in his pockets. His feet trudged along the snow-covered pathway that led to the parking lot. Ice cracked under his boots. He felt the wind collide with his exposed cheeks, causing the odor of disinfectants and alcohol to resurface under his nose.

He had decided against bringing his scarf today. He wanted to feel the cold expand his lungs to their capacity, and maybe then he would be able to handle the hollowness in his stomach.

ادامه مطلب: COMATOSE • by Megan Manzano




PEACE FOR OUR TIMES • by Chris Ovenden

ادامه مطلب: PEACE FOR OUR TIMES • by Chris Ovenden




FAITH • by Frances Howard-Snyder

Miriam examined the canvas from different angles. Perfect? Almost perfect? What would her old teacher think?

Half an hour later, she nodded to acquaintances as she crossed the banquet hall. Then, seeing Tostermann at a distant table, she changed direction. He was even more substantial than before, a great bull of a man, his physique a visual rendering of his personality. His granite head had few lines, and minimal hair loss. The glasses were new, she noted, but essentially he was the same. She wanted to reach him, move fast through the small talk, and get to her news.

ادامه مطلب: FAITH • by Frances Howard-Snyder




MATRUŞKA BEBEKLER / Mustafa Balel

 Salih Efendi ile Saliha Hanım, bankadan maaşlarını almaya kuyruk tenha oluyor diye ayın dördünde giderlerdi.Eğer dördü hafta sonuna denk gelirse, onu izleyen pazartesi günü…

Önceden gidip de banka önlerinde yağmurda çamurda sefil olacaklarına, oturur evlerinde kahvelerini yudumlar, gazetelerini okur, sohbetlerini eder, ikindi vakti çıkarlardı yola. Nasıl olsa banka pek uzak sayılmazdı. Bir minibüslük yol. Öyle yürünemeyecek bir mesafe değildi. Onlar da zaten havanın durumuna göre çoğu kez yürüyerek gidiyorlardı.

 

ادامه مطلب: MATRUŞKA BEBEKLER / Mustafa Balel




LADY CINTRON AND THE BULL • by Jessi Cole Jackson

Vesper moved around the room enjoying the new muscles and movements of her sister’s avatar, Lady Cintron. She stretched and strutted. Lady Cintron was tall, lithe, controlled — nothing like the short, heavy, clumsiness of the twins’ natural physiques.  Lady Cintron’s steps were light, but Vesper could feel the idle, waiting power, the dormant strength in each miniscule movement. It was singular and wonderful.

ادامه مطلب: LADY CINTRON AND THE BULL • by Jessi Cole Jackson




JACOB GAYNE, VICE PRESIDENT • by Aaron Emmel

The alarm went off, but the spaceship hadn’t come yet and he still needed pretzels for the bears, so Jacob hit the snooze button. Several snooze buttons later, Jacob woke with a start and realized that there wasn’t a spaceship and there were no bears. He was late to work.

 

ادامه مطلب: JACOB GAYNE, VICE PRESIDENT • by Aaron Emmel




TALES FROM PLEASANT GROVE • by Steven L. Peck

So my buddy Hal went with me down to the old mom and pop place off Main in Pleasant Grove because we heard that in the back you could leave your fears behind. That was worth checking out, because who doesn’t want to get rid of fears? Right? I hadn’t even applied for two jobs because I was too scared to. One at the Mustang stop-and-rob sweeping up, and the other at the grocery store working in produce, which would have been the best job ever because you spend most of the time just misting the vegetables.

ادامه مطلب: TALES FROM PLEASANT GROVE • by Steven L. Peck




END OF THE LINE • by C S Morgan

They appeared in the night. On Friday the world went to sleep. On Saturday morning they appeared. Billions of them. As many as there are people. It’s on the news, it’s in the papers, on the radio and on-line. Everywhere. If you’re not hearing about them you see them. Everywhere you go. Lines. Clear like water. Soft as air. They don’t knot. They don’t tangle. They just flow. Through buildings, cars, walls, prisons, trees and bodies. You can’t touch them. Your hand will pass right on through. The only thing we know about them is where they start and where they end. Always from a person and ending at another person.

ادامه مطلب: END OF THE LINE • by C S Morgan




LIVER OIL • by Van Zeller

You can find some of the best advice known to man in my establishment.

You can find some of the best liquor up in here, too.

The regulars funnel in, followed by this kid.  He’s looking all glum so I give him the time of day.

ادامه مطلب: LIVER OIL • by Van Zeller




THE ETERNAL GOODNIGHT • by Laura Blackwell

I’m Nobody — not the one in Emily Dickinson’s poem, although we share the same views. Tonight, you will find me in the grim green room.

When in this room — and I’m dragged back here all too often — I feel edgy and unwell. Perhaps the full moon, creeping above the windowsill like a peeping Tom, is to blame.

ادامه مطلب: THE ETERNAL GOODNIGHT • by Laura Blackwell




VARIATIONS • by Cristina Iuliana Burlacu

 It was summer. Your hair was already deep in its journey to become a twisted hue of grey. You were too old for my young years, but it didn’t matter, as I told myself the soul had no age.

ادامه مطلب: VARIATIONS • by Cristina Iuliana Burlacu




WHAT ANGELS LOOK LIKE • by Kelly Charlton

ادامه مطلب: WHAT ANGELS LOOK LIKE • by Kelly Charlton




داستان کوتاه « Twilight Steps» نویسنده «ماندانا داورکیا»

ادامه مطلب: داستان کوتاه « Twilight Steps» نویسنده «ماندانا داورکیا»




THE LAST HATCHLING • by Patricia Feinberg Stoner

ادامه مطلب: THE LAST HATCHLING • by Patricia Feinberg Stoner




داستان «Twilight love» نویسنده «ماندانا داورکیا»

ادامه مطلب: داستان «Twilight love» نویسنده «ماندانا داورکیا»




BROWN CHICKEN, BROWN COW • by Jeff Nazzaro

ادامه مطلب: BROWN CHICKEN, BROWN COW • by Jeff Nazzaro




A PERFECT MURDER • by Jamie McKittrick

ادامه مطلب: A PERFECT MURDER • by Jamie McKittrick




THE FACE ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR • by Carl Steiger

ادامه مطلب: THE FACE ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR • by Carl Steiger




داستان«ترێ رەش» نووسەر«عەزیمە فەتتاحی»

ادامه مطلب: داستان«ترێ رەش» نووسەر«عەزیمە فەتتاحی»




SYREK AND THE CURIOUS BLESSING • by Sylvia Hiven

ادامه مطلب: SYREK AND THE CURIOUS BLESSING • by Sylvia Hiven




داستان«دەسکەنە» نویسنده«چنار بوداغی»

ادامه مطلب: داستان«دەسکەنە» نویسنده«چنار بوداغی»