To the Man on the Trail
by Jack London
‘Dump it in!.’ ‘But I say, Kid, isn’t that going it a little too strong? Whisky and alcohol’s bad enough
Short Stories
To the Man on the Trail
by Jack London
‘Dump it in!.’ ‘But I say, Kid, isn’t that going it a little too strong? Whisky and alcohol’s bad enough
Ben Westerham has recently let slip the chains of paid employment so he can spend ever more time writing crime, mystery and thriller stories as well as spending time reading, gardening and uncovering fascinating nuggets about his criminal ancestors.
The policeman on the beat moved up the avenue impressively. The impressiveness was habitual and not for show, for spectators were few.
Time was, with most of us, when Christmas Day encircling all our limited world like a magic ring, left nothing out for us to miss or seek; bound together all our home enjoyments
Part of my responsibilities included watching over the people in hibernation. Checking gauges, testing the surface tension of the Plexiglass housing, monitoring moisture and so on
A Christmas Accident by Annie Eliot Trumbull AT first the two yards were as much alike as the two houses, each house being the exact copy of the other. They were just two of those little red brick dwellings that one is always seeing side by side in the outskirts of a city, and…
“Phil, I’m getting fearfully hungry. When are we going to strike civilization?”
Christmas Every Day by W. D. Howells The little girl came into her papa’s study, as she always did Saturday morning before breakfast, and asked for a story. He tried to beg off that morning, for he was very busy, but she would not let him. So he began: “Well, once there was a little…
Her small chest woke her. The heart rattling inside it. Like an alarm clock palpitating in secrecy, until the time came that she could no longer ignore it.
The Heavenly Christmas Tree by Fyodor Dostoevsky I am a novelist, and I suppose I have made up this story. I write “I suppose,” though I know for a fact that I have made it up, but yet I keep fancying that it must have happened somewhere at some time, that it must have…
Frederick Dane was on his way towards what he called his home. His home, alas, was but an indifferent attic in one of the southern suburbs of Boston.
Old Man Rabbit sat at the door of his little house eating a nice, ripe, juicy turnip. It was a cold, frosty day, but Old Man Rabbit
Freshly dead, she was pinned to the desk by a knife. Smears of blood oozed between his fingers and dripped to the floor.
The grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city and a mild warm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the streets.
The Skylight Room by O.Henry First Mrs. Parker would show you the double parlours. You would not dare to interrupt her description of their advantages and of the merits of the gentleman who had occupied them for eight years. Then you would manage to stammer forth the confession that you were neither a doctor nor…