How to Tell a Story 2 (ARTICLE)

The beginning (Act I) will consist of two parts:

The Introduction, and Rising Action.

The Introduction will introduce the characters, the setting, the goal of the story, and the main villain, or antagonist.

Rising Action is the second part of the story, and it will be a set of scenes that get the characters moving in the direction of the story goal.

Often a mentor will be introduced to help the character learn some truth that they will need to accomplish the goal or to give the characters some kind of aid.

Usually there will be some sort of conflict in the early stages of a story as the characters pursue the story. are sentinels that guard some kind of doorway into a deeper level of the story.

In the early stages of a story, the conflict will slowly rise, creating a greater sense of urgency. The stakes should become greater, further motivating the characters. Every storyteller should ask himself, "what's at stake here?" in every scene.

Act I could consist of a single scene, or it could be two or more scenes in length, depending on how much time the storyteller wants to spend on the story, & the desired pace (how quickly the story progresses).

The middle of the story (Act II) is the largest part of the story, taking up about 50% of its time. The function of this part is to develop the characters and the conflict.

Tests or challenges will often confront the characters in this section. Each of these small goals could provide an element that is needed to defeat the villain or an object to complete the quest.

Allies are new characters that are introduced to aid the characters in their quest.

New enemies are also introduced in this section of the story, as the plot becomes more complicated.

Act II consists of two parts:

Complications and the Crisis.

Complications in the story make things more interesting for the characters. Often a major plot twist is introduced here which will force the main character to change, becoming fully committed, strengthening or clarifying his motivation. This will often be a point of no return.

The Crisis is the lowest point in the story, where everything looks hopeless. This will force the characters to make a crucial decision, leading to the climax of the story.

The end of the story (Act III) is where the main villain is finally overcome and the quest is completed.

The final climax of the story is a scene that everything in the story has been pointing towards. It can be a surprise, but is should be a logical progression of the events in the past. Sometimes in a short story, the climax will be the first (and perhaps the only) scene.

The most important parts of a story are the first scene, where the villain and goal are introduced, and the climax.

Story Endings

There are many ways to end a story, but the end of a story will be of two main kinds:

An open ended story is where the quest has been completed, but not everything has been finished, leaving room for the audience to imagine their own ending.

A closed story is where everything has been completed, creating an obvious ending for the audience.

Characters should be presented with some kind of moral choice at the end of a story, which forces them to finally overcome their character flaw.

This will create a fundamental change in the nature of the character.

After the villain is defeated and the character has changed, the story will be over.

Act III consists of two parts:

The climax, and the resolution.

The climax is a final scene that will often take place in the villain's home, but it could be anywhere else. This scene is where the characters fight and defeat the villain, and obtain the goal of their quest.

The resolution, also called the denouement, is a final scene that shows the outcome of the events of the story. This is where the storyteller shows the consequences of the actions taken in the story.

In quest stories, there will often be some kind of elixir that is given to the society at large, brought back by the characters, which will change their world forever. The item brought back will put everything back into balance that was thrown out of whack by the inciting incident.

A simple example could be a quest for fire.

In the start of the story, the primitive town has lost their fire. The characters could go on a quest to "steal fire from the gods," returning with the object of their quest (fire), which will restore the balance of their world.

This part of the story is also where the character is shown to have overcome their main character flaw, often expressed by the accomplishment of a simple task that was impossible before. Their inner need will then be satisfied.

How to Tell a Story 1 (ARTICLE)

Storytelling is one of the oldest pastimes. Everyone loves a great story, but it is often difficult to find someone that is good at telling one. The best way to learn how to tell a story is to read books on the subject, such as "How to Tell a Story" by Peter Rubie and Gary Provost, or any other book published by Writers Digest Books. Perhaps the two best books on the subject are, "Anatomy of Story" by John Truby and "Zen and the Art of Writing" by Ray Bradbury.

Most people, unfortunately never take the time to learn basic storytelling techniques, and when they try to tell a tale, they find themselves losing their audience. Others refuse to study storytelling techniques because they fear they will lose their creativity by following formulaic story structures.

However, like building a house, there are definite things that you need to know in order to tell a story. Learning how to read blueprints, how to swing a hammer, and how to install a roof are as essential to a carpenter as learning how to set up a story, how to write a basic plot outline and how to write a scene are to the storyteller.

So here is a quick primer on how to tell a story. Hopefully, those reading it will be able to gain some insight into the subject, to the pleasure of their future audiences.

Stories consist of three parts:

1. The Beginning.

2. The Middle.

3. The End.

Traditionally, this is why stories are broken down into three acts. Dividing your story into three acts will help you understand basic story structure. However, this technique will only work for simple stories. More complex structures are needed for something like a novel or a screenplay.

There are six parts to a story contained within these three segments:

Act I

1. Introduction.

2. Rising Action.

Act II

3. Complications.

4. Crisis.

Act III

5. Climax.

6. Resolution.

The Beginning (Act I) has three goals:

The first goal is to get the ball rolling by introducing the main characters, & the setting they are in.

The second goal is to hook your audience with something that is exciting and interesting.

The third goal in the start of a story is to introduce the villain and the main story goal.

All three goals should be accomplished very quickly, often in the first scene.

Choosing a setting depends of the kind of story that is being told, and the desires of the storyteller. For instance, a gothic adventure could take place in Hungary or Transylvania, and could be set in the 15th or 16th century. Arthurian tales would take place in England, in an earlier time period. The setting will have a large affect on the way the story is told.

The characters will often take up a large part of the opening of a story, and this can slow things down considerably. Care should be taken to avoid lengthy character introductions, as it can kill a story before it has begun. One of the marks of an amateur storyteller is to use up a large part of the early story introducing characters.

Characters are defined by what they do, not by who they appear to be. A person's actions speak louder than everything else. Many people begin describing a character by their appearance, but in reality these physical traits are the least important things about a person.

Characters should enter a story doing something.

Weakness/Needs

Good characters will have an inner need, such as a need to fall in love, and this internal goal will influence all of the character's actions. Characters also need to have a main character flaw, such as a distrust of the opposite sex.

Characters may have many flaws, but one will override the others, and it will block the character's inner need, preventing the character from getting what he truly wants. Character flaws can be such things as a quick temper, a desire to become rich and powerful, cowardice, etc. This weakness/need is the basis for creating character change, which is what stories are all about.

There are two types of weaknesses:

Psychological and moral.

A psychological weakness is something that harms the character.

A moral weakness is something that harms the character and other people too.

It has been said that a story is not what happens, but who it happens to. A story is about how a character changes by the events in the plot, or said another way; a story is about how a character overcomes his failings.

Many have argued over which aspect of a story is more important, the plot or the characters. In a good story, they will both support each other.

The plot consists of the events that take place in the story and the revelations discovered. The plot directs what happens in the outer story. It is often called the spine of the story.

The characters control what happens in the inner story, by how they react to events of the plot. This part of the tale is also called the heart of the story.

In this way, a good story will consist of two stories being told at once, in parallel to each other.

A good character will always have some level of internal conflict.

Inner conflict is created by the character's inner need rubbing against a main character flaw. This conflict can often be expressed as two emotions fighting against each other. For instance, a character may be greedy, but will also have a need for people to trust him. In a treasure hunting story, the character could be confronted with a situation where his greed will come in direct conflict with his need to be trusted. A good storyteller will often design his plots to affect the characters internal conflicts, so that the characters will be able to overcome their flaws.

Stories are about how a character changes over time by the events in the plot.

The second goal in the start of the story is to hook your audience with an interesting event.

This event is often called the inciting incident.

The inciting incident is an event that drastically alters the character's reality, propelling them into the story. The event must be something that will practically force the characters into the story.

Some examples could include the destruction of the character's town by a marauding army or an angry dragon, the kidnapping of the characters girlfriend by a band of Vikings, the murder of the character's family, etc. Inciting incidents will affect how the story is told, and will provide the characters with motivation to pursue the goal of the story.

Character motivation is one of the most important aspects of a story. The inciting incident must be compelling enough to give the characters a strong desire to do something. Once the characters become emotionally involved in the story, then they will pursue the story goal without feeling like they were forced into it. For instance, imagine a story where the characters are hired to do a job. Then compare it to a story where their sister is kidnapped by an evil necromancer. Which story would motivate them more?

The third goal in the start of a story is to introduce the villain and the story goal.

Villains are often introduced secretly in the start of a story without any-one realizing that they are the main antagonist. These kinds of stores are often mysteries, but they can also be stories where the storyteller wishes the villain to remain secret. In any event, the villain must always be introduced, even if they are simply appearing on stage just to say hello. Often they are brought into a story discretely, simply appearing in the background.

In other cases, a villain may be shown as the obvious antagonist in the story. Sometimes the best way to motivate a character is to have the villain appear, take something valuable from the character and then leave. This can be tricky, since the characters should not be rendered completely helpless by the villain. If this approach is taken, it can show the characters that they need to acquire some kind of object or artifact in order to overcome the villain.

The main story goal should be obvious to everyone. It should be clear enough so that the characters will understand what to do.

Stories are about characters trying to solve a problem.

There will always be something blocking the solution to the problem, creating conflict. For instance, if the characters are trying to pass through a gateway, it could be guarded by the villain's henchmen.

Every scene should have an obvious goal, and something that interferes with the accomplishment of that goal. Stories could have many goals, but one goal will be the overriding concern.

Minor goals could include subplots such as love stories or minor intrigues between characters.

A Dead Body (SHORT STORY)

A still August night. A mist is rising slowly from the fields and casting an opaque veil over everything within eyesight. Lighted up by the moon, the mist gives the impression at one moment of a calm, boundless sea, at the next of an immense white wall. The air is damp and chilly. Morning is still far off. A step from the bye-road which runs along the edge of the forest a little fire is gleaming. A dead body, covered from head to foot with new white linen, is lying under a young oak-tree. A wooden ikon is lying on its breast. Beside the corpse almost on the road sits the “watch”—two peasants performing one of the most disagreeable and uninviting of peasants’ duties. One, a tall young fellow with a scarcely perceptible moustache and thick black eyebrows, in a tattered sheepskin and bark shoes, is sitting on the wet grass, his feet stuck out straight in front of him, and is trying to while away the time with work. He bends his long neck, and breathing loudly through his nose, makes a spoon out of a big crooked bit of wood; the other—a little scraggy, pock-marked peasant with an aged face, a scanty moustache, and a little goat’s beard—sits with his hands dangling loose on his knees, and without moving gazes listlessly at the light. A small camp-fire is lazily burning down between them, throwing a red glow on their faces. There is perfect stillness. The only sounds are the scrape of the knife on the wood and the crackling of damp sticks in the fire.

“Don’t you go to sleep, Syoma …” says the young man.

“I … I am not asleep …” stammers the goat-beard.

“That’s all right.… It would be dreadful to sit here alone, one would be frightened. You might tell me something, Syoma.”

“I … I can’t.…”

“You are a queer fellow, Syomushka! Other people will laugh and tell a story and sing a song, but you—there is no making you out. You sit like a scarecrow in the garden and roll your eyes at the fire. You can’t say anything properly … when you speak you seem frightened. I dare say you are fifty, but you have less sense than a child.… Aren’t you sorry that you are a simpleton?”

“I am sorry,” the goat-beard answers gloomily.

“And we are sorry to see your foolishness, you may be sure. You are a good-natured, sober peasant, and the only trouble is that you have no sense in your head. You should have picked up some sense for yourself if the Lord has afflicted you and given you no understanding. You must make an effort, Syoma.… You should listen hard when anything good’s being said, note it well, and keep thinking and thinking.… If there is any word you don’t understand, you should make an effort and think over in your head in what meaning the word is used. Do you see? Make an effort! If you don’t gain some sense for yourself you’ll be a simpleton and of no account at all to your dying day.”

All at once a long drawn-out, moaning sound is heard in the forest. Something rustles in the leaves as though torn from the very top of the tree and falls to the ground. All this is faintly repeated by the echo. The young man shudders and looks enquiringly at his companion.

“It’s an owl at the little birds,” says Syoma, gloomily.

“Why, Syoma, it’s time for the birds to fly to the warm countries!”

“To be sure, it is time.”

“It is chilly at dawn now. It is co-old. The crane is a chilly creature, it is tender. Such cold is death to it. I am not a crane, but I am frozen.… Put some more wood on!”

Syoma gets up and disappears in the dark undergrowth. While he is busy among the bushes, breaking dry twigs, his companion puts his hand over his eyes and starts at every sound. Syoma brings an armful

The Old Nurse (short story)

You know, my dears, that your mother was an orphan, and an only child; and I dare say you have heard that your grandfather was a clergyman up in Westmorland, where I come from. I was just a girl in the village school, when, one day, your grandmother came in to ask the mistress if there was any scholar there who would do for a nurse-maid; and mighty proud I was, I can tell ye, when the mistress called me up, and spoke to my being a good girl at my needle, and a steady honest girl, and one whose parents were very respectable, though they might be poor. I thought I should like nothing better than to serve the pretty young lady, who was blushing as deep as I was, as she spoke of the coming baby, and what I should have to do with it. However, I see you don’t care so much for this part of my story, as for what you think is to come, so I’ll tell you at once. I was engaged and settled at the parsonage before Miss Rosamond (that was the baby, who is now your mother) was born. To be sure, I had little enough to do with her when she came, for she was never out of her mother’s arms, and slept by her all night long; and proud enough was I sometimes when missis trusted her to me. There never was such a baby before or since, though you’ve all of you been fine enough in your turns; but for sweet, winning ways, you’ve none of you come up to your mother. She took after her mother, who was a real lady born; a Miss Furnivall, a granddaughter of Lord Furnivall’s, in Northumberland. I believe she had neither brother nor sister, and had been brought up in my lord’s family till she had married your grandfather, who was just a curate, son to a shopkeeper in Carlisle—but a clever, fine gentleman as ever was—and one who was a right- down hard worker in his parish, which was very wide, and scattered all abroad over the Westmorland Fells. When your mother, little Miss Rosamond, was about four or five years old, both her parents died in a fortnight—one after the other. Ah! that was a sad time. My pretty young mistress and me was looking for another baby, when my master came home from one of his long rides, wet, and tired, and took the fever he died of; and then she never held up her head again, but just lived to see her dead baby, and have it laid on her breast before she sighed away her life. My mistress had asked me, on her death- bed, never to leave Miss Rosamond; but if she had never spoken a word, I would have gone with the little child to the end of the world.

The next thing, and before we had well stilled our sobs, the executors and guardians came to settle the affairs. They were my poor young mistress’s own cousin, Lord Furnivall, and Mr. Esthwaite, my master’s brother, a shopkeeper in Manchester; not so well-to-do then as he was afterwards, and with a large family rising about him. Well! I don’t know if it were their settling, or because of a letter my mistress wrote on her death-bed to her cousin, my lord; but somehow it was settled that Miss Rosamond and me were to go to Furnivall Manor House, in Northumberland, and my lord spoke as if it had been her mother’s wish that she should live with his family, and as if he had no objections, for that one or two more or less could make no difference in so grand a household. So, though that was not the way in which I should have wished the coming of my bright and pretty pet to have been looked at—who was like a sunbeam in any family, be it never so grand—I was well pleased that all the folks in the Dale should stare and admire, when they heard I was going to be young lady’s maid at my Lord Furnivall’s at Furnivall Manor.

But I made a mistake in thinking we were to go and live where my lord did. It turned out that the family had left Furnivall Manor House fifty years or more. I could not hear that my poor young mistress had ever been there, though she had been brought up in the family; and I was sorry for that, for I should have liked Miss Rosamond’s youth to have passed where her mother’s had been.

My lord’s gentleman, from whom I asked as many questions as I durst, said that the Manor House was at the foot of the Cumberland Fells, and a very grand place; that an old Miss Furnivall, a great-aunt of my lord’s, lived there, with only a few servants; but that it was a very healthy place, and my lord had thought that it would suit Miss Rosamond very well for a few years, and that her being there might perhaps amuse his old aunt.

I was bidden by my lord to have Miss Rosamond’s things ready by a certain day. He was a stern proud man, as they say all the Lords Furnivall were; and he never spoke a word more than was necessary. Folk did say he had loved my young mistress; but that, because she knew that his father would object, she would never listen to him, and married Mr. Esthwaite; but I don’t know. He never married at any

An Artist's Story (short story)

It was six or seven years ago when I was living in one of the districts of the province of T—, on the estate of a young landowner called Byelokurov, who used to get up very early, wear a peasant tunic, and continually complain to me that he never met with sympathy from anyone. He lived in the lodge in the garden, and I in the old seigniorial house, in a big room with columns, where there was no furniture except a wide sofa on which I used to sleep, and a table on which I used to lay out patience. There was always, even in still weather, a droning noise in the old Amos stoves, and in thunderstorms the whole house shook and seemed to be cracking into pieces; and it was rather terrifying, especially at night, when all then ten big windows were suddenly lit up by lightning.

Condemned by destiny to perpetual idleness, I did absolutely nothing. For hours together I gazed out of the window at the sky, at the birds, at the avenue, read everything that was brought me by post, slept. Sometimes I went out of the house and wandered about till late in the evening.

One day as I was returning home, I accidentally strayed into a place I did not know. The sun was already sinking, and the shades of evening lay across the flowering rye. Two rows of old, closely planted, very tall fir-trees stood like two dense walls forming a picturesque, gloomy avenue. I easily climbed over the fence and walked along the avenue, slipping over the fir-needles which lay two inches deep on the ground. It was still and dark, and only here and there on the high tree-tops the vivid golden light quivered and made rainbows in the spiders’ webs. There was a strong, almost stifling smell of resin. Then I turned into a long avenue of limes. Here, too, all was desolation and age; last year’s leaves rustled mournfully under my feet and in the twilight shadows lurked between the trees. From the old orchard on the right came the faint, reluctant note of the golden oriole, who must have been old too. But at last the limes ended. I walked by an old white house of two storeys with a terrace, and there suddenly opened before me a view of a courtyard, a large pond with a bathing-house, a group of green willows, and a village on the further bank, with a high, narrow belfry on which there glittered a cross reflecting the setting sun.

For a moment it breathed upon me the fascination of something near and very familiar, as though I had seen that landscape at some time in my childhood.

At the white stone gates which led from the yard to the fields, old-fashioned solid gates with lions on them, were standing two girls. One of them, the elder, a slim, pale, very handsome girl with a perfect haystack of chestnut hair and a little obstinate mouth, had a severe expression and scarcely took notice of me, while the other, who was still very young, not more than seventeen or eighteen, and was also slim and pale, with a large mouth and large eyes, looked at me with astonishment as I passed by, said something in English, and was overcome with embarrassment. And it seemed to me that these two charming faces, too, had long been familiar to me. And I returned home feeling as though I had had a delightful dream.

One morning soon afterwards, as Byelokurov and I were walking near the house, a carriage drove unexpectedly into the yard, rustling over the grass, and in it was sitting one of those girls. It was the elder one. She had come to ask for subscriptions for some villagers whose cottages had been burnt down. Speaking with great earnestness and precision, and not looking at us, she told us how many houses in the village of Siyanovo had been burnt, how many men, women, and children were left homeless, and what steps were proposed, to begin with, by the Relief Committee, of which she was now a member. After handing us the subscription list for our signatures, she put it away and immediately began to take leave of us.

‘You have quite forgotten us, Pyotr Petrovitch,’ she said to Byelokurov as she shook hands with him. ‘Do come, and if Monsieur N. (she mentioned my name) cares to make the acquaintance of admirers of his work, and will come and see us, mother and I will be delighted.’

I bowed.

A Lady's Story (short story)

Nine years ago Pyotr Sergeyitch, the deputy prosecutor, and I were riding towards evening in haymaking time to fetch the letters from the station.

The weather was magnificent, but on our way back we heard a peal of thunder, and saw an angry black storm-cloud which was coming straight towards us. The storm-cloud was approaching us and we were approaching it.

Against the background of it our house and church looked white and the tall poplars shone like silver. There was a scent of rain and mown hay. My companion was in high spirits. He kept laughing and talking all sorts of nonsense. He said it would be nice if we could suddenly come upon a medieval castle with turreted towers, with moss on it and owls, in which we could take shelter from the rain and in the end be killed by a thunderbolt.…

Then the first wave raced through the rye and a field of oats, there was a gust of wind, and the dust flew round and round in the air. Pyotr Sergeyitch laughed and spurred on his horse.

“It’s fine!” he cried, “it’s splendid!”

Infected by his gaiety, I too began laughing at the thought that in a minute I should be drenched to the skin and might be struck by lightning.

Riding swiftly in a hurricane when one is breathless with the wind, and feels like a bird, thrills one and puts one’s heart in a flutter. By the time we rode into our courtyard the wind had gone down, and big drops of rain were pattering on the grass and on the roofs. There was not a soul near the stable.

Pyotr Sergeyitch himself took the bridles off, and led the horses to their stalls. I stood in the doorway waiting for him to finish, and watching the slanting streaks of rain; the sweetish, exciting scent of hay was even stronger here than in the fields; the storm-clouds and the rain made it almost twilight.

“What a crash!” said Pyotr Sergeyitch, coming up to me after a very loud rolling peal of thunder when it seemed as though the sky were split in two. “What do you say to that?”

He stood beside me in the doorway and, still breathless from his rapid ride, looked at me. I could see that he was admiring me.

“Natalya Vladimirovna,” he said, “I would give anything only to stay here a little longer and look at you. You are lovely to-day.”

His eyes looked at me with delight and supplication, his face was pale. On his beard and mustache were glittering raindrops, and they, too, seemed to be looking at me with love.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you, and I am happy at seeing you. I know you cannot be my wife, but I want nothing, I ask nothing; only know that I love you. Be silent, do not answer me, take no notice of it, but only know that you are dear to me and let me look at you.”

His rapture affected me too; I looked at his enthusiastic face, listened to his voice which mingled with the patter of the rain, and stood as though spellbound, unable to stir.

I longed to go on endlessly looking at his shining eyes and listening.

“You say nothing, and that is splendid,” said Pyotr Sergeyitch. “Go on being silent.”

I felt happy. I laughed with delight and ran through the drenching rain to the house; he laughed too, and, leaping as he went, ran after me

The Flaying (short story)

Finally, I was able to obtain an appointment with an official from the Department of Employment. I knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for the permission to enter.

I stepped towards him with a few steps, steps that I tried to make sturdy, but I failed, though I managed to put on a pale smile.
He pointed towards a chair in front of him. I bowed before I sat down. On the glass surface of his office I placed a green envelope that contains a set of documents that will speak on my behalf.

He opened the envelope and browsed through the papers with skilled, hairy and big white fingers, then close the envelope and puckered his lips. Through his medical eyeglasses he glanced at me with looks that had no meaning, or possibly they had meaning but I wasn’t certain what they meant.
He smiled and said: “are you lucky?”

I was sitting silently the whole time. His question drowned me more in my silence. The silence wasn’t fear from him or wisdom from my side; rather it’s Convinced of the futility of speech.

I was stunned completely by his question; I couldn’t find any expression to respond or to figure out what was the hidden message behind the question!
He repeated his question in different wording: “ Do you see yourself as one of those who posses good fortune?”

How do I know!
Most of those and whom we call fortunate people in the World do not need luck to be so.
What I feel now it gives me the privilege and status of “Misfortunate” and unchallenged, I won the title “ The chief of the misfortunate people”

I’m an unlucky man.
I need a little bit of success.

Two answers attended my mind at that instant to respond to his question. The first impulsive answer came to my mind was: “If I’m a lucky man, will I be here now! And facing you! And of course I didn’t dare to say it. In stead I said, “I think I see myself as those who are fortunate.
I intended by this response to deal with his thoughts in contrive to gain his confidence ...


All institutions are striving in a quest of success and wishing seriously that all their staff would be lucky and successful in providing high-quality service to the work they are doing.

“I think I see myself as those who are fortunate.” I said,
His instant answer was, “That not good enough! I have to be certain and place that into practice right away!
Moment of silence, he examined me with his eyes, then said;
-“ Do you have money?”
“Pardon me!”
“A few dirhams?”
“ I have some.”
“ Then go to the nearest shop and buy a scratch and win card and come back quickly, you will find me here waiting for you!” He added affirmatively, “ Make sure it is a scratchy card”.

At this moment, the human vulnerabilities took a grasp over my mind and my entire being. Although I astonished by his request, I didn’t find any way out only to comply with his command.
I rushed to the nearest shop, the kind that sells cigarettes, different kind of chewing gum, candies, chocolates, stamps and of course lottery cards and of the type of scratch and win.
Many times I came across those cards and noticed many people were buying it but I paid little attention to it, as a matter of fact I was censuring it.

I returned back running,
The sweat poured out from my forehead and my under armpits. I worried the sweat would turn to bad odour and could be smelly. I sniffed under my arm. The odour was at the beginning of its formation. I speculated the meeting wont take longer and the odour wont dare to declare it self and be noticeably smell unless I’m out in the street or somewhere in an open space.

Without knocking on the door, I pushed it and entered. I placed in front of him a small scratch card decorated with some stripes, pictures and coral colors.
As I was sitting I noticed he was avoiding looking at the card, as if he was afraid of harm that might be caused by the card and befall on him, or visa versa.
He handed me a piece of silver coin, and asked to scratch the gray stripe in the middle of the card. I wasn’t surprised by his command, since I know the card has to be scratched.

He watched me while I was scratching. All of a sudden I wondered what if this is his way to test my abilities and skills! Scratching the card might be one way to test whether I will be successful person or a failure in doing my job! Without thinking twice about all the possibilities of any answers that might spur from my thoughts, carefully I started scratching the card. I created my own unique way in doing that, with an easy touch not rough or hard, first I stared with the corners then the top of the card, then the bottom, and before I carried out the last scratch, I drew thin lines in the middle forming what it look like a triangle, and with one accurate and exact stroke I removed the gray surface of the card and revealed all the figures beneath it!

At this moment in time I did not know exactly how I felt the urge of scratching my scalp.
Suddenly I felt strong burning sensation to scratch my entire body, which started to itch, it felt like a devouring crime violated me. Like an army of ants conquered and bitten me from my head to my toes.
I did not pay any attention to the numbers that started to be clear and obvious. The fierce desire of the itch and the scratch hampered my thoughts, and I never bothered to think about the outcomes results of this meeting either.

He looked at the card in front of him, when he saw the figures, his eyes widened, his face turned red and yellow, then he opened his mouth in disbelief, with difficulty he swallowed his saliva exposing the feelings which were caused by the figures within him. However, immediately with a quick calm and fake wise manner he hid his astonishment; in the meantime I was resisting but I found enjoyment and console in scratching.

With expert well-trained hands that show his skills, he put the card in his office drawer. And said, “Lucky, you are lucky. I mean… we will take in our considerations your file in our next meeting at this evening!”
He extended his hand saying goodbye, I extended one hand while the other one was busy scratching.
He pressed his strong fingers against my fingers it was hurting pressure but the ache of the devouring which I was facing was more painful.

I exited his office. In the street, I walked on the sidewalk. My brain filled with white emptiness.

In split second as if it was a sparkle of lightning, and in the heedlessness of the consciousness that connected me with the reality, it seemed to me this scratching which reached its crucial peak by then was skinning the supple layer of my skin and replacing it by figures

The Game of Billiards (short story)

AS they have been fighting two days, and have passed the night with their knapsacks on, beneath a flood of rain, the soldiers are completely exhausted. And yet for three mortal hours they have been left waiting, with grounded arms, in the puddles of the highroads and the mud of the saturated fields.

Benumbed by fatigue, by sleepless nights, and with their uniforms drenched with rain, they crowd together to warm and comfort one another. There are some who sleep standing, leaning against a neighbor’s knapsack, and weariness and privations can be read distinctly upon those relaxed faces, overcome with sleep. Rain, mud, no fire, nothing to eat, a low, black sky, and the enemy in the air about.

It is funereal.

What are they doing there? What is going on? The guns, with their muzzles pointed towards the wood, have the appearance of watching something. The mitrailleurs in ambush stare fixedly at the horizon.

Everything seems ready for an attack. Why do they not attack? What are they waiting for?

They are awaiting orders, and headquarters sends none. And yet the headquarters are not far away. They are at yonder stately Louis-Treize château, whose red bricks, scoured by the rain, glisten among the trees half-way up the hill. Truly a princely dwelling, quite worthy to bear the banner of a marshal of France.

Behind a broad moat and a stone wall which separate them from the road, smooth green lawns, lined with vases of flowers, extend to the porch. On the other side, the private side of the house, the hornbeam hedges show luminous gaps; the pond in which swans are swimming lies like a mirror, and beneath the pagodalike roof of an enormous aviary, peacocks and golden pheasants flash their wings and display their plumage, uttering shrill cries amid the foliage. Although the owners have gone away, one does not feel the abandonment, the desolation of war. The oriflamme of the leader of the army has safeguarded even the tiniest flowers in the lawns, and it is an impressive thing to find so near the battle-field that opulent tranquillity that is born of perfect order, of the accurate alignment of the shrubbery, of the silent depths of the avenues.

The rain, which fills the roads yonder with such disgusting mud, and digs such deep ruts, here is nothing more than an elegant, aristocratic shower, reviving the red of the bricks and the green of the lawns, polishing the leaves of the orange-trees and the white feathers of the swans. Everything glistens, everything is peaceful. Really, but for the flag floating on the roof, but for the two soldiers on sentry-go before the gate, one would never suspect that it is the headquarters of an army. The horses are resting in the stables. Here and there one sees a groom, or an orderly in undress uniform, loitering about the kitchen, or a gardener in red trousers placidly drawing his rake over the gravel in the great courtyards.

The dining-room, the windows of which look upon the porch, discloses a half-cleared table; uncorked bottles, soiled and empty glasses on the rumpled cloth; the end of a banquet, after the guests have gone.

In the adjoining room one may hear loud voices, laughter, the clicking of balls and the clinking of glasses. The marshal is playing his game of billiards, and that is why the army is waiting for orders.

When the marshal had begun his game, the heavens might fall, but nothing in the world could prevent him from finishing it.

Billiards! that is the weakness of that great warrior. He stands there, as grave as in battle, in full

uniform, his breast covered with medals, with kindled eyes, flushed cheeks, excited by feasting, grog, and the game. His aides-de-camp surround him, zealous and respectful. uttering admiring exclamations at each of his strokes. When the marshal makes a point, they all hasten to mark it; when the marshal is thirsty, they all rush to prepare his grog. There is a constant rustling of epaulettes and plumes, a jingling of medals; and to see all those sweet smiles, those artful, courtierlike reverences, all those new uniforms and embroidery in that lofty apartment, with its oaken wainscoting, looking upon parks and courts of honour, recalls the autumn days at Compiègne, and affords the eyes a little rest from the stained cloaks that shiver yonder along the roads, forming such sombre groups in the rain.

The marshal’s opponent is a young captain of the staff, belted and curled and light-gloved, who is in the first rank of billiard-players and capable of beating all the marshals on earth; but he has the tact to keep a respectful distance behind his chief, and devotes his energies to the task of not winning, and at the same time not losing too easily. He is what is called an officer with a future.

Attention, young man, let us be on our guard! The marshal has fifteen, and you ten. The point is to keep the game in that condition to the end; then you will have done more for your promotion than if you were outside with the others, beneath those torrents of water which drown the horizon, soiling your natty uniform, tarnishing the gold of your aiguillettes, awaiting orders which do not come.

It is really an interesting game. The balls roll and clash and mingle their colours. The cushions send them merrily back; the cloth waxes hot. Suddenly the flash of a cannon-shot passes across the sky. A dull sound rattles the windows. Everybody starts, and they look at each other anxiously. The marshal alone has neither seen nor heard anything; leaning over the table, he is busily engaged in planning a magnificent draw-shot; draw-shots are his strong point.

But there comes another flash, then another. The cannon-shots succeed each other in hot haste. The aides-de-camp run to the windows. Can it be that the Prussians are attacking.

“Very well, let them attack!” says the marshal, chalking his cue. “It’s your turn, captain.”

The staff quivers with admiration. Turenne asleep upon a gun-carriage was nothing compared to this marshal, who plays billiards so tranquilly at the moment of going into action. Meanwhile the uproar redoubles. With the roar of the cannon is mingled the tearing sound of the mitrailleuses, the rattle of musketry. A red steam, black at the edges, rises around the lawns. The whole park is on fire. The terrified peacocks and pheasants shriek in the aviary; the Arabian horses, smelling the powder, rear in the stables.

The headquarters begins to be excited. Despatch after despatch. Couriers arrive at full speed. They ask for the marshal.

The marshal cannot be seen. Did I not tell you that nothing could prevent him from finishing his game?

“It is your turn, captain.”

But the captain is distraught. That is what it is to be young. Behold he loses his head, forgets his tactics, and makes two runs in succession, which almost give him the game. Thereupon the marshal becomes furious. Surprise and indignation animate his manly face. Just at this moment a horse ridden at a hard gallop rushes into the courtyard. An aide-de-camp covered with mud forces his way past the sentries and ascends the steps at one bound. “Marshal, marshal!” You should see how he is greeted. Puffing with anger and red as a rooster, the marshal appears at the window, his billiard-cue in his hand:

“What’s the matter? What’s all this? Isn’t there any sentry there?”

“But, marshal——”

“All right, in a moment; wait for my orders, in God’s name!”

And the window is violently closed.

Wait for his orders! That is just what they are doing, the poor fellows. The wind drives the rain and the grapeshot full in their faces. Whole battalions are wiped out, while others stand useless, with their arms in readiness, utterly unable to understand their inaction. Nothing to do. They are awaiting orders.

However, as one needs no orders to die, the men fall by hundreds behind the shrubs, in the moats, in front of the great silent château. Even after they have fallen, the grape tears them still, and from the open wounds the generous blood of France flows noiselessly. Above, in the billiard-room, it is getting terribly warm too; the marshal has recovered his lead, but the little captain is defending himself like a lion.

Seventeen! eighteen! nineteen!

They hardly have time to mark the points. The roar of the battle draws nearer. The marshal has but one more to go. Already shells are falling in the park. Suddenly one bursts over the pond. The mirror is shattered; a swan in deadly alarm swims wildly about amid an eddy of bloody feathers. That is the last stroke.

Then, a profound silence. Only the rain falling on the hedges, a confused rumbling at the foot of the hill, and, along the muddy roads, a sound like the trampling of a hurrying flock. The army is in full retreat.The marshal has won his game