The Cactus summary

The Cactus is another riddle story. At first it left you with the cactus and the person leaving without notice. The cactus represented the women's answer but because of the lie he told he was unable to figure this riddle out. At least until the end. I believe the story couldn't have finished in a more perfectly planned scene. Overall I would definitely recommend this short story because it almost has dry humor to it while being confusing until the last sentence.

The Cactus

by O. Henry

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The most notable thing about Time is that it is so purely relative. A large amount of reminiscence is, by common consent, conceded to the drowning man; and it is not past belief that one may review an entire courtship while removing one's gloves.

That is what Trysdale was doing, standing by a table in his bachelor apartments. On the table stood a singular-looking green plant in a red earthen jar. The plant was one of the species of cacti, and was provided with long, tentacular leaves that perpetually swayed with the slightest breeze with a peculiar beckoning motion.

Trysdale's friend, the brother of the bride, stood at a sideboard complaining at being allowed to drink alone. Both men were in evening dress. White favors like stars upon their coats shone through the gloom of the apartment.

As he slowly unbuttoned his gloves, there passed through Trysdale's mind a swift, scarifying retrospect of the last few hours. It seemed that in his nostrils was still the scent of the flowers that had been banked in odorous masses about the church, and in his ears the lowpitched hum of a thousand well-bred voices, the rustle of crisp garments, and, most insistently recurring, the drawling words of the minister irrevocably binding her to another.

From this last hopeless point of view he still strove, as if it had become a habit of his mind, to reach some conjecture as to why and how he had lost her. Shaken rudely by the uncompromising fact, he had suddenly found himself confronted by a thing he had never before faced --his own innermost, unmitigated, arid unbedecked self. He saw all the garbs of pretence and egoism that he had worn now turn to rags of folly. He shuddered at the thought that to others, before now, the garments of his soul must have appeared sorry and threadbare. Vanity and conceit? These were the joints in his armor. And how free from either she had always been--But why--

As she had slowly moved up the aisle toward the altar he had felt an unworthy, sullen exultation that had served to support him. He had told himself that her paleness was from thoughts of another than the man to whom she was about to give herself. But even that poor consolation had been wrenched from him. For, when he saw that swift, limpid, upward look that she gave the man when he took her hand, he knew himself to be forgotten. Once that same look had been raised to him, and he had gauged its meaning. Indeed, his conceit had crumbled; its last prop was gone. Why had it ended thus? There had been no quarrel between them, nothing--

For the thousandth time he remarshalled in his mind the events of those last few days before the tide had so suddenly turned.

She had always insisted upon placing him upon a pedestal, and he had accepted her homage with royal grandeur. It had been a very sweet incense that she had burned before him; so modest (he told himself); so childlike and worshipful, and (he would once have sworn) so sincere. She had invested him with an almost supernatural number of high attributes and excellencies and talents, and he had absorbed the oblation as a desert drinks the rain that can coax from it no promise of blossom or fruit.

As Trysdale grimly wrenched apart the seam of his last glove, the crowning instance of his fatuous and tardily mourned egoism came vividly back to him. The scene was the night when he had asked her to come up on his pedestal with him and share his greatness. He could not, now, for the pain of it, allow his mind to dwell upon the memory of her convincing beauty that night--the careless wave of her hair, the tenderness and virginal charm of her looks and words. But they had been enough, and they had brought him to speak. During their conversation she had said:

"And Captain Carruthers tells me that you speak the Spanish language like a native. Why have you hidden this accomplishment from me? Is there anything you do not know?"

Now, Carruthers was an idiot. No doubt he (Trysdale) had been guilty (he sometimes did such things) of airing at the club some old, canting Castilian proverb dug from the hotchpotch at the back of dictionaries. Carruthers, who was one of his incontinent admirers, was the very man to have magnified this exhibition of doubtful erudition.

But, alas! the incense of her admiration had been so sweet and flattering. He allowed the imputation to pass without denial. Without protest, he allowed her to twine about his brow this spurious bay of Spanish scholarship. He let it grace his conquering head, and, among its soft convolutions, he did not feel the prick of the thorn that was to pierce him later.

How glad, how shy, how tremulous she was! How she fluttered like a snared bird when he laid his mightiness at her feet! He could have sworn, and he could swear now, that unmistakable consent was in her eyes, but, coyly, she would give him no direct answer. "I will send you my answer to-morrow," she said; and he, the indulgent, confident victor, smilingly granted the delay. The next day he waited, impatient, in his rooms for the word. At noon her groom came to the door and left the strange cactus in the red earthen jar. There was no note, no message, merely a tag upon the plant bearing a barbarous foreign or botanical name. He waited until night, but her answer did not come. His large pride and hurt vanity kept him from seeking her. Two evenings later they met at a dinner. Their greetings were conventional, but she looked at him, breathless, wondering, eager. He was courteous, adamant, waiting her explanation. With womanly swiftness she took her cue from his manner, and turned to snow and ice. Thus, and wider from this on, they had drifted apart. Where was his fault? Who had been to blame? Humbled now, he sought the answer amid the ruins of his self-conceit. If--

The voice of the other man in the room, querulously intruding upon his thoughts, aroused him.

"I say, Trysdale, what the deuce is the matter with you? You look unhappy as if you yourself had been married instead of having acted merely as an accomplice. Look at me, another accessory, come two thousand miles on a garlicky, cockroachy banana steamer all the way from South America to connive at the sacrifice--please to observe how lightly my guilt rests upon my shoulders. Only little sister I had, too, and now she's gone. Come now! take something to ease your conscience."

"I don't drink just now, thanks," said Trysdale.

"Your brandy," resumed the other, coming over and joining him, "is abominable. Run down to see me some time at Punta Redonda, and try some of our stuff that old Garcia smuggles in. It's worth the, trip. Hallo! here's an old acquaintance. Wherever did you rake up this cactus, Trysdale?"

"A present," said Trysdale, "from a friend. Know the species?"

"Very well. It's a tropical concern. See hundreds of 'em around Punta every day. Here's the name on this tag tied to it. Know any Spanish, Trysdale?"

"No," said Trysdale, with the bitter wraith of a smile--"Is it Spanish?"

"Yes. The natives imagine the leaves are reaching out and beckoning to you. They call it by this name--Ventomarme. Name means in English, 'Come and take me.'"

There's a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella summary

When I first read this story I did not fully understand how one person could eventually become accustomed to being hit in the head with an umbrella. This story has an unique spin to it with an almost humorous response to the man hitting someone with an umbrella. It is also interesting how this story never tells you anything specific except for the man hitting someone in the head with an umbrella. I would recommend to read this it is a really interesting book with many different ways to view it. And if any of you can find the hidden riddle in the story just post it in the comment section.

There's a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella

Fernando Sorrentino


There's a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella


Translated by Clark M. Zlotchew


There's a man in the habit of hitting me on the head with an umbrella. It's exactly five years today that he's been hitting me on the head with his umbrella. At first I couldn't stand it; now I'm used to it.


I don't know his name. I know he's average in appearance, wears a gray suit, is graying at the temples, and has a common face. I met him five years ago one sultry morning. I was sitting on a tree-shaded bench in Palermo Park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the very same man who now, as I'm writing, keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.


On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn't even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, cool as a cucumber, he stuck with his task. After a few moments of indecision, and seeing that he was not about to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, and let out an almost inaudible moan. He immediately got back on his feet, apparently with great effort, and without a word again began hitting me on the head with the umbrella. His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn't exactly bludgeoning me; he was merely tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. Of course, those taps were extremely bothersome. As we all know, when a fly lands on your forehead, you don't feel any pain whatsoever; what you feel is annoyance. Well then, that umbrella was one humongous fly that kept landing on my head time after time, and at regular intervals.


Convinced that I was dealing with a madman, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (at this juncture I should point out that not many people run as fast as I do). He took off after me, vainly trying to land a blow. The man was huffing and puffing and gasping so that I thought, if I continued to force him to run at that speed, my tormenter would drop dead right then and there.

To Build a Fire Summary

To Build a Fire is a story of desperate survival under the cold, harsh weather. Even in his closest hours of death he kept moving and thinking each way was to have basic survival. At first this book was a little bit misleading but as you read on it gets interesting. It is about a man and his dog trying to get from point A to point B but not living to tell the tale. I believe this book is trying to tell us or even warn us about ourself in basic survival. He tried to go to extremes to survive even if it took kill another life. This is a sad story but has a lot of meaning, it is a good story overall with amazing detail.

To Build a Fire

by Jack London

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Day had broken cold and grey, exceedingly cold and grey, when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail and climbed the high earth- bank, where a dim and little-travelled trail led eastward through the fat spruce timberland. It was a steep bank, and he paused for breath at the top, excusing the act to himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o'clock. There was no sun nor hint of sun, though there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day, and yet there seemed an intangible pall over the face of things, a subtle gloom that made the day dark, and that was due to the absence of sun. This fact did not worry the man. He was used to the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun, and he knew that a few more days must pass before that cheerful orb, due south, would just peep above the sky- line and dip immediately from view.

No Story Summary

This is a good story that has a vague interest that turns into a passion. How Tripp explains this story is unmatched. Then at the end in a sudden realization he came to see that it was a hoax but a deep thought from a drunken man scavenging for money only to be more entrenched in whiskey.

No Story is a Great Story

This next story is called No Story, the title really intrigued me so here it is....

No Story

by O. Henry

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To avoid having this book hurled into corner of the room by the suspicious reader, I will assert in time that this is not a newspaper story. You will encounter no shirt-sleeved, omniscient city editor, no prodigy "cub" reporter just off the farm, no scoop, no story--no anything.

Summary of a bad parrot

This overall is a short story but that didn't stop me from enjoying its crude humor. Bad Parrot is a short story that has a funny twist at the end. Personally I enjoy stories like this because the author can cram so much in so little.

Bad Parrot

Bad Parrot - a Thanksgiving Story

A young man named John received a parrot as a gift. The parrot had a bad attitude and an even worse vocabulary.
Every word out of the bird's mouth was rude, obnoxious and laced with profanity. John tried and tried to change the bird's attitude by consistently saying only polite words, playing soft music and anything else he could think of to 'clean up' the bird's vocabulary.
Finally, John was fed up and he yelled at the parrot. The parrot yelled back. John shook the parrot and the parrot got angrier and even more rude. John, in desperation, threw up his hand, grabbed the bird and put him in the freezer. For a few minutes the parrot squawked and kicked and screamed.
Then suddenly there was total quiet. Not a peep was heard for over a minute.
Fearing that he'd hurt the parrot, John quickly opened the door to the freezer. The parrot calmly stepped out onto John's outstretched arms and said "I believe I may have offended you with my rude language and actions. I'm sincerely remorseful for my inappropriate transgressions and I fully intend to do everything I can to correct my rude and unforgivable behavior."
John was stunned at the change in the bird's attitude.
As he was about to ask the parrot what had made such a dramatic change in his behavior, the bird spoke-up, very softly,
"May I ask what the turkey did?"

Thanksgiving story

This week I am posting a Thanksgiving themed story in the spirit of Thanksgiving. This new story is called bad parrot, in my opinion I find this story funny and I hope you guys do too.

Thank you Ma'am summary

This story shows the good within the bad. Thank you Ma'am turns a bad situation into something different, from a boy trying to steal a purse for something he can't have; to be then given a nice dinner and a pair of shoes. This story shows the forgiveness within all of us.

Thank you Ma'am

This short story is different from the others I have posted, it has an odd twist to it. I hope most of you guys like it.

Thank You, Ma’am by Langston Hughes

She was a large woman with a large purse that had everything in it but hammer and nails. It had a long strap, and she carried it slung across her shoulder. It was about eleven o’clock at night, and she was walking alone, when a boy ran up behind her and tried to snatch her purse. The strap broke with the single tug the boy gave it from behind. But the boy’s weight and the weight of the purse combined caused him to lose his balance so, instead of taking off full blast as he had hoped, the boy fell on his back on the sidewalk, and his legs flew up. The large woman simply turned around and kicked him right square in his blue-jeaned sitter. Then she reached down, picked the boy up by his shirt front, and shook him until his teeth rattled.

The Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge Summary

This story is special because it gives the reader enough detail anywhere in the book to have a picture in his mind. It actually makes me wonder what happens at those moments, if that truly happens, seeing an alternative future one where you could live on. The Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge is one of a kind with its amazing insight on Peyton Farquhar in his final moments.

An Occurance at Owl Creek Bridge

by Ambrose Bierce

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I

A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man's hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the sleepers supporting the metals of the railway supplied a footing for him and his executioners

New short story

The next short story I am posting is a well known story called an occur acne at owl creek. This story amazingly portrays the touch and feel of a man in his final moments. I hope everyone likes it.

Monkey Paw after summary

The Monkey Paw story is different in the sense of meaning. First it started with a fable or fairy tale that then turned into a nightmare. The Monkey paw twisted their wishes to have a fee but were granted in the end. I think this story's moral was different whereas most people would think the theme would be the dangers of wishing; I think it was being happy. At the start of the book they said they were happy and had a good life but then greedily wished for a more fortunate life and that is where the monkey paw changed their life from happy to unhappy.  Overall the Monkey Paw is a good story with an interesting twist.

Monkey paw pre summary

For everyone who was wondering why I had posted Monkey Paw, it was in the spirit of Halloween with scary stories and this fit the case.

The Monkey's Paw

THE MONKEY'S PAW

I.

Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnam
Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son
were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving
radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils
that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting
placidly by the fire.

"Hark at the wind," said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake
after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from
seeing it.

"I'm listening," said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he
stretched out his hand. "Check."

"I should hardly think that he'd come to-night," said his father, with
his hand poised over the board.

"Mate," replied the son.

The most Dangerous game

The most dangerous game is an interesting story it captures the peak of human curiosity greatly. Zaroff is a top hunter and everything bores him besides hunting humans. Then Rainsford comes along and as Rainsford is a hunter Zaroff offers him to hunt humans with him. Rainsford is portraying a great hunter here with principles so he declines asking to go home. Zaroff then entangles Rainsford in his twisted games that show just how cruel Zaroff is. All in all I think this is a great short story and shares with us that the human nature is generally a good thing but with too much of it we become animals.