The Necklace by Guy de Maupassant. The Necklace She was one of those pretty and charming girls born, as though fate had blundered over her, into a family of artisans. She had no marriage portion, no expectations, no means of getting known, understood, loved, and wedded by a man of wealth and distinction; and she let herself be married off to a little clerk in the Ministry of Education. Her tastes were simple because she had never been able to afford any other, but she was as unhappy as though she had married beneath her; for women have no caste or class, their beauty, grace, and charm serving them for birth or family, their natural delicacy, their instinctive elegance, their nimbleness of wit, are their only mark of rank, and put the slum girl on a level with the highest lady in the land. She suffered endlessly, feeling herself born for every delicacy and luxury. She suffered from the poorness of her house, from its mean walls, worn chairs, and ugly curtains.
She had no clothes, no jewels, nothing. "Nothing. "Yes. "What! Harrison Bergeron. French Translation from Avice Robitaille. Hindi Translation by Ashwin.Urdu Translation by RealMSRussian translation THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren't only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Pedestrian-by-bradbury-1.pdf. I Am a Zombie Filled With Love - by Isaac Marion. By Isaac Marion I am a zombie, and it's not so bad. I'm learning to live with it. I'm sorry I can't properly introduce myself, but I don't have a name anymore. Hardly any of us do. We forget them, like anniversaries and PIN numbers.
I think mine might have started with a "T", but I'm not sure. Before I became a zombie, I think I was a businessman or young professional of some kind. We like to joke and speculate about our remaining outfits, since these final fashion choices are usually the only indication of who we were before we became no-one. You were a plumber. It usually doesn't. No one I know has any specific memories. There are a few hundred of us living in a wide plain of dust outside some large city. But it makes me sad that we've forgotten our names. Today a group of us are going into town to find some food. The city where the people live is not that far. I guess the world has mostly ended, because the cities we wander through are decaying as fast as we are. I like her. End. The Lottery--Shirley Jackson. THE MACHINE STOPS ... E.M. Forster. Imagine, if you can, a small room, hexagonal in shape, like the cell of a bee.
It is lighted neither by window nor by lamp, yet it is filled with a soft radiance. There are no apertures for ventilation, yet the air is fresh. There are no musical instruments, and yet, at the moment that my meditation opens, this room is throbbing with melodious sounds. An armchair is in the centre, by its side a reading-desk-that is all the furniture. And in the armchair there sits a swaddled lump of flesh-a woman, about five feet high, with a face as white as a fungus. An electric bell rang. The woman touched a switch and the music was silent. "I suppose I must see who it is", she thought, and set her chair in motion.
"Who is it? " But when she listened into the receiver, her white face wrinkled into smiles, and she said: "Very well. She touched the isolation knob, so that no one else could speak to her. "Be quick! " "Kuno, how slow you are. " He smiled gravely. "I really believe you enjoy dawdling. " "Well? "