The Open Boat

Our story today is called "The Open Boat"  It was written by Stephen Crane and is based on what really happened to him in 1896.

Crane was traveling from the United States to Cuba as a newspaper reporter.  One night, his ship hit a sandbar.  It sank in the Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of Florida.  Most of the people on board got into lifeboats.  Crane was among the last to leave.  There were three others with him: the ship's captain, the cook, and a sailor.

These four men climbed into the only remaining lifeboat.  The boat was so small that no one believed it could stay afloat for very long.  None of the four men thought he would ever reach the shore.  But the men fought the seas bravely, with all their strength.  Would they finally reach land?

Here is Shep O'Neal with the first part of the story.

The small lifeboat bounced from wave to wave in the rough seas of the Atlantic.  The four men in the boat could not see the sky.  The waves rose too high.

The waves with their white tops pushed at the open boat with angry violence.  Every man thought each wave would be his last. Surely, the boat would sink and he would drown.  The men thought that most adults would need a bathtub larger than the boat they were sailing.  The waves were huge, and each created a problem in guiding the direction of the boat.

For two days, since the ship sank, the four men had been struggling to reach land.  But there was no land to be seen.  All the men saw were violent waves which rose and came fiercely down on them.

The men sat in the boat, wondering if there was any hope for them.  The ship's cook sat in the bottom of the boat.  He kept looking at the fifteen centimeters which separated him from the ocean.

The boat had only two wooden oars.  They were so thin – it seemed as if they would break against the waves.  The sailor, named Billie, directed the boat's movement with one of the oars.  The newspaper reporter pulled the second oar.  He wondered why he was there in the boat.

The fourth man was the captain of the ship that had sunk.  He lay in the front of the small boat.  His arm and leg were hurt when the ship sank.  The captain's face was sad.  He had lost his ship and many of his sailors.  But he looked carefully ahead, and he told Billie when to turn the boat.

"Keep her a little more south, Billie,” he said.

"A little more south, sir,” the sailor repeated.

Sitting in the boat was like sitting on a wild horse.  As each wave came, the boat rose and fell, like a horse starting toward a fence too high to jump.  The problem was that after successfully floating over one wave you find that there is another one behind it just as strong and ready to flood your boat.

As each wall of water came in, it hid everything else that the men could see.  The waves came in silence; only their white tops made threatening noises.

In the weak light, the faces of the men must have looked gray.  Their eyes must have shone in strange ways as they looked out at the sea.  The sun rose slowly into the sky.  The men knew it was the middle of the day because the color of the sea changed from slate gray to emerald green, with gold lights.  And the white foam on the waves looked like falling snow.

As the lifeboat bounced from the top of each wave, the wind tore through the hair of the men.  As the boat dropped down again the water fell just past them.  The top of each wave was a hill, from which the men could see, for a brief period, a wide area of shining sea.

The cook said the men were lucky because the wind was blowing toward the shore.  If it started blowing the other way, they would never reach land.  The reporter and the sailor agreed.  But the captain laughed in a way that expressed humor and tragedy all in one.  He asked: "Do you think we've got much of a chance now, boys?”

This made the others stop talking.  To express any hope at this time they felt to be childish and stupid.  But they also did not want to suggest there was no hope.  So they were silent.

"Oh, well,” said the captain, "We'll get ashore all right"

But there was something in his voice that made them think, as the sailor said: "Yes, if this wind holds!”

Seagulls flew near and far.  Sometimes the birds sat down on the sea in groups, near brown seaweed that rolled on the waves.  The anger of the sea was no more to them than it was to a group of chickens a thousand miles away on land.  Often the seagulls came very close and stared at the men with black bead-like eyes.  The men shouted angrily at them, telling them to be gone.

The sailor and the reporter kept rowing with the thin wooden oars.  Sometimes they sat together, each using an oar.  Sometimes one would pull on both oars while the other rested.  Brown pieces of seaweed appeared from time to time.  They were like islands, bits of earth that did not move.  They showed the men in the boat that it was slowly making progress toward land.

Hours passed.  Then, as the boat was carried to the top of a great wave, the captain looked across the water.

He said that he saw the lighthouse at Mosquito Inlet.  The cook also said he saw it.  The reporter searched the western sky.

"See it?” said the captain.

"No,” said the reporter slowly, "I don't see anything"

"Look again,” said the captain.  He pointed.  "It's exactly in that direction"

This time the reporter saw a small thing on the edge of the moving horizon.  It was exactly like the point of a pin.

"Think we'll make it, captain?” he asked.

"If this wind holds and the boat doesn't flood, we can't do much else,” said the captain.

It would be difficult to describe the brotherhood of men that was here established on the sea.  Each man felt it warmed him.  They were a captain, a sailor, a cook and a reporter.  And they were friends.  The reporter knew even at the time that this friendship was the best experience of his life.

All obeyed the captain.  He was a good leader.  He always spoke in a low voice and calmly.

"I wish we had a sail,” he said, "to give you two boys a chance to rest"  So they used his coat and one of the oars to make a sail and the boat moved much more quickly.

The lighthouse had been slowly growing larger.  At last, from the top of each wave the men in the boat could see land. Slowly, the land seemed to rise from the sea.  Soon, the men could see two lines, one black and one white.

They knew that the black line was formed by trees, and the white line was the sand.  At last, the captain saw a house on the shore.  And the lighthouse became even larger.

"The keeper of the lighthouse should be able to see us now,” said the captain. "He'll notify the life-saving people"

Slowly and beautifully, the land rose from the sea.  The wind came again.  Finally, the men heard a new sound – the sound of waves breaking and crashing on the shore.

"We'll never be able to make the lighthouse now,” said the captain.  "Swing her head a little more north, Billie"

"A little more north, sir,” said the sailor.

The men watched the shore grow larger.  They became hopeful.  In an hour, perhaps, they would be on land.  The men struggled to keep the boat from turning over.

 They were used to balancing in the boat.  Now they rode this wild horse of a boat like circus men.  The water poured over them.

The reporter thought he was now wet to the skin.  But he felt in the top pocket of his coat and found eight cigars.  Four were wet, but four were still dry.  One of the men found some dry matches.  Each man lit a cigar.  The four men sailed in their boat with the belief of a rescue shining in their eyes.  They smoked their big cigars and took a drink of water.

Our story today is called "The Open Boat"  It was written by Stephen Crane and is based on what really happened to him in 1896.

Crane was traveling from the United States to Cuba as a newspaper reporter.  One night, his ship hit a sandbar.  It sank in the Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of Florida.  Most of the people on board got into lifeboats.  Crane was among the last to leave.  There were three others with him: the ship's captain, the cook, and a sailor.

These four men climbed into the only remaining lifeboat.  The boat was so small that no one believed it could stay afloat for very long.  None of the four men thought he would ever reach the shore.  But the men fought the seas bravely, with all their strength.  Would they finally reach land?

Here is Shep O'Neal with the first part of the story.

The small lifeboat bounced from wave to wave in the rough seas of the Atlantic.  The four men in the boat could not see the sky.  The waves rose too high.

The waves with their white tops pushed at the open boat with angry violence.  Every man thought each wave would be his last. Surely, the boat would sink and he would drown.  The men thought that most adults would need a bathtub larger than the boat they were sailing.  The waves were huge, and each created a problem in guiding the direction of the boat.

For two days, since the ship sank, the four men had been struggling to reach land.  But there was no land to be seen.  All the men saw were violent waves which rose and came fiercely down on them.

The men sat in the boat, wondering if there was any hope for them.  The ship's cook sat in the bottom of the boat.  He kept looking at the fifteen centimeters which separated him from the ocean.

The boat had only two wooden oars.  They were so thin – it seemed as if they would break against the waves.  The sailor, named Billie, directed the boat's movement with one of the oars.  The newspaper reporter pulled the second oar.  He wondered why he was there in the boat.

The fourth man was the captain of the ship that had sunk.  He lay in the front of the small boat.  His arm and leg were hurt when the ship sank.  The captain's face was sad.  He had lost his ship and many of his sailors.  But he looked carefully ahead, and he told Billie when to turn the boat.

"Keep her a little more south, Billie,” he said.

"A little more south, sir,” the sailor repeated.

Sitting in the boat was like sitting on a wild horse.  As each wave came, the boat rose and fell, like a horse starting toward a fence too high to jump.  The problem was that after successfully floating over one wave you find that there is another one behind it just as strong and ready to flood your boat.

As each wall of water came in, it hid everything else that the men could see.  The waves came in silence; only their white tops made threatening noises.

In the weak light, the faces of the men must have looked gray.  Their eyes must have shone in strange ways as they looked out at the sea.  The sun rose slowly into the sky.  The men knew it was the middle of the day because the color of the sea changed from slate gray to emerald green, with gold lights.  And the white foam on the waves looked like falling snow.

As the lifeboat bounced from the top of each wave, the wind tore through the hair of the men.  As the boat dropped down again the water fell just past them.  The top of each wave was a hill, from which the men could see, for a brief period, a wide area of shining sea.

The cook said the men were lucky because the wind was blowing toward the shore.  If it started blowing the other way, they would never reach land.  The reporter and the sailor agreed.  But the captain laughed in a way that expressed humor and tragedy all in one.  He asked: "Do you think we've got much of a chance now, boys?”

This made the others stop talking.  To express any hope at this time they felt to be childish and stupid.  But they also did not want to suggest there was no hope.  So they were silent.

"Oh, well,” said the captain, "We'll get ashore all right"

But there was something in his voice that made them think, as the sailor said: "Yes, if this wind holds!”

Seagulls flew near and far.  Sometimes the birds sat down on the sea in groups, near brown seaweed that rolled on the waves.  The anger of the sea was no more to them than it was to a group of chickens a thousand miles away on land.  Often the seagulls came very close and stared at the men with black bead-like eyes.  The men shouted angrily at them, telling them to be gone.

The sailor and the reporter kept rowing with the thin wooden oars.  Sometimes they sat together, each using an oar.  Sometimes one would pull on both oars while the other rested.  Brown pieces of seaweed appeared from time to time.  They were like islands, bits of earth that did not move.  They showed the men in the boat that it was slowly making progress toward land.

Hours passed.  Then, as the boat was carried to the top of a great wave, the captain looked across the water.

He said that he saw the lighthouse at Mosquito Inlet.  The cook also said he saw it.  The reporter searched the western sky.

"See it?” said the captain.

"No,” said the reporter slowly, "I don't see anything"

"Look again,” said the captain.  He pointed.  "It's exactly in that direction"

This time the reporter saw a small thing on the edge of the moving horizon.  It was exactly like the point of a pin.

"Think we'll make it, captain?” he asked.

"If this wind holds and the boat doesn't flood, we can't do much else,” said the captain.

It would be difficult to describe the brotherhood of men that was here established on the sea.  Each man felt it warmed him.  They were a captain, a sailor, a cook and a reporter.  And they were friends.  The reporter knew even at the time that this friendship was the best experience of his life.

All obeyed the captain.  He was a good leader.  He always spoke in a low voice and calmly.

"I wish we had a sail,” he said, "to give you two boys a chance to rest"  So they used his coat and one of the oars to make a sail and the boat moved much more quickly.

The lighthouse had been slowly growing larger.  At last, from the top of each wave the men in the boat could see land. Slowly, the land seemed to rise from the sea.  Soon, the men could see two lines, one black and one white.

They knew that the black line was formed by trees, and the white line was the sand.  At last, the captain saw a house on the shore.  And the lighthouse became even larger.

"The keeper of the lighthouse should be able to see us now,” said the captain. "He'll notify the life-saving people"

Slowly and beautifully, the land rose from the sea.  The wind came again.  Finally, the men heard a new sound – the sound of waves breaking and crashing on the shore.

"We'll never be able to make the lighthouse now,” said the captain.  "Swing her head a little more north, Billie"

"A little more north, sir,” said the sailor.

The men watched the shore grow larger.  They became hopeful.  In an hour, perhaps, they would be on land.  The men struggled to keep the boat from turning over.

 They were used to balancing in the boat.  Now they rode this wild horse of a boat like circus men.  The water poured over them.

The reporter thought he was now wet to the skin.  But he felt in the top pocket of his coat and found eight cigars.  Four were wet, but four were still dry.  One of the men found some dry matches.  Each man lit a cigar.  The four men sailed in their boat with the belief of a rescue shining in their eyes.  They smoked their big cigars and took a drink of water.

A long stretch of coast lay before the eyes of the men. Slowly, the land rose up out of the mountainous sea. The men could see a small house against the sky. To the south, they could see a lighthouse. Tide, wind and waves were pushing the lifeboat northward. The men thought someone on land would have seen the boat by now.

"Well," said the captain, "I suppose well have to attempt to reach the shore ourselves. If we stay out here too long, none of us will have the strength left to swim after the boat sinks."

So Billie the sailor turned the boat straight for the shore.

"If we dont all get ashore," said the captain, "I suppose you fellows know where to send news of my death?"

The men then exchanged some information. There was a great deal of anger in them. They thought: "If I am going to be drowned, why, in the name of the seven mad gods who rule the sea, was I permitted to come this far and think about sand and trees?"

The waves grew stronger. They seemed always just about to break and roll over the little boat. The coast was still far away. The sailor said: "Boys, the boat wont live three minutes more, and were too far out to swim. Shall I take her to sea again, captain?"

"Yes! Go ahead!" said the captain. The sailor turned the boat and took her safely out to sea again.

"Its funny those life-saving people havent seen us," one of the men said.

"Maybe they think were out here for sport! Maybe they think were fishing. Maybe they think were fools."

Once more, the sailor rowed the boat and then the reporter rowed. Suddenly, they saw a man walking along the shore.

The man stopped walking. He moved his hand in the air to wave at them. He saw them! Now he was running to the house.

The captain tied a cloth to a stick and waved it. Now there was another man on the shore. The two men waved their hands in the air, as if they were saying hello to the men in the boat.

Now, what was that moving on the shore? It was a bus – a hotel bus. A man stood on the steps of the bus and waved his coat over his head. The men in the boat wondered what he wanted to say. Was he attempting to tell them something? Should they wait for help? Should they go north? Should they go south?

The men waited and waited but nothing happened. The sun began to go down. It got dark and cold. They could no longer see anyone on the beach.

The sailor rowed, and then the reporter rowed, and then the sailor rowed again. They rowed and rowed through the long night. The land had disappeared but they could hear the low sound of the waves hitting the shore. This was surely a quiet night.

The cook finally spoke: "Billie, what kind of pie do you like best?"

"Pie," said the sailor and the reporter angrily. "Dont talk about those things!"

"Well," said the cook, "I was just thinking about ham sandwiches, and …"

A night on the sea in an open boat is a long night. The sailor continued to row until his head fell forward and sleep overpowered him. Then he asked the reporter to row for a while. They exchanged places so the sailor could sleep in the bottom of the boat with the cook and the captain.

The reporter thought that he was the one man afloat on all the oceans in the world. The wind had a sad voice as it came over the waves.

Suddenly, there was a long, loud swishing sound behind the boat and a shining trail of silvery blue. It might have been made by a huge knife. Then there was another swish and another long flash of bluish light, this time alongside the boat. The reporter saw a huge fin speed like a shadow through the water, leaving a long glowing trail. The thing kept swimming near the boat. He noted its speed and power. The reporter wished the men would wake up. He did not want to be alone with the shark.

The reporter thought as he rowed. He was angry that they had come so close to land and yet might still die at sea. Then he remembered a poem that he had learned as a child. It was a poem about a soldier of the French Foreign Legion. The soldier lay dying in Algiers. Just before he died, he cried out: "I shall never see my own, my native land." And now, many years after he had learned this poem, the reporter for the first time understood the sadness of the dying soldier.

Hours passed. The reporter asked the sailor to take the oars so that he could rest. It seemed like only a brief period, but it was more than an hour later, when the sailor returned the oars to the reporter. They both knew that only they could keep the boat from sinking. And so they rowed, hour after hour, through the night.

When day came, the four men saw land again. But there were no people on the shore. A conference was held on the boat.

"Well," said the captain, "if no help is coming, we might better try to reach the shore right away. If we stay out here much longer, we will be too weak to do anything for ourselves at all."

The others agreed. They began to turn the boat toward the beach. The captain told them to be careful – that when the boat came near the beach, the waves would sink it. Then everyone should jump out of the boat and swim to the shore.

As the boat came closer to land, the waves got bigger and more violent. At last, a large wave climbed into the air and fell on the small boat with great force.

The boat turned over as the men jumped into the sea. The water was like ice. The reporter was tired. But he swam toward the beach. He looked for his friends.

He saw Billie, the sailor, in front of him, swimming strongly and quickly. The cook was near him. Behind, the captain held on to the overturned boat with his one good hand. Soon, the reporter could swim no longer. A current was carrying him back out to sea. He thought: "Am I going to drown? Can it be possible?"

But the current suddenly changed and he was able to swim toward the shore. The captain called to him to swim to the boat and hold on. The reporter started to swim toward the boat. Then he saw a man running along the shore. He was quickly taking off his shoes and clothes.

As the reporter got close to the boat, a large wave hit him and threw him into the air over the boat and far from it. When he tried to get up, he found that the water was not over his head, only half way up his body. But he was so tired that he could not stand up. Each wave threw him down, and the current kept pulling him back to sea.

Then he saw the man again, jumping into the water. The man pulled the cook to the shore. Then he ran back into the water for the captain. But the captain waved him away and sent him to the reporter. The man seized the reporters hand and pulled him to the beach. Then the man pointed to the water and cried: "Whats that?"

In the shallow water, face down, lay Billie, the sailor.

The reporter did not know all that happened after that. He fell on the sand as if dropped from a housetop. It seems that immediately the beach was filled with men with blankets, clothes and whiskey. Women brought hot coffee. The people welcomed the men from the sea to the land.

But a still and dripping shape was carried slowly up the beach. And the lands welcome for the sailors body could only be its final resting place. When night came, the white waves moved in the moonlight. The wind brought the sound of the great seas voice to the men on the shore.

Pigs Is Pigs (By Ellis Parker Butler )

Our story today is called "Pigs is Pigs."  It was written by Ellis Parker Butler.  Here is Shep O'Neal with the story.

Mike Flannery, the agent of the Interurban Express Company, leaned over the desk in the company's office in Westcote and shook his fist.  Mr. Morehouse, angry and red, stood on the other side of the desk shaking with fury.  The argument had been long and hot.  At last Mr. Morehouse had become speechless.

The cause of the trouble lay on the desk between the two men.  It was a box with two guinea pigs inside.

"Do as you like, then!" shouted Flannery.  "Pay for them and take them.  Or don't pay for them and leave them here.  Rules are rules, Mr. Morehouse.  And Mike Flannery is not going to break them."

"But you stupid idiot!" shouted Mr. Morehouse, madly shaking a thin book beneath the agent's nose.  "Can't you read it here – in your own book of transportation rates?  'Pets, domestic, Franklin to Westcote, if correctly boxed, twenty-five cents each.'"

He threw the book on the desk.  "What more do you want?  Aren't they pets?  Aren't they domestic?  Aren't they correctly boxed?  What?"

He turned and walked back and forth rapidly, with a furious look on his face.  "Pets," he said.  "P-E-T-S!  Twenty-five cents each.  Two times twenty-five is fifty!  Can you understand that?  I offer you fifty cents."

Flannery reached for the book.  He ran his hand through the pages and stopped at page sixty-four.

"I don't take fifty cents," he whispered in an unpleasant voice.  "Here's the rule for it:  'When the agent be in any doubt about which two rates should be charged on a shipment, he shall charge the larger.  The person receiving the shipment may put in a claim for the overcharge.'  In this case, Mr. Morehouse, I be in doubt.  Pets them animals may be.  And domestic they may be, but pigs I'm sure they do be.  And my rule says plain as the nose on your face, 'Pigs, Franklin to Westcote, thirty cents each.'"

Mr. Morehouse shook his head savagely.  "Nonsense!"  he shouted.  "Confounded nonsense, I tell you!  That rule means common pigs, not guinea pigs!"

"Pigs is pigs," Flannery said firmly.

Mr. Morehouse bit his lip and then flung his arms out wildly.  "Very well!" he shouted.  "You shall hear of this!  Your president shall hear of this!  It is an outrage!  I have offered you fifty cents.  You refuse it.  Keep the pigs until you are ready to take the fifty cents.  But, by George, sir, if one hair of those pigs' heads is harmed, I will have the law on you!"    He turned and walked out, slamming the door.  Flannery carefully lifted the box from the desk and put it in a corner.

Mr. Morehouse quickly wrote a letter to the president of the transportation express company.  The president answered, informing Mr. Morehouse that all claims for overcharge should be sent to the Claims Department.

Mr. Morehouse wrote to the Claims Department.  One week later he received an answer.  The Claims Department said it had discussed the matter with the agent at Westcote.  The agent said Mr. Morehouse had refused to accept the two guinea pigs shipped to him.  Therefore, the department said, Mr. Morehouse had no claim against the company and should write to its Tariff Department.

Mr. Morehouse wrote to the Tariff Department.  He stated his case clearly.  The head of the Tariff Department read Mr. Morehouse's letter.  "Huh!  Guinea pigs," he said.  "Probably starved to death by this time."  He wrote to the agent asking why the shipment was held up.  He also wanted to know if the guinea pigs were still in good health.

Before answering, agent Flannery wanted to make sure his report was up to date.  So he went to the back of the office and looked into the cage.  Good Lord!  There were now eight of them!  All well and eating like hippopotamuses.

He went back to the office and explained to the head of the Tariff Department what the rules said about pigs.  And as for the condition of the guinea pigs, said Flannery, they were all well.  But there were eight of them now, all good eaters.

The head of the Tariff Department laughed when he read Flannery's letter.  He read it again and became serious.

"By George!" he said.  "Flannery is right.  Pigs is pigs.  I'll have to get something official on this.  He spoke to the president of the company.  The president treated the matter lightly.  "What is the rate on pigs and on pets?" he asked.

"Pigs thirty cents, pets twenty-five," the head of the Tariff Department answered.  "Then of course guinea pigs are pigs," the president said.

"Yes," the head of the Tariff Department agreed.  "I look at it that way too.  A thing that can come under two rates is naturally to be charged at the higher one.  But are guinea pigs, pigs?  Aren't they rabbits?"

"Come to think of it," the president said, "I believe they are more like rabbits.  Sort of half-way between pig and rabbit.  I think the question is this – are guinea pigs of the domestic pig family?  I'll ask Professor Gordon.  He is an expert about such things."

The president wrote to Professor Gordon.  Unfortunately, the professor was in South America collecting zoological samples.  His wife forwarded the letter to him.

The professor was in the High Andes Mountains.  The letter took many months to reach him.  In time, the president forgot the guinea pigs.  The head of the Tariff Department forgot them.  Mr. Morehouse forgot them.  But agent Flannery did not.  The guinea pigs had increased to thirty-two.  He asked the head of the Tariff Department what he should do with them.

"Don't sell the pigs," agent Flannery was told.  "They are not your property.  Take care of them until the case is settled."

The guinea pigs needed more room.  Flannery made a large and airy room for them in the back of his office.

Some months later he discovered he now had one hundred sixty of them.  He was going out of his mind.

Not long after this, the president of the express company heard from Professor Gordon.  It was a long and scholarly letter.  It pointed out that the guinea pig was the cavia aparoea, while the common pig was the genus sus of the family suidae.

The president then told the head of the Tariff Department that guinea pigs are not pigs and must be charged only twenty-five cents as domestic pets.  The Tariff Department informed agent Flannery that he should take the one hundred sixty guinea pigs to Mr. Morehouse and collect twenty-five cents for each of them.

Agent Flannery wired back.  "I've got eight hundred now.  Shall I collect for eight hundred or what?  How about the sixty-four dollars I paid for cabbages to feed them?"

Many letters went back and forth.  Flannery was crowded into a few feet at the extreme front of the office.  The guinea pigs had all the rest of the room.  Time kept moving on as the letters continued to go back and forth.

Flannery now had four thousand sixty-four guinea pigs.  He was beginning to lose control of himself.  Then, he got a telegram from the company that said: "Error in guinea pig bill.  Collect for two guinea pigs -- fifty cents."

Flannery ran all the way to Mr. Morehouse's home.  But Mr. Morehouse had moved.  Flannery searched for him in town but without success.  He returned to the express office and found that two hundred six guinea pigs had entered the world since he left the office.

At last, he got an urgent telegram from the main office:  "Send the pigs to the main office of the company at Franklin."  Flannery did so.  Soon, came another telegram.  "Stop sending pigs.  Warehouse full."  But he kept sending them.

Agent Flannery finally got free of the guinea pigs.  "Rules may be rules," he said, "but so long as Flannery runs this express office, pigs is pets and cows is pets and horses is pets and lions and tigers and Rocky Mountain goats is pets.  And the rate on them is twenty-five cents."

Then he looked around and said cheerfully, "Well, anyhow, it is not as bad as it might have been.  What if them guinea pigs had been elephants?"

"Pigs is Pigs" was written by Ellis Parker Butler.  It was adapted for Special English by Harold Berman.  The storyteller was Shep O'Neal.  The producer was Lawan Davis.

I'm Shirley Griffith.

Epitome Of Happiness

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Today I awoke to reality. I awoke from my dream; the most delightful dream I've ever had, a dream full of brightness, peacefulness, and happiness. As I walked along a never-never land, barefoot, in a soft cushion of green grass sanctified with morning dew, I looked straight forward as far as my eyes could see and witnessed a solid, luminous ray of light emanating from a distance. And, all of a sudden, I had euphoria deep down my heart as I saw the ray of light strike a multifaceted diamond, as big as my fist, hanging itself from the formerly dark and tranquil space around me. In no time, the whole world around me just illuminated as the diamond cut the thin incident ray laterally and propagated it into infinitely many rays passing through its facets in numerous directions. As I turned around in awe, I saw the sky above me studded with innumerable other star like gemstones of all colors available in nature. These gemstones were happily engaging themselves with their job of refracting the incident rays of light into many different colors. At every beat of my heart, the ambience became increasingly more illuminated. To my surprise, I saw two naked babies toddling along the green lawn not too far from where I was standing. They both turned briefly towards me as if to acknowledge my presence. Then, something suddenly deviated my attention. I heard psychedelic voices of pigeons singing from the vegetation surrounding me. Surprisingly, I understood their song as it translated itself into "Congratulations! You've made it." Immediately, as I turned to look back where those two babies were, I found out they had long disappeared.

No sooner had I been caressed with a cool breeze than my eyes caught sight of paradisiacal scenery of flowers blooming in the meadows nearby. They bloomed in all hues and colors pleasant to my eyes. I rejoiced smiling at them as they welcomed my presence with a hearty smile. Not to mention the fragrance they shed into the air was just so unbelievably delirious. I stood there in total amazement, with my senses pushed to the pinnacle. My emotions were running high like on a roller coaster. My heart skipped with joy and my heartstrings began strumming themselves. I turned around once again not knowing what lay ahead or which way to go. That brought me to the realization that the path I had taken to get to this ephemeral place wasn't there anymore, nor was there any way further. With a jab of intuition, I blurted out, "Oh, I have no reason to go further."

As I gazed a million miles straight into the boundless horizons and up above the unfathomably deep skies, I found my existence at a place where there was no pull of gravity, no tension, no coercive force of any kind whatsoever. I had become a self-propelling and self-sustaining cosmic phenomenon. My free will was operating in full swing. Moreover, my categorizing and biased mind had given way to wholesomeness and neutrality. I discovered myself as a sentient being with absolute power and in total control over anything, but at the same time, I was selfless and unexploitative. As soon as I realized that, all rays that had been dispersed into the fanciful world around me suddenly aligned and converged into a thin, rigid ray, just like the one I saw in the very beginning, and headed directly towards me. As I closed my eyes, it painlessly and quietly perforated the center of my forehead and a stunningly beautiful eye appeared therePage 2 of 2

The ray, then, vanished. As I opened my eyes, the third eye faded into my forehead. I readily felt that I was nowhere but right here on Earth. I found myself standing in the middle of the Japanese Tea Garden located in San Francisco. It was fall. Mother nature had put on one of her most spectacular displays as native flora finished out the growing season in a brilliant display of fall colors.

Then I had a flashback. In biology class that I took last semester, I had learned fall colors are associated with both the plant's genetic factors and the environment. Produced in foliage all year round, carotene and xanthophylls are pigments responsible for yellow coloration. Tannins give tans and browns. And chlorophyll, without much explanation, gives green. Because of short days and cool temperatures in autumn, production of chlorophyll slows down and the remaining chlorophyll breaks down and disappears. Then the yellows, the tans, and the browns that have been masked by chlorophyll show up. These pigments give the ginkgo its bright yellow color. Redbud, hickory, birch, larch, and witch hazel turn hues of yellow and gold. In fall, however, long sunny days and cool nights increase sugar content of the leaves and intensify fall reds. That's what gives foliage its astonishing beauty. In winter, frost and freezing temperatures will stop the coloration process and blacken the leaves. I recalled everything with my photographic memory.

Owing to the heavenly fall colors and the environment, what I had experienced earlier in the form of surreal dream was more like experiencing heaven first hand. I had sensed the epitome of happiness right here on Earth.

Steve Douglas

Name:	Steve Douglas
Joined:	2 years ago
Country:	United Kingdom
Hometown:	Altrincham
Life Story:	Started writing for fun when I was seven, and now have numerous short stories, poems, half finished novels and an autobiography on my computer. Some stories, poems, a novel and a childhood memoir are available on www.lulu.com by searching for me! There's also a poetry page on Facebook. It's called Steve Douglas' Poetry Page - imaginative eh?
Personal Website:	www.archimedestwiddly.webs.com
Favourite Authors:	Jonathan Carroll; Graham Joyce; Howard Norman; Richard Brautigan; Alice Hoffman; William Kowalski; Philip K Dick; Robert Silverberg; Nicholas Christopher; Knut Hamsun; Paul Auster; Carson McCullers; Amanda Prantera; Kurt Vonnegut; John Cowper Powys; Ali Shaw
Favourite Stories:	VALIS - Philip K Dick; The bird artist - Howard Norman; The river king - Alice Hoffman; Veronica - Nicholas Christopher; The book of skulls - Robert Silverberg;
Interesting:	Steve's sign is Virgo. Steve has read 2 stories in the last 2 months, listened to 0 and was last seen online 1 week ago. Steve has contributed 23 stories to Shortbread.

English Fantasy Story

The War Between Creatures And Humans

In the time before books and the extinction of the dinosaurs, there was peace in the land. On one side, there was pasture, trees, animals and green grass; a kingdom where humans and dwarfs lived. On the other side, there were dark, damp caves, beautiful torchlight and riches beyond belief; this was the kingdom where the dragons lived. Fred, the king of the dragons, had leathery wings; the sharpest and most brilliant green scales and breathed blazing blue fire. Fred was proud of his country and often gloated to the humans saying ‘Look at my people! They are happy, joyful and we have many riches.’

This annoyed the humans, and one day they swarmed like flies to meat towards the mountains of the dragons. The humans, with the help of the dwarfs, attacked without warning and quickly overpowered the dragon kingdom. The human’s king was a knight named Fancy-Pants who owned different colored pants and a magical pencil. Fancy-Pants was indestructible as long as he held the pencil in his hand.

The humans slew many dragons, and took the survivors into caves to make them stand trial. “These dreadful creatures are sentenced to an eternity of slavery and imprisonment”, announced the judge. “This is for taking our crops and our children; not to mention our land too.” Fred suddenly lost control and bellowed fire at the judge, “NEVER!” he roared. “Quickly! Put a muzzle on him”, screamed Fancy-Pants. The dragons were sentenced to slavery in the human mines, homes and as airplanes. Fred, however, refused to do these things and was exiled. Fancy-Pants mocked, ‘Where are your happy people and your riches now?’

The dragons’ dungeon stank of dead bodies and was filled with cries from dragons in distress. Occasionally, the dragons were allowed to work above ground but they were chained and covered in blood where their scales were ripped. They were always threatened with spears. While the dragons were losing hope, Fred spent his days thinking up schemes to overthrow the Tyrants.

One thousand years passed and 90% of the dragon population had died. Dragons live for thousands of years but the humans of that generation had died long ago, except for Fancy-Pants. When Fred eventually escaped from exile, he sent a message to the remaining dragons.

“I will contact our undiscovered cousins, and we will attack at the next full moon.”

At the next full moon, Fred heard a rumbling from above and he shouted: “The time has come! Join me, on this quest to bring back our land and freedom!” The dragons crashed out of the door of the mine and escaped. Below them, their cousins the dinosaurs were fighting a losing battle against the humans and dwarfs. Fred saw Fancy-Pants from the air and flew down and knocked him over. Fred snatched the pencil from Fancy-Pants’ hand, which caused all of Fancy-Pants’ years to come back to him suddenly and he turned into dust.

Following the death of their leader, the humans were lost. The dragons quickly overtook them, but sadly the dinosaurs were annihilated in the battle. The dragons returned to their old land in happiness and peace and quickly repopulated. Little did the dragons know the humans were regrouping just outside their homes and the battle was far from over…

the funy story

There was a man who had worked all of his life and had
saved all of his money. He was a real miser when it came to
his money. He loved money more than just about anything

and just before he died, he said to his wife, "Now listen,
when I die, I want you to take all my money and place it in
the casket with me.
I wanna take my money to the afterlife."

So he got his wife to promise him with all her heart that
when he died, she would put all the money in the casket
with him

Well, one day he died. He was stretched out in the casket,
the wife was sitting there in black next to her closest
friend. When they finished the ceremony, just before the
undertakers got ready to close the casket, the wife said
"Wait just a minute!" she had a shoe box with her, she came
over with the box and placed it in the casket.

Then the undertakers locked the casket down and
rolled it away

Her friend said, "I hope you weren't crazy enough to put all
that money in the casket

She said, "Yes, I promised. I can't lie. I promised him that I
was going to put that money in that casket with him

"You mean to tell me you put every cent of his
money in the casket with him?"

"I sure did, " said the wife. "I got it all together, put it into
my account and I wrote to him a check

intersting story

Without thinking another second, I kicked Bill in his right knee. He screamed in pain and fell backwards on his back. The gun fell to the ground. I picked it up and pointed it at Bill.

“The game is over, Bill.” I said, moving the gun closer to his face. “ I know that you killed John Costello, too. Was he your partner in kidnapping Sarah?”

“Costello was an idiot. He was supposed to kill Anne and then keep quiet. But he told me he wanted more money or he would tell the police everything he knew. So I had to kill him so he wouldn’t blab to the cops.”

“And you came to Costello’s apartment tonight to get rid of any evidence that connected you to him?” I asked.

“Costello had my name written down on a sheet of paper I gave him. I had to find the paper and get rid of it.” Just then I heard a knock on the door, and someone came in. It was Kathy Chang.

“Kathy! Right on time!” I said. “Did you call the police?”

“Yes, they are on their way here right now. I have a camera person from the television station outside. We’re ready to report the story.”

The police arrived a few minutes later, and arrested Bill Salas for the murder of his wife and John Costello. Anne would be devastated, of course, but at least now she would know the truth.

Now it was really over, and the murderer had been found. A week later, I met Kathy at her apartment for our usual dinner. Of course she wanted to know all about the case of Sarah Salas’ kidnapping. We talked over a wonderful meal of baked chicken.

“I understand that Bill killed his wife, Sarah, for her money,” Kathy said, “but how much money was he going to get?

“Bill had a two-million-dollar life insurance policy on Sarah,” I responded. “Bill would get two million plus half of the money from Pardo Computers.”

“And how was John Costello involved in this whole thing?”

“John Costello lived in the same apartment building as Bill and Sarah,” I said. “He moved-in a few months ago, and became friends with Bill. But John liked to go to Las Vegas and gamble. He also liked to smoke and drink. So he needed money--lots of money.”

“And Bill gave him a chance to make a lot of money by helping him kidnap Sarah,” Kathy said.

“Exactly. Bill told John he would give him $500,000 if he helped him kidnap Sarah.”

“But how did they take Sarah? Where did they keep her?”

“Bill had planned everything out very carefully,” I explained. “He told John Costello to call Sarah on the phone to ask her for some help with his computer. When she got there, John tied her up and kept her in his room. Bill left Los Angeles for two days in a rented car, so people would think both he and Sarah had disappeared. And it worked: Anne called the police, because she thought that both Bill and Sarah were in trouble. That’s when Anne asked me for help.”

“What went wrong with Bill’s perfect plan, then?”

“The problem was that John Costello wasn’t a very good helper,” I said. “He was supposed to kill Anne on the freeway, but he didn’t. Then he told Bill that if Bill didn’t give him more money, he would tell the police about the kidnapping.”

“That’s when Bill decided to kill Costello, to make sure Costello didn’t tell the police?”

“Exactly. He went to the bar where Costello worked and killed him,” I said. “Then he went back to Costello’s apartment to kill his wife. He cut her throat and put her body in the street. But when I discovered that John Costello lived in the same apartment building, I knew it was no coincidence, and that’s how I figured it out.”

I took a drink of the wine and looked at Kathy. She really was a very beautiful woman.

“Well, let’s not think about Anne or Bill or John Costello,” Kathy said. She smiled and raised her glass of wine. Perhaps I’ve been working too hard on this case. I’ve forgotten the simple pleasures of life. It was time to spend some more time on the good things in life, like a good glass of wine, a good meal, and Kathy’s wonderful smile.