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A Date by Ch. Dickenson

A Date by Ch. Dickenson

I am sixteen years and one month old and I have never had a boyfriend. Don’t get me wrong: I’ve known quite a few boys — in fact I was on quite friendly terms with most of the boys in my class, but I’ve never had a date. Not a proper kind of date — holding hands, back row of the cinema, shall-I-or-shan’t-I- let-him-kiss-me kind of date, that is. But I’ve told Jackie that I’ve got a boyfriend.
Jackie is my friend and she has taken me ‘under her wing’. I know she means well and most of the time I like her, but hell, we were at school together and now at work together and there’s hardly a thing left to say to each other that we haven’t said before. I just wanted to stop going to the coffee bar with her every evening, but when I started making excuses not to meet Jackie she kept asking why. Was I doing this, was I doing that, well, if I wasn’t, what was I doing that was so important — and so on. To make things worse the other girls at work started joining in. So the third time Jackie asked why I couldn’t meet her that night I said the first thing that came into my head.
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The end of the story by Jack London

Jack London

Jack London

Four men were playing cards at a table made of rough boards. They were sitting in their shirts, their faces were covered with sweat. But their woolen-socked and moccasined feet were frozen. Such was the difference of temperature in the small cabin. The iron stove was red-hot; yet, eight feet away, on a shelf, lay frozen meat and bacon.
The men played whist: the pair that lost would have to dig a fishing hole through the seven feet of ice and snow that covered the Yukon.
“It’s cold,” said one of the men. “What’s the temperature, Doc?”
“About fifty,” said Doc. He was a slender, dark-haired man, healthy and strong. He had black and clever eyes. His hands were fine and nervous, made for delicate work.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door and a stranger came in.
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The Landlady by Roald Dahl

The Landlady by Roald Dahl

The Landlady by Roald Dahl


Billy Weaver had travelled down from London on the slow afternoon train, with a change at Reading on the way, and by the time he got to Bath, it was about nine o’clock in the evening, and the moon was coming up out of a clear starry sky over the houses opposite the station entrance.
But the air was deadly cold and the wind was like a flat blade of ice on his cheeks.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but is there a fairly cheap hotel not too far away from here?’
‘Try The Bell and Dragon,’ the porter answered, pointing down the road. ‘They might take you in. It’s about a quarter of a mile along on the other side.’
Billy thanked him and picked up his suitcase and set out to walk the quarter-mile to The Bell and Dragon. He had never been to Bath before. He didn’t know anyone who lived there. But Mr Greenslade at the head office in London had told him it was a splendid town. ‘Find your own lodgings,’ he had said, ‘and then go along and report to the branch manager as soon as you’ve got yourself settled.’
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Ticket to Rio by Ray Bradbury

Ticket to Rio by Ray Bradbury

Ticket to Rio by Ray Bradbury


They walked slowly down the street at about ten in the evening, talking calmly.
‘But why so early?’ said Smith.
‘Because,’ said Braling.
‘Your first night out in years and you go home at ten o’clock.’
‘Nerves, I suppose.’
‘I’ve been trying to get you out for ten years! And now you insist on going home early.’
‘Mustn’t crowd my luck,’ said Braling. They turned a corner. ‘Honestly, Braling, I hate to say this, but — marriage has been awful for you, hasn’t it?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘But she almost forced you to marry her when she learned that you were going to Rio’ — ‘Dear Rio. I never did see it.’
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Problem at the Pino d’Oro by Agatha Christie

Problem at the Pino d'Oro by Agatha Christie

Mr Parker Pyne liked the Hotel Pino d’Oro at once. Unlike other hotels in Majorca, it was small and peaceful. It stood on the edge of the sea and the view was breathtaking.
At a quarter to ten, Mr Parker Pyne went out onto a small terrace bathed in a dazzling morning light and ordered a cup of coffee. There were four tables there. At the nearest sat a family of father and mother and two elderly daughters— Germans. At the corner of the terrace, sat what were clearly an English mother and son. The woman was about fifty-five and the young man was about twenty-five. They made little jokes together and seemed to be on very good terms. As they talked, her eye met that of Mr Parker Pyne and he felt that he had been recognized as English.
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Love Letters by Christopher Leach

Love Letters

I was in the canteen, when he came over. He put his tray on the table and sat down. His name was Jock. I’d seen him around the camp, but we’d never spoken to each other and I was surprised that he’d chosen my table when so many others were vacant. He looked at the book that lay open on the table before me.
“Always see you with a book. Never got your nose out of one.”
I was silent.
“Hear you do a bit of writing too,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Had some printed.”
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Screaming woman by Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury

My name is Margaret Leary and I’m twelve years old. I haven’t any brothers or sisters, but I’ve got a nice father and mother except that they don’t pay much attention to me. And anyway, we never thought we’d have anything to do with a murdered woman.
I’ll tell you how it happened. It was in the middle of July. It was hot and Mother said to me, “Margaret, go to the shop and buy some ice cream. It’s Saturday, Dad’s home for lunch, so we’ll have a treat.”
I ran out across the bombed site behind our house. It was a big piece of ground where the kids played and there was broken glass and stuff.
On my way back from the shop with the ice cream I was just walking along, minding my own business, when all of a sudden it happened. I heard the Screaming Woman.
I stopped and listened. It was coming up from out of the ground. A woman was buried under the rocks and dirt and glass, and was screaming for someone to dig her out.
I just stood there, afraid, and she kept screaming. Then I started to run. I fell down, got up again and ran some more.
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Walker the Witch and the Stripped Flying Saurce

witch

It all began one night when a witch flew by my window. Yes, it was a witch. She was old and ugly and she had a big black hat on.
«Hello, Walker,” cried the witch.
“Hello,» I said.
“Do you want to see a flying saucer?”
“Which flying saucer?» I asked, “The big flying saucer with the stripes,” she cried. “Just like your pyjamas.”
“Just like my pyjamas? Where is it?” I asked.
“It’s in the middle of the field, just behind your house,” she cried and flew away.
I couldn’t believe that a flying saucer could have the same stripes as my pyjamas, so I got up, put on my shoes and went out.
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Death in the drawing room

HolmesCan you solve the mystery?!

It was a cold morning in October. Holmes and I were sitting by the fire when Mrs Hudson knocked at our door.
“There’s a telegram for you, Mr Holmes,” she said, and left.
“It’s from Lestrade,” Holmes said. “Come at once to 23 Hill Street. Woman murdered. Well, Watson, the game is afoot.”
We soon arrived on the scene. Inspector Lestrade greeted us at the front door of the victim’s house.
«A bad business, this,” he said. “Messy, too. The poor woman’s head has been shattered like an eggshell. Here’s the murder weapon.” He held out a revolver. Its handle was in blood.
“Any suspects?” Holmes asked.
“None at present, Mr Holmes,” answered the little inspector. “We talked to the servants. They’d been given the night off and were out the whole time. They’ve just come back and found the woman like this.”
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Success story by J.O. Cozzens

Success story by J.O. Cozzens
I met Richards ten or more years ago when I first went down to Cuba. He was a short, sharp-faced, agreeable chap, then about 22. He introduced himself to me on the boat and I was surprised to find that Panamerica Steel was sending us both to the same job.
Richards was from some not very good state university engineering school. Being the same age myself, and just out of technical college I saw at once that his knowledge of engineering was rather poor. I couldn’t imagine how he had managed to get this job.
Richards was naturally likable, and I liked him a lot. The firm had a contract for the construction of a private railroad. For Richards and me it was mostly an easy job of inspections and routine paper work. At least it was easy for me. It was harder for Richards, because he didn’t appear to have mastered the use of a slide rule. When he asked me to check his figures I found his calculations awful. “Boy,” I was at last obliged to say, “you are undoubtedly the silliest white man in this province. Look, stupid, didn’t you ever take arithmetic? How much are seven times thirteen?” “Work that out,” Richards said, “and let me have a report tomorrow.”
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