10 August Short Stories

Wen 'an is in his thirties and has never been married. After graduating from technical secondary school, he worked as an air conditioner repairman in the city for several years, and with the money he saved, he opened a small hotel next to the county hospital.

The house is rented, the walls are repainted, the water and electricity are well maintained, and simple beds and wardrobes are prepared. Anything else is ok, but the refrigerator should be big and easy to use. They all stay in hotels to see a doctor, so they need to put the medicine in the refrigerator.

After opening the store for a period of time, Wen' an realized the hardships of doing this business: poor people often come to the dead mouse to feel lukewarm. A face of peace of mind scared Wen An to ask for money. There are also people who can't bear it anymore and come to the store to commit suicide.

Fortunately, I found it early last time and sent it to the hospital before I died. Otherwise, I can't explain to the landlord that the house is dirty.

Suicide is a kannika nimtragol, pale all day, can't hide once beautiful. Wen 'an heard that she had leukemia. Before, the man came to see her, stayed in the hotel for a few days, and then disappeared.

Kannika nimtragol dragged her sick body back to her hometown to find someone. His parents bowed their heads and prevaricated for a long time, but they couldn't tell where their son was going. They have been married for almost ten years and have no children. The old man has long disliked her.

Daughter-in-law's parents died early, and the two brothers took care of each other, so they couldn't count on it. Returning to the hotel from her hometown, she didn't want to go out again, and occasionally heard crying from the window. Wen' an wants to go upstairs to comfort, but it is inconvenient to be alone; I tried to persuade her to go home, but I couldn't.

Dilemma, indecision, kannika nimtragol doesn't even have a last word, just left a letter of apology to Wen 'an landlord in his pocket.

"Look, the moon is walking." She sat on the grass by the river and said excitedly, pointing to the bright moon in the sky.

The moonlight shone on her beautiful white face. Huiming looked at her side face and wanted to kiss it as before.

But not today, at least not now. He watched the moon pass through the clouds and said simply, "That's a cloud. It looks like the moon is walking. "

"I know, this is the role of reference. Everything in the world is relative, right? " She kept staring at the night sky without seeing the hesitation in his eyes.

"Yes, everything is relative. What am I to you and him? " He turned to look at her face, and there was no tenderness in his eyes.

She paused and her big eyes darkened. "What? Who is he ... Kiyochi? What is he doing, writing to you? Do you believe what he said? " She turned pale and stared at her eyes.

"I want you to explain."

"Since you don't believe, why do you need to explain? Time will help me prove everything. " She buried her head between her legs and knees and got angry.

Huiming put her hand on her shoulder and said softly, "It's too late. I'll take you back. "

"You ... good!" She stood up, brimming with tears in her eyes, and ran towards home.

It's very quiet around, and the river is sparkling and pale. Huiming looked at the dark night sky and found that the moon had really gone. ...

Mumin's parents gave birth to many children. They gave her to a distant relative when she was four and a half years old.

Fifty years later, her parents left her a part of the legacy in their will. She used the money to buy the most expensive guitar. She can't play, and she doesn't intend to learn. She just hung the guitar on a big white wall in the study.

Both husband and son feel that it is in the way and think that she should have passed such a wayward age. But she is willing to sit in the study and look carefully with her chin cupped, feeling that the whole world owes herself a guitar.

If the weather is fine, at dusk, the sun will fall on the wall through the glass window and move slowly like a bright light belt. Her black eyes couldn't help but stop on the sunny guitar.

The dust on the guitar is like a layer of gold powder in the sun. Let her feel a particularly heavy feeling, strong enough to seal an unforgettable past.

At the age of eighteen, he eloped with a woman who had known him for half a year and was twelve years older than himself. I rented a shabby house and lived in a small town a few kilometers away from home.

He learned everything from that "mature" sweet woman: from longing for mutual destruction, to suspicion and boredom, to mutual disgust and disgust.

At the age of twenty, they couldn't stand each other any longer, quarreled and broke up peacefully.

Before he left, the woman gave him a gray scarf that she had made herself. He left a slim figure for women.

He was still young and elegant when he met that woman again. She has become an old woman with a full face of vicissitudes. She smiled at him kindly, and the corners of her mouth pulled out deeper wrinkles without saying anything embarrassing.

He went home silently, found the gray scarf that had never been used and kept pressing at the bottom of the box, held it in front of the sunny window and studied it carefully.

A scarf with bug eyes reveals the tranquility after years of baptism. ...

On the first floor of the building opposite my house, there lived a very handsome and carefree old man, so handsome that all middle-aged and elderly women who had seen him couldn't help it. It is easy to guess the story behind him.

His home is an old residential building facing the street. If the windows are open, it can be a good storage room. Facing the busy main street, there is a bus stop next to it, and people come and go. If you open a shop, one month's rent is worth the first half of the salary.

Almost all other houses on the first floor have become storefronts. Everyone is puzzled that there is an old professor in his seventies living in another family. Half a year's salary is not as good as one month's rent next door, so I won't rent it?

When the neighbor asked him why, he answered irrelevant questions and said it was bourgeois.

Many people feel pity and always knock at the door to ask. Tired of being asked, the old man posted a note on the wooden frame of the window, which read in strong font: "No rent!" " Below the exclamation point are pots of blooming orchids.

The old man lives alone in the old house. When he was young, he was not "worry-free" and could do one thing after another.

His handsome wife doesn't take it seriously either. Every time someone tries to dig up a topic by innuendo, she smiles without a word and bows her head.

Neighbors think she is a Japanese woman and an orphan in Japan. It looks like we're in China. But she doesn't talk much and doesn't associate with her neighbors.

They have been married for more than 40 years and have no children. When she was getting old, the woman kept in touch with Japan through various channels and left the old man for Japan. Neighbors feel that they agree with her after a lifetime, and because she is a Japanese devil.

Intellectuals marry Japanese women. How much did they suffer during the ten-year Cultural Revolution? You can imagine.

It is said that not having children is related to being criticized for a fracture in a certain part of the body.

One day, the old man went out with a sunset tour group for a few days. A retired art teacher chatted with his neighbor on the high-speed train, and soon gave up the artist's reserve, told him his age, income and savings, and said that he had no wife.

Her appearance is very good and her temperament is well preserved. But the old man smiled and said, "Old. It's nice to be alone! "

Embarrassed, she guessed that he just likes young women, and none of these men are good things.

Many years have passed, and the orchids in the old man's window are still very good. He sat by the window and let the sun shine through the screen window. Sometimes with a book in his hand, the book fell to the ground during a nap, and his cat squinted and yawned lazily.

As soon as the bell rang, the students ran out of the classroom to play like birds. Elegance can't wait to come to the corner of the class book, take out the unfinished "Little Doudou by the Window" and chew it up.

The teacher who was still packing books and chalk boxes in front of the podium looked at Junyi, opened her mouth and swallowed the words that called her out for a walk to avoid her eyes being too tired. The teacher knows that as soon as she leaves, Junyi will pick up the book, enter another world and forget to travel.

There are tens of thousands of books in the school library. There are 48 classes in the school, and each class takes turns reading in the library. This is a painful thing for children who love reading and have no conditions to provide books at home. Junyi is one of them.

Junyi's parents are migrant workers. They are busy making a living all day, taking care of their three-year-old brother and grandmother who are in bed, and have no time to take care of Junyi's study. Fortunately, her ability to accept knowledge is faster than that of her peers, and her academic performance is not bad.

Everyone nicknamed Junyi, who loves reading very much, "bookworm". Bookworms can't find extracurricular books to read at home, so they have to go back to school to borrow them from their classmates. Tired of borrowing, the students got up the courage to borrow from the teacher.

The teacher likes students who love reading, which she knows better than anyone else.

One day, the head teacher discussed with his classmates before class: Can we set up a book corner in the class? Buy a small bookcase with the class fee. Each student takes some good books from home and puts them in the bookcase for students to read, and there is a special person to keep and register them. The books on the shelf are changed every three months. ...

The bookworm looked at the teacher's bright eyes and blushing face, thinking about the situation at home, awkward.

Knowing her difficulties, the teacher continued to smile and said, "Students who don't have books at home can just organize the bookcases at ordinary times. I borrowed a few books from the school library and brought back a dozen books suitable for everyone in my family. "

The students are excitedly discussing what good books to take back. Who is a librarian? Only a bookworm looks at the teacher with tears in his eyes. ...

In a 3A hospital, the doctor is pointing to the waist map on the wall and explaining the path from now to uremia to a middle-aged man standing next to him with a swollen face like fermented dough.

After that, I turned my head and asked inexplicably, "Why are you so world-weary at your age? Diabetes has been delayed for four or five years, and dare to drink big wine every day? "

He bowed his head in silence, tugged at the corners of his mouth, walked to the stool in the hospital corridor with a straight face, and sat and looked through the telephone address book again and again.

I haven't spoken to my wife for months. During the rebellious period of his son's youth, he either rolled his eyes and his neck was thick, or sat in the room playing games. My parents are too old to stand the toss. Fortunately, they are close to Alzheimer's disease and avoid the sudden.

Looking up at the people coming and going, he shook his head with a wry smile, as if only himself and his medical record were left between heaven and earth.

I don't know how long it took, and the sunset took away the last cloud on the horizon, and the night gathered around. He crossed the seemingly bottomless corridor, bought a bag full of cucumbers in a nearby vegetable market and walked leisurely. ...

This jujube tree existed before he was born. It stands high in the front yard and bears several baskets of sweet dates every early autumn. In addition to food for family members and distribution to neighbors, there are also leftover dried dates.

One year, jujube trees blossomed a lot, but not much fruit. Jujube turned red, so he knocked a few with a long bamboo pole, wiped his sleeve and bit it down. It is bitter and hard to swallow, and it is not as crisp, sweet and delicious as in previous years. He felt strange. He walked around the jujube tree several times and found several big pimples on the trunk, like a hot pustule on his head when he was a child.

Coincidentally, a month later, my father was diagnosed with advanced tumor, with only half a year left.

He stayed in the hospital for a long time, suddenly grabbed the doctor's hand and asked what to do. The doctor sympathetically advised him to take his father back and satisfy the wishes of the old man as much as possible.

At a loss, he sat in the hospital corridor to sort out his thoughts, but didn't show anything in front of his old father.

The old father thought he had nothing to do, but he also planted vegetables and raised chickens as usual, strolled around the village with his grandson and occasionally took a few painkillers.

He looked at the pimple on the jujube tree in the yard, but it was not a taste in his heart. He thought it was a tumor on his father. He picked up an axe and ladder, cut off a knot in a tree, and sat in the yard for a long time, in a daze.

His wife understood his feelings, looked at him affectionately, shook her head and sighed. Father came home and saw the tree trunk that had been cut potholes. He picked up a broom and slapped him. He looked at his father's face as old as a dried jujube and hid and hid with a wry smile.

Three years later, his father left.

He often looks at the scar of the jujube tree and can't help thinking: If he doesn't cut off his pimple, can his father's tumor successfully transfer to the tree? If my father hadn't been angry in that scene, would he have lived a few more days? Self-reproach stands in his heart like a jujube tree. ...

At dawn, a village in Dongchuan, Yunnan Province woke up. It is clear and bright in the morning fog and the first ray of sunshine. People who get up early wear straw hats and wave hoes or shovels, and are busy on the land with colors like a palette.

As long as you stroll out of the village, you can see a big banyan tree standing conspicuously on the plain. The banyan tree tried to spread around like an umbrella trying to open. The village wooden house embedded in the green mountains and green waters, like an old man, sits in front of a vast field and looks at the distance with deep eyes. ...

I slowly approached the banyan tree, and there was a circle of people under the tree. They are busy dealing with the old man and the yellow dog lying beside him from different angles with "long guns and short guns".

The old man is about seventy years old, with a crisscross face and a shallow smile on his mouth. The head is wrapped in a headscarf used by local farmers and wearing black cloth shoes. Holding a long hookah, the gray-white hookah hangs long. Rhubarb dog meekly stayed by his side, staring at people passing by.

What a beautiful scene, what a familiar picture, where do you seem to have seen it? My eyes are too busy, and my heart is whispering.

The passing peasant woman looked at them with envious eyes, raised her chin and looked at me, saying, "You can also take pictures in the past, just pay 10 yuan."

Seeing my puzzled face, she went on to say, "A few years ago, a director came to Dongchuan to make a film and photographed old Li Tou and his family rhubarb dog. After the film was broadcast, more guests came to our Dongchuan. Lao Li Tou is also famous. He just sits there every day, posing for photos, and doesn't have to work in the fields. You can earn hundreds a day! "

I turned around and looked at the dark-skinned aunt, laughing so hard that I couldn't see my teeth. "Aunt, I'll take a picture for you. Maybe one day I will be famous. "

Aunt blushed like a little girl, hastily combed her messy hair, pulled off her rolled-up trouser legs and whispered, "I won't charge you, as long as you make Dongchuan beautiful and think it's not for nothing."

Facing the sunshine, I followed my aunt, raised my camera and took photos of her walking on the ridge.

He is tall and strong, with a foot of 1.89 meters. He plays basketball in a sports school and has the ability to join the provincial team.

This is the pinnacle of his life. He walks with the wind every day, his eyes are shining, he is dismissive of plain-looking women and his peers, and he is ashamed to communicate.

Now he is the chef and owner of Backstreet Hotel. He will flatter the police and urban management humbly, and can drink and chat with drunks in a flattering tone, for fear that they will smash the only five tables in the store. Seeing the guests come in, I bowed with the menu to show my enthusiasm.

Every night when the guests left, he quickly cleaned up, turned on the TV to watch the replay of the basketball game, judged it with the eyes of insiders, and talked to himself with the tone of onlookers.

A dusty chandelier hung brightly overhead. Sparse gray hair is like a few messy hay, depressed under the light.

He recovered from the past immersion, slowly closed the shop door, listened to the silence in the alley, stepped on his long figure under the dim street lamp and walked to the empty home. ...