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张在新

John Zaixin Zhang

 
 
 

日志

 
 

故事结尾  

2012-11-30 00:05:58|  分类: Book 2: Writing |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

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Endings from Narrative Stories by Professional Writers

      From “Feuille d’Album” by Katherine Mansfield

She suddenly turned into the dairy and he saw her through the window buying an egg. She picked it out of the basket with such care—a brown one, a beautifully shaped one, the one he would have chosen. And when she came out of the dairy he went in after her. In a moment he was out again, and following her past his house across the flower market, dodging among the huge umbrellas and treading on the fallen flowers and the round marks where the pots had stood.... Through her door he crept and up the stairs after, taking care to tread in time with her so that she should not notice. Finally, she stopped on the landing, and took the key out of her purse. As she put it into the door he ran up and faced her.

 Blushing more crimson than ever, but looking at her severely he said, almost angrily: “Excuse me, Mademoiselle, you dropped this.”

 

 From “The Story of an Hour” by Kate Chopin

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister’s importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine’s piercing cry, at Richards’ quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.

 When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease—of the joy that kills.

 

From “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson

 The children had stones already, and someone gave little Davy Hutchinson a few pebbles.

 Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. “It isn’t fair,” she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head.

 Old Man Warner was saying, “Come on, come on, everyone.” Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers with Mrs. Graves beside him.

 “It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,” Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

 

From “Mr. Know-All” by Somerset Maugham

 Next morning I got up and began to shave. Mr. Kelada lay on his bed smoking a cigarette. Suddenly there was a small scraping sound and I saw a letter pushed under the door. I opened the door and looked out. There was nobody there. I picked up the letter and saw that it was addressed to Max Kelada. The name was written in block letters. I handed it to him.

 “Who’s this from?” He opened it. “Oh!”

 He took out of the envelope, not a letter, but a hundred-dollar bill. He looked at me and again he reddened. He tore the envelope into little bits and gave them to me.

 “Do you mind just throwing them out of the porthole?”

 I did as he asked, and then I looked at him with a smile.

 “No one likes being made to look a perfect damned fool,” he said.

 “Were the pearls real?”

 “If I had a pretty little wife I shouldn’t let her spend a year in New York while I stayed at Kobe,” said he.

 At that moment I did not entirely dislike Mr. Kelada. He reached out for his pocketbook and carefully put in it the hundred-dollar note.

 

From “The Last Leaf” by O. Henry

“I have something to tell you, white mouse,” she said. “Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia today in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him on the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn’t imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and—look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn’t you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it’s Behrman’s masterpiece—he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell.”

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