Selasa, 26 November 2013

Narrative Text Test !!!

One Rice A Thousand Gold - Yi Fan Qian Jin

During the Qin Dynasty (221 BC to 206 BC), there was a boy named Hán Xìn. Both his mother and his father had died, so Hán Xìn was on his own and was very poor. He often went down to the river to fish, but he rarely caught anything, so he was always hungry.
One day an old washer-woman saw Hán Xìn as he sat fishing. She saw that he was very thin, so she brought him a bowl of rice. Hán Xìn was very grateful to the old woman, and told her that he would repay her handsomely someday.
The old woman scolded him, saying, “Why do you promise so much when you have nothing? I feel sorry for you because you don’t have enough to eat, and that is why I give you food. If you were a real man you would find a way to support yourself.”
Hán Xìn knew that the old woman was right, so he set off to seek his fortune. He joined the rebel forces that eventually overthrew the Qin Dynasty in 206 BC. He rose through the ranks and eventually became a general of Han Dynasty (206 BC to 220 AD). He became rich and was well-respected.
Hán Xìn never forgot the old woman who had fed him. He sought her out, and gave her food, wine, and 1200 pieces of gold in thanks.
We say yī fàn qiān jīn to remind us that even small acts of helpfulness are very valuable, and must be repaid generously when we are able to do so.


Picture : What i wear in this test.....

Moral Value : Even one help which we get, but we must repaid generously


 Source : http://mandarin.about.com/od/chineseproverbs/a/proverb_yi_fan_qian_jin.htm

 

ANOUCEMENT


 Source pictures :  
www.hdwallpapersinn.com
http://exofid.wordpress.com 
http://www.myxph.com/features/6384/the-2013-mnet-asian-music-awards-will-be-held-in-hong-kong-this-november/

Jumat, 01 November 2013

Narrative text ^_^

The lady in the moon
(Favourite stories from Chinese)
Example of narrative text
One day, one of Hous I’s friends told him about the “Pill of Everlasting Life” Hou I at once sent his servant to get it for him from the Queen Mother of the West.
Example of narrative text 
The Queen Mother lived by herself on top of a high mountain. She was very ugly. Her teeth were as long and sharp as a tiger’s. she also had nine tails. She spent her time making medicine from grass, leaves and flowers. At first, she did not want to give the pill to Hou I’s servant. When he told her who his master was, she became afraid. She quickly handed it over to him.
Example of narrative text 
“Tell your master that the pill is very strong?” she said. "He must not take it when there’s a full moon. If he does, he will fly straight up to the moon.”
Example of narrative text 
Hou I was very pleased to get the pill. His wife kept it for him in a cupboard in her room.
One night, while she was gazing at the full moon, she suddenly decided to taste the pill. Her body immediately became lighter and her feet left the ground. She began to float up in the sky towards the moon.
Example of narrative text 
When her husband saw her, he tried to shoot her down with his bow and arrow. But she was already too far away. In a short time, she landed on the moon. She felt very cold and lonely. She thought of her husband. Every day and wanted to return to him. But there was no way for her to do so. At last, she built a small house for herself in which she lived all alone.


The legend of Edelweiss Flower II

The Flower That Lives Above The Clouds

The legend of Edelweiss
LONG ago, long ago when the flowers first woke to life on this dear earth, each chose where it could live as it chose, too, the color of its petals. 
"I will cover the ground and make the bare soil gay with green blades," cried the grass.
"I will live in the fields and by roadsides," laughed the daisy.
"I, too," echoed the buttercup, the cornflower, the poppy, and the clover.
"Give me the ponds and the lakes," the water lily called.
"And let us have the streams and the marshes," begged the irises, cowslips, and Jacks-in-the-pulpit.
"We love the shaded, ferny woodland spots," lisped the shy forget-me-nots and wood-violets.
"And we wish to be petted in gardens," declared the rose, the pansies, the sweet williams, the holly hocks.
"I love the warm dry sun — I will go to the sandy desert," said the cactus. So all places except the bare ridges of high mountains were chosen. To these, no flower wished to go.
"There is not enough food there!" the daisy explained.
"There is not enough warmth! There is not enough food!" all decided. " It is so bare and chilly! Let the gray moss go and cover the rocks," they said. But the moss was loath to go.
"When one cannot live without moisture, warmth, nourishment — when one must have petting or live in a garden, surely the bleak places of the mountains must do without flowers! How foolish it would be to try to make the ragged, bare mountain-tops lovely! Let the gray moss go — he has not yet chosen!"
So the gray moss went up the high mountains because he was told to go. He climbed over the bare rocks beyond the places where forests ceased to grow. All was desolate and silent up there.
Up higher and higher crept the gray moss. It went even above the clouds where the ragged rocks were covered with ice and snow.
There it stopped short in amazement, for it found a quiet star-shaped flower clinging to the crags and blossoming! It was white like the snow around it, and its heart was of soft yellow. So cold was it up there that the little flower had cased its leaves in soft wool to keep warm and living in the bleakness.
"Oh!" cried the gray moss, stopping short. "How came you here where there was no warmth, no moisture, no nourishment? It is high above the forests, high above the clouds! I came because I was sent. Who are you?"
Then the little starry flower nodded in the chill wind. "I am the edelweiss," it said. "I came here quietly because there was need of me, that some blossom might brighten these solitudes."
"And didn't they tell you to come?"
"No," said the little flower. "It was because the mountains needed me. There are no flowers up here but me."
The edelweiss is closer to the stars than the daisy, the buttercup, the iris, or the rose. Those who have courage, like it, have found it high above the clouds, where it grows ever gladly. They call it Noble White — that is its name, edelweiss! Love, like the edelweiss, knows not self-sacrifice.


The legend of Edelweiss Flower 1
Edelweiss Flower story

Edelweiss

Long time ago, there was a handsome young man who wanted to climb the Alp Mountain. The mountain was so cold and covered with thick snow. People said that a beautiful fairy lived in that mountain.
The young man wanted to meet the fairy. He also wanted to see the beautiful palace made of ice. Many people tried to climb the mountain but all of them did not succeed. Some of them gave up before they met the fairy and some others could not stand the cold.
This young man was different. He could climb the mountain and did not give up. He climbed and climbed for the whole week. The weather as so cold, but he kept climbing to the fairy’s palace.
He finally met the beautiful fairy, and they fell in love with other immediately. But, the fairy was not happy.
“We can’t live together. My father would not allow me to marry a man,” said the fairy.
“Why not?” asked the young man.
“Because we live in two different worlds. I can’t stay in your world because it is too hot and you can’t stay in my palace because it is too cold. I’m afraid you will die,” explained the fairy.
Therefore, they had to separate. Since that day, the young man promised to himself that he would not marry anyone. The beautiful fairy was so sad that she cried every day. Every time her tears flowed down on the mountain, it became a beautiful white flower called edelweiss.


Short Story - The old man and the tiger

The old man and the tiger
(Favourite story from Chinese)
Kumpulan Short Story
Many years ago a fierce tiger lived on a mountain in north China. It chased any man, woman or child who passed by. The local magistrate offered a reward to anyone who could kill it.  Many tried but lost their lives. At last, the magistrate sent for a famous tiger hunter living in a nearby village.
Kumpulan Short Story
Kumpulan Short Story - the old man and the tiger
When the hunter arrived, everyone came out to have a good look at him. They were disappointed to find that he was a small, old man with a bent back. There was a boy of about twelve or thirteen with him.  “Where is the tiger?” the old man asked. No one answered. “let’s go and catch the big cat in the mountain before doing anything else,” the old man said. Again no one replied. He knew that no one wanted to help him so he waited until the next morning. He then told the magistrate what had happened. The magistrate ordered ten young men to take the old man and his boy to the mountain. When they reached the bottom of the mountain, they were afraid to go any further. “Come on!” cried the old man “Don’t be afraid! I will show you how to kill the tiger.”
Kumpulan Short Story
Just before they reached the tiger’s cave, the old man told them to stop. “Dig a deep hole in front of me,” he ordered. “Cover it with leaves.” When they had done this he said, “I shall now tell the boy to roar like a tiger. When the tiger comes out of his cave, you must all hide behind the nearest rock. I shall face the tiger alone.”
Kumpulan Short Story
He then ordered the boy to roar like a tiger. The tiger come leaping out of his cave. It ran towards the old man who stood waiting for it with a long spear in his hand. Just before it reached him. It fell into the deep hole which had been dug in the ground. The old man leant over the hole and stabbed the tiger with his spear many times.
Kumpulan Short Story
“It is dead!” he cried. “It will never cause you any more trouble.”
The villagers living in that place praised the old man for his bravery and skill. They asked him to become their leader.


The Men With Green Faces

It's been six months since my grandpa Walter J. Montgomery passed away. He died in his sleep at the age of ninety-two, in the spare bedroom of my home where he had been living for the past five years. I am just now in his old house, packing things up, making this process of his finale complete. Well, I'm not really in his house actually. I'm sitting on the rocking chair right outside, on the front porch, taking a much-needed break.
I've got two items in my hands on this break of mine. A soon-to-be-opened bottle of Steelhead Ale that I've brought with me all the way from my home in Humboldt County; and one simple photograph that I've just found in a drawer. The ale has a distinct flavor to it, and for anyone who knows beer the way I do, they'll tell you that within this flavor is a subtle richness all its own. It's quite likely, in fact, that if you were to discretely pour a glass of this ale for a fellow beverage connoisseur, one sip is all it would take for them to realize what they were drinking. But I've been staring at this photograph for an hour already, and as a marine sniper with twenty years of experience, there isn't a person alive who could convince me that I've got shitty eyesight. Yet nonetheless...
Some things in life never change much. My grandpa's house is a one-bedroom cabin in the rugged mountains five miles north-east of Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. Other than a few loose floor boards, some rotted siding on the south side, and a cracked kitchen window, this place is still exactly how I remembered it for all those times I've been here. It's still surrounded by a grove of pine trees, and it still overlooks that small lake right there, just past the green grass and rickety dock in front of me. I saw a moose standing in a bed of reeds on the west-end of the lake just this morning. Probably the same one I saw five years ago, when I came up here to get my grandpa.
On that day, Grandpa had been sitting on this very rocking chair as I came walking up from my truck. He wore green overalls and leather work boots, as if he had just finished cutting some wood, or was about to. But on his head was his faded blue, tattered ball cap from the Ford Motor Company. Grandpa won that cap at some auto-rally when he was eighteen years old, and for the entirety of his life, he only wore it on special occasions. Some things in life never change.
But then again, there's this photograph in my hand. And it's of something completely out of this world. And as much as my head keeps telling me I've up and gone insane, or that maybe the altitude of these mountains have affected my way of thinking, I know my eyes have never lied to me. I'm opening this beer now, because even though some things never change...some things obviously do. And when that which changes happens to be your own sense of reality, well, let's just say alcohol knows how to help smooth things over during a moment like this.
The Viet Cong used to call Navy Seals, "the men with green faces." They came up with this term on account that the Seals painted their faces in shades of green and brown, helping them to blend in with their environment. Before their whole world would get lit up in a classic ambush that rained a barrage of .223 rounds, and half a dozen Claymore mines, some of these Viet Cong undoubtedly spotted a few of those white, hungry eyes staring out from the framed tapestry of the surrounding jungle; men with green faces. But I'll tell you right now, that those Viet Cong were in no way the first ones to come up with that term. And that those Navy Seals, with their painted skin and predatory eyes, weren't the first ones to be called by such a name.
February 5th, Nineteen forty-five. The Battle of Hurtgen Forest, near the Belgian--German border. That's where my grandpa, and four other infantryman from his platoon had been rescued by what they called, "men with green faces." On patrol, they had gotten lost and wound up deep behind enemy lines. Surrounded by Germans. The winter coldness was bone-chilling, and tore at the platoon's morale like shreds of steel grated over soft flesh. But they fought with desperation, believing as they did, that surrender to the Nazi war machine would grant them a fate far worse than death.
And so then they died. Mowed down with gunfire. Blown to bits by grenades. Stabbed with bayonets. Men of the U.S. 28th Infantry Division, my grandfather's platoon, were slaughtered in a fierce battle with the Germans somewhere in that thick, snow ridden Hurtgen Forest--all except for those five men.
No one believed their story of course, when they were found two weeks later after the battle which had decimated most of them. Soldiers from the American Army, fellow brothers of that war, simply balked at the tale those five men spun pertaining to how they survived the German onslaught. They were given over to doctors to check their bodies, and their minds. They were suggested to be mentally incapacitated, gone insane from the horror they had endured in that forest, and then swiftly sent home to spend the remainder of the war in a cozy hospital.
But photos never lie.
A local European newspaper ran a story about my grandfather and those four other men. How they were found in a half-starved state of decrepit brokenness. And where they were found. What had surrounded them: The ring of filleted bodies.
"How could we have done this?" my grandpa explained to his commander, in defense of his outrageous allegory of how they had been rescued. And over the years of my life, I heard my grandpa's version of this story only three times--all by way of eavesdropping on a conversation between him and my father. But each time, Grandpa's story was always the same, and in complete collaboration with what that European newspaper had printed.
In the final moments of battle, as those Americans were being overrun by Germans, massacred by a dreadful blitzkrieg, all at once there came a deafening blare from a great horn in the sky above. It was so loud that each and every man, German and American alike, stood frozen on the battlefield in complete awe. And then there came the blinding white light.
"It was all in their hands, then," said Grandpa. "The men with green faces dropped down from gray clouds, their hands extended into razor-sharp blades...all four of them. Four hands, that is."
He went on to explain what those creatures looked like, and how they moved. Ten feet tall maybe. Bald green heads, large eyes with thick eyebrows, green faces with braided strands of purple facial hair at least a foot long. And four lengthy arms, each wielding a terrible blade.
"They moved like insects--you know? Jittery. Hoppy-like." He said they also jumped really high, and really far. They danced around the battlefield and all the soldiers like cats playing with dead mice. And then the Germans began to scream and shout, cursing obscenities in their native tongue while those things darted back and forth, slicing them up. Slicing them up real good, cutting and hacking, tearing apart human bodies limb by limb. A mass butchery.
The newspaper ran the article, and the Army was outraged: American soldiers saved from certain death by the Germans, thanks to "other-worldly" creatures with green faces, and four arms, and large bodies seemingly immune to German bullets, and German grenades, and German bayonets. It went something like that.
But those photos were there in that article. How could those men have done that? How could those five Americans who were found half-starved, frozen from both cold and terror, able to not only defeat that German army of over five hundred soldiers, but also mutilate their bodies in the fashion in which they were discovered? And then pile them high into a colossal ring?
There were three pictures in that article. One was of my grandpa, and those other four men sitting in the back of a truck, blankets wrapped around them, their faces hollow and thin. It was obvious that they had been shivering from cold and fear. You could see it past their smiles, and in their eyes.
And then there was the picture of the ring of bodies. "It gave us shelter from the snow storms. Maybe that's why we stayed in there." That was the statement taken from one of those men, as quoted underneath the photograph. Over one-hundred feet in diameter, and ten feet high. Five-hundred German soldiers ripped to shreds and woven amongst each other to create a great, circular wall of grisly death.
And then a final picture; a close-up shot at the face of one of those Germans. His ending was nothing short of absolute terror. That, you could also see in his eyes, past his screaming face locked forever in a grim howl due to a complete and sudden death.
"How could we have done this?" my grandpa insisted. And then they sent him away.
I'm a grown man. I've been in two wars myself. Hell, I've even worked alongside men with green faces: the Navy Seals. I've seen a lot in my life, but to tell the truth, I've never had much of an opinion about my grandpa's amazing story. Perhaps my mind has always been too afraid to confront the possibility that my father's dad was a raving lunatic. That he wasn't meant to endure the grim realities of war, and that he himself, along with those other guys simply snapped.
Yet that doesn't explain how he survived what he did. Or how those Germans were killed, and piled up like that. And now, as I sit here in this chair and stare at this photograph--this fourth picture that should've been in that article, God-damnit--I'm finding that maybe it's me who's turned into a raving lunatic. Maybe I'm the one who's gone insane; unable to cope with the grim realities of having my entire life filleted, then woven into a colossal ring of denial that my mind just can't seem to accept. Or won't accept.
I'm opening another bottle of Steelhead Ale, as I stare at this photograph once more. I'm seeing those creatures my grandpa talked about. They're standing out on a bleak field of snow, eyes off in the distance as if searching for something, or taking in a spectacular view from atop a mountain. I can see that they each have four arms, long and muscular. They've got thick eyebrows that frame huge eyes, and faces that might be green if this photo wasn't taken in black and white. And their faces end in a trail of long facial hair, braided, like rope hanging from their jaws. They look as if they might be standing a full ten-feet high...but that's just a guess.
These are the men that saved my grandpa and those other Americans, I know this now. These are the men who fell from a gray sky, like angels descended from heaven, only to deliver a fury of death upon five-hundred German soldiers. The same men who, after killing all those soldiers, used their razor sharp blades to butcher them, and weave their bodies into a ring of death. These are the men with green faces, and yes, they are most definitely beings from another world. In fact, there's nothing in this photograph that would convince me otherwise. Not even the tattered ball cap stenciled with the words "Ford Motor Company," as placed on the bald head of the one standing in the foreground, eyes staring at the camera.



Bio: Beginning at 5:00 a.m., Chris spends the only available lot of solitary time he gets in a day feeding his addiction to writing. If he's lucky, he'll get two hours in before "they" wake up, after which he lives a wonderful life as a family man, and special education teacher. His stories have been accepted at a number of publishers includingCover of Darkness, Midwest Literary Magazine, Bete NoireThe Absent Willow Review, Underground Voices, Residential Aliens, and Bards and Sages Quarterly.
You can reach him at chakalives@gmail.com, or at his static blog; frombehindthebluedoor.wordpress.com.
Source:            http://www.short-story.me/horror-stories/430-the-men-with-green-faces.html

A Helping Hand

Hands, not eyes, are the windows to the soul. The study of hands has long been a fascination for people the world over. Palmistry began several hundred years before the birth of Christ. Leonardo Da Vinci is famous for his artistic study of human hands. I am no different in my quest for the knowledge hidden in hands.
Experts say there are several things that can be discerned from just a handshake. The size of the hand can determine a person’s personality or occupation. It’s a common misconception that pianists have long fingers; instead, they often have shorter, stronger fingers, which are more suitable for the repetition of playing the instrument daily. Jewelers and craftsmen who are accustomed to finer detail have thinner, longer fingers.
They say soft handed people run out of energy faster. Also, with the new generation of video game players, softer hands reveal a lack of any kind of labor or adventurous sport in their lives. Those hands disgust me. While firm handed people often have more energy and vigor for life; those are my favorite. To think people put such little stock into a handshake.
Even the care of one’s hands helps identify much about their lives. Rough callused hands with dirt around the edges indicate a manual laborer. Men and women with well-groomed hands often work desk jobs. Some people have hands that are a mixture of the two often meaning they enjoy activities involving their hands such as gardening or working on their sports cars.
No one ever wants to shake my hand, or rather my claw. I often force handshakes just to see how uncomfortable it makes everyone. No one can shake my hand without becoming squeamish and everyone pretends not to notice, but the look in their eyes says it all.
Ectrodactyly is the proper term for the mutilations that I have for hands. My mother was a drug addict, which led to such a rare deformity. Did you know there is no information in palmistry related to claws? Also, pincers aren’t at the top of the list of subjects for artists.
It’s a shame people take such precious things for granted. Hands and fingers are used for virtually every part of life. From eating to computer work to pissing and shitting, you have to wipe with something, hands are the most integral part of each waking moment. Hands can even perform miracles through CPR and surgery. People don’t appreciate them and that’s what I’ve been put on this earth for, to help people appreciate what they have.
At the moment, I’m at a business conference I don’t belong in searching for a perfect pair of hands. Business conferences force the shaking of hands no matter how much the other party is repulsed by the sight of my claws.
My nametag says Henry, but that’s not my name. I like to visit hotels looking for conferences or meetings. Often, they don’t know who is supposed to be there, and I can slip in without a second glance. I dress well, but not too well. It’s best to blend in. I only shake the hands of people I’ve watched. I watch them have a drink, shake other people’s hands, and write on their notepads.
Once I’ve found my favorite of the group, I introduce myself and shake their hand. I like hands that are firm, groomed, and dry. Moist handshakes are the worst. I want hands that are capable not pitiful. I want hands that have been used just enough to make them strong but not too much to have worn them out.
After we shake hands, we exchange business cards. I now have their place of business, phone number, and email address. It’s that easy. I stick around the conference just long enough and then while no one is watching, I step out to “use the restroom” and I leave. Then, the fun begins.
I place the business card in my wallet and drive back home. A quick Internet search finds Michael A. Nasser in the white pages complete with his approximate age, household information, and most importantly his address and home phone number. Now, I wait.
Prison is not somewhere I plan on going to, so I have to be patient. During the waiting period, I will usually follow my hands a bit to learn their schedule. It’s good when they go out for drinks or have occasional schedule irregularities, because then a disappearance isn’t noticed as quickly.
Luckily for me, Michael A. Nasser is the picture of normality. He has a wife and kids, he works out at the gym, he spends time bowling, and most importantly he goes out alone on occasional errands. After six weeks of waiting, I’m ready. The urge can’t wait any more, but I can quiet it enough to be thorough.
I decide to meet him before going into the gym. He’ll remember my face well enough to come and speak to me.
He pulls into the parking lot and I get out of my car at the same time. When he gets out I’m ready.
“Michael? Michael Nasser? Is that you? I didn’t know you worked out here.”
“Yes, and you are....” He replies clearly trying to place a name with my face.
“Henry Weldt. We met at the investment conference a few weeks ago” I say walking over to him. “I was actually going to call you to see about consolidating and reworking my finances.”
“Well, I’d be happy to help. Just give me a call and we can set up a meeting.” He starts to walk away. He is clearly in hurry to stop this conversation. He’s probably afraid I’ll try to shake his hand again. Rage brews inside me.
“Sure, actually if you wouldn’t mind I have a few quick things from my stock portfolio I would love for you to take a look at. Could you spare a few minutes?”
Being the normal guy he is, Michael A. Nasser steps over to my car to look at my “portfolio.” As soon as he leans over, I put the chloroform over his face.
I may only have claws, but tightly gripping a handkerchief over someone’s mouth and nose is something I was born to do. I work out regularly just so I can maintain the strength to squelch any resistance. Shortly after, he’s in the car, and we’re on the way without a single car driving by or person in the parking lot.
When he comes to, he’s strapped to a chair in my basement. I’m sure he’s scared.
I change my modus operandi often enough to avoid suspicion. I always travel to find my prizes and usually I go quite far. I own a couple of properties, so I’m not always at the same area. I choose male and female hands from all socioeconomic backgrounds. Also, I don’t always kill; I’m not a monster after all.
Sometimes I get my trophies at random. I don’t always research I sometimes act opportunistically. Usually they don’t see me at all and in that case, I let them live. I just take one or both of their hands so they can truly appreciate what they had. Sometimes I check in on them months later to see if they’ve learned to be thankful for what they have or had in life. I always keep the hands in formaldehyde rather than leaving rotting flesh lying around. It’s the perfection of the hand I admire and want to preserve.
Michael A. Nasser is currently looking around at my collection too shocked to scream. But as usual, the screaming comes. I have him gagged, which muffles most of the noise and sound proofing blocks the rest. I wait for him to calm down; I prefer to use as little violence as possible. Hands weren’t made for too much violence, not even my claws were made for useless battery.
“You’re probably wondering why you’re here and what’s going to happen to you.” My voice is calm even though the excitement and agitation is welling up inside of me.
He nods his head; tears are in his eyes.
“Well, I want to make this as easy as possible, so I’ll tell you everything straight. I don’t feel there is a need for games at this point.”
He stares blankly with wide eyes like a deer.
“You have something that belongs to me, something that should have been mine from my birth. Even worse, you don’t appreciate what you have that’s mine, and I intend to make you understand and to take it back.”
He starts crying, which I can’t understand, because I haven’t even told him what’s going to happen yet. I cross my arms and stare at him waiting for him to collect himself again.
“Are you finished?” He nods his head and stares up at me again. “I’m going to have to remove your hands....”
He’s screaming again and I can’t finish my sentence. His hands are clenched in fists. I feel the rage boil inside me again. How dare he make such a crude gesture with my beautiful, perfect hands. I grab my butcher knife. He’s blubbering like an idiot and screaming some more; I yell at him.
“I didn’t want to raise my voice; I wanted this to be civil. So just SHUT UP.”
He quiets down a bit, but is still crying. I grab his left thumb and hold up the knife. I was going to keep both his hands intact, but he’s left me no choice.
“The thumb is one of the most important parts of the body since we use it every day. It marks the evolution of our species from walking on all fours to walking upright. Scientists also believe it coincides with the development of larger brains. Spiritualists believe it has to do with a person’s will and that a perfect thumb is one that is a good length and stretches up to the middle joint of the index finger, much like yours does.”
I let the knife fall and the screaming starts again. I cauterize the wound, apply local anesthetic, and wash up.
“You can stop screaming now; it won’t help your situation and the anesthetic should be kicking in now.”
Michael A. Nasser begins to calm down again. I bring the thumb, which is now resting safely in formaldehyde over to him.
“The shape of the thumb is perfect.” I say pointing out each detail. “It’s well rounded at the top and slims down so that the middle section is slightly smaller. This represents a balanced will, intellect, and a loving personality.”
I set the jar back down as he stares at me in awe. Then, he does something stupid. He tries to head butt me or some other nonsense and causes the perfect thumb to crash on the floor.
I quickly remove his right hand and slit his throat. I hate being so brutal; I had originally planned on this being a civil, polite matter, as civil as can be anyway. I was even considering letting him live. How else was I going to get him to appreciate his hands?
It’s always a shame when things don’t go as planned.

Rachel Sloan currently resides in Murfreesboro, TN with her fiance, dog, and cat. She graduated from Middle Tennessee State University with a degree in journalism. She writes short horror stories as time off from work allows her.
 Source:                 http://www.short-story.me/horror-stories/567-a-helping-hand.html

Jumat, 18 Oktober 2013

My unforgettable experience



Pangandaran Beach

The tour to Pangandaran Beach started on holiday of National Test in May 5th 2013.Mother and I with many couple in our RT 01 decided to go to Pangandaran Beach by bus. At the first my mom and dad have decided together but my older sister has Math test ,my father choose to not go with my mother so I replace him That was very interesting tour. In our way we talk so much and together with my mom made me feel exited.
The tour to Pangandaran Beach began at 9.00 p.m. in the evening and it took 7 hours to Pangandaran Beach. There were so many story in our tour because the contents of the bus elders we had several stops on the road about 10 or even more.
We arrived at Pangandaran Beach at 5.00 a.m. and we can see sunrise in pangan daran beach is very wonderful and I take many photograph of that. At the first Mom and I with my 4 u’a  go by big odong-odong. It’s to hard to ride it because so heavy.The road uphill is most difficult. My guess was that odong-odong the moment we climb the hill going down instead turned into panic and finally we all got off the odong-odong but the odong-odong is out of control and almost hit a pedicab fortunately there are some people who help us. I laughing loud and embarrassed.
After that we split up because my ua will spend the streets alone together. Mom and I went to buy some dried fish jambal and processed marine. And do not forget to buy a shirt and souvenir  marine products for my family at home. On the way home looks a seller sawo and I asked my mother to buy him. We bought the sawo. But my mom bought raw sawo, when I asked why she replied that no foul when we take it back home, but the seller gave me a ripe sawo  and I tasted it. Very sweet and I did not forget to thank to her. Having arrived at hotel my leg is my legs are very achy my mom said it because I rarely exercise .After lunch I asked my mom to go to the beach, but at that time the waves fairly great so we played for a while there, but I took photos there with his mother.
We left there at 3:00 pm and got home at 8:00 pm. It was an unforgettable experience.