the bald knight

[nafise sadeghi]

short story
the bald knight
a certain knight who wore a wig to conceal his bladness was out hunting one day a sudden gust of wind carried a way his wig and showed his blad pate.
his friend all laughed heartily at the odd figure he made but himself so far from being put out laughed as heartily as any of them.it is any wonder siad he.
that anothermans hair should not keep on my head when my own would not stay there.

[ЛίL∞F∆R]

A Haunted House

Virginia Woolf
Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple.
"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."
But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps its upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.
But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?
A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. 'The Treasure yours."
The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.
"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning--" "Silver between the trees--" "Upstairs--" 'In the garden--" "When summer came--" 'In winter snowtime--" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.
Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."
Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.
"Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years--" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure--" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart."

[nafise sadeghi]

It Was an Old, Worthless Clock

It was an old clock, but it still told the correct time. The face had a faded picture of Andy’s parents taken when they were newlyweds. Aside from some photos, the clock was the only memento Andy had of his mom and dad.
His father died of cancer in 1964. Then his mom moved to a private nursing home. She had many friends there. The nursing home, however, went bankrupt. They moved her into a state nursing home. She hated it there.
She asked Andy to help her move into a private nursing home again. She had spent most of her husband’s savings on living expenses at the first nursing home. Andy said he would try.
But Andy had no savings. He was a sergeant in the Army, and all his money went to his wife and three kids. He called his older brother Frank, who was single and had a great job. Frank was an avid deep-sea fisherman and was interested in buying a large boat for weekend use.
“Frank, I don’t have the money now, but you do,” Andy pleaded. “Just pay for Mom and I’ll owe you for half of the nursing home costs.”
“You’ll owe me? You don’t have two nickels to rub together, and probably never will. I’ll get stuck for the whole bill. What about my boat?”
“What boat?”
“Never mind. Let me think about it, and I'll get back to you.”
Frank never did send his mom the money to move into a private nursing home. Alone and unhappy, she died in the state nursing home only a year later. Andy never forgave his brother.
Many years went by. Frank’s health declined. He called up Andy one day. “Andy, I feel really bad about not helping out Mom. I was too interested in getting that boat. The older I’ve gotten, the more guilt I feel. My days are numbered, Andy. Cancer’s got me just like it got Pop. I was wondering if you would send me that clock, just for a little while. I want to beg Mom to forgive me.”
Andy was very reluctant to part with his clock, but he did feel a little sorry for Frank.
Frank died ten months later. One of Frank’s nieces, Flo, was the executor of his estate. Flo had hired a lawyer to help her Uncle Frank rewrite his will in his dying days. Strangely enough, Flo got everything.
She made sure Uncle Frank was buried a day after his death. No announcement was made about his funeral, which Flo kept private—at the 20-minute service, Flo was the only mourner. Flo sold Uncle Frank’s house, car, and boat within the week. Everything of lesser value went to a charity. His cash and stocks, of course, were already safely in her name.
When Andy discovered that his brother had died, he called Flo to ask about his clock. “Oh,” she said, “that went to charity with everything else. You didn’t really want that old thing, did you, Uncle Andy? Uncle Andy? Hello?” Well, that was rude, she thought.

[nafise sadeghi]

Where Did That Book Go?

Samuel was back at the thrift shop. He had walked into the shop with only one goal in mind—to find a book that he had NOT bought yesterday. The book was one of seven that he had piled up yesterday. He was going to buy all of them. But at the last moment, he changed his mind. He put all seven back on the shelf.
Samuel had a personal library at home that exceeded 1,000 books—almost all unread. He subscribed to seven magazines and one daily newspaper. Samuel had more reading material in his small apartment than he could finish in two lifetimes, yet his urge to buy more books raged on.
He finally put his foot down. Not one more book, he told himself, unless it was really special. Yesterday’s book fit the bill. It was a biography of one of his favorite authors—Stephen King. King is one of America’s most popular fiction authors. But it wasn’t easy for King; early in his career, he got hundreds of rejection slips. Samuel wanted to be a great writer. King was his role model.
Samuel immediately found one of the books he had piled up yesterday, and then another one. All right, he thought. This was going to be easy. In minutes, he found all the books that he had held in his hands yesterday, except one—the Stephen King book. Gee, what a surprise, he thought. The one book that I want to find is the one book that I can’t find.
Samuel took a walk throughout the store, knowing that people often pick up merchandise in one place and then leave it in another place. The book was a thick paperback with a red cover. But it was nowhere to be found.
So for Samuel, the Big Hunt was on. He was now a man on a mission. Every thrift shop he went to would involve a search for the King book. This new search added purpose to his thrift shop life.
Samuel had held something special in his hands. But only when he let it go did he realize its value. When he found it again, he would place the King book prominently on his bookshelf. It would almost certainly be his favorite book that he never got around to reading