Short Stories About Making Choices' title='Short Stories About Making Choices' />Short Stories Morg by Clare Reddaway     Outside, she heard a hunting horn, loud and sharp across the village. Morg sidled towards the doorway. She could see light through a gap in the planks, but that was not enough. I will try to add more humorous short stories for teens and avid readers that could be helpful for teaching reading and reading comprehension to middle or high school. Casey and Reece talk about making choices and decisions. This is a DVD designed to teach young people with intellectual disability about choice and. Drivers Hp 250 G2 on this page. I will try to add more stories about choices and consequences that could be helpful for teaching reading and reading comprehension to middle and high school students. A short story from an army veteran about the last time U. S. soldiers were in Iraq and the impossible choices they faced there. Whatever You Do Someone Will Die. A. She opened the door a crack. Maybe she could watch them from here She might just be able to catch a glimpse of what was going on. But she couldnt see anything. The fence that kept in the pigs was blocking her view. Offers news, comment and features about the British arts scene with sections on books, films, music, theatre, art and architecture. Download Boeing 747 Systems Manual. Requires free registration. Brander Matthews 18521929. The ShortStory. 1907. XX. The Necklace By Guy de Maupassant. Making the best options choices In the table on page 3 of this article we have identified the key areas of the Fundamentals level paper syllabuses. Hortense Calisher, a virtuoso of the form, once called the short story an apocalypse in a teacup. Its a definition that suits the remarkable stories. Free making choices papers, essays, and research papers. She opened the door wider, and an icy blast of wind whipped it out of her hands. It banged crash against the side of the hut. Behind her the fire crackled into life and the baby opened his eyes. Morg did not notice. She fought for control of the door. This site is dedicated to Audrey Brody, 19611996. Note This site is intended for adults to use to find stories and activities to share with their children. She wedged it with a stone, so that it still looked closed at first glance. She slid out and across to the corner of the pig fence. Morg threw herself into the grass that lined the fence. It was crackly with the first frost of the season and Morg shivered. It was always cold and windy up here. The village was built on the flat top of a hill, a hill that looked as though someone had sliced the tip off with a sword. Morg knew that in a sense they had. One of her fathers stories told of his grandfathers grandfather, who had come to this hill as a small child. He had been there when they had dug and burrowed and carved away the top, stone by stone, until it was flat and smooth and ready. The hill had been chosen because it was high and from it you could see for many miles across the forests and the river valleys. No one could creep up to this hill without being seen. It was a good hill. From where she lay, Morg could see ten or twelve round huts with their pointy thatched roofs scattered roughly around a circular space of grass. Splodgy brown goats, tethered to thick posts, were grazing. A couple of fowl scratched beside her friend Olwigs hut. She could see the tall earth ramparts around the edge of the village which kept them all safe. Near the gate in the ramparts, the men were standing in a group. They were still and listening. Their long blond hair was blowing so hard in the wind Morg could hardly see their faces. Then a gust revealed her father, on the far side, standing between the horse and Arlen the hound, who he was holding by the scruff of his neck. Arlens teeth were bared and he fought against her fathers grasp. Arlen liked hunting, but he did not like waiting. There, beside her father, was Col, her brother. Morg gritted her teeth. This was the second time he had gone on the hunt, and he was only seven, one winter younger than her. He was shuffling his feet, bored by the Druid and his incantations, impatient to be off. She would not have been so insolent. Behind her was a shriek, and a high howling. Morg leapt to her feet and was in the hut and beside the child in a moment. His face was screwed up and tears were spurting down his cheeks. He was waving his arms and arching his back. He hit Morg hard in the face but she managed to pick him up. She tried to soothe him, but he would not quiet. Then Morg smelt burning. A log lay smouldering on the blanket. Quickly thrusting it back into the fire, she stamped out the embers and guessed what had happened. The fire had flared. The child had seen the pretty flames and crawled towards them. Hed grabbed at a log. She looked one of his hands was tightly clenched. Hurriedly, she grabbed the leather water bottle and sloshed water into a bowl. She thrust his hand into it. The palm was red and blistered. She had caused this, she realised, with her curse. Slowly, slowly his howling gentled. She smoothed his face and hummed gently to him, rocking him backwards and forwards on her lap. Morg heard the door creak open. It was her mother. She had carried the heavy clay water pot all the way up the hill on her head. The youngest baby was strapped on to her back the god of fertility had looked kindly on the family. Morgs mother looked exhausted. Morg stared at the floor. Morg     Burnt, Morg muttered, as the howls started up again. Her mother strode across the hut. Tell, said her mother as she picked up the child. Morg explained. Her mother aimed a swipe at her head. Morg ducked out of the way, but her mother was more weary than angry as she comforted the child. Oh, useless Morg, she said. Go. Spend the day with the sheep. I do not want to see your face. Morg turned away and left. It was the freedom she had wanted. But somehow she didnt want it any more. Morg slouched out of the hut. She heard the horn blast again the hunt was away. She saw the men leap astride their shaggy horses, controlling them with hands laced through long manes. All except for Col. His horse, Branrin, was wheeling, refusing to let Col mount. Morg clenched her fists. There is a knack to mounting Branrin, she thought. Even Col should know that. At last he was up, face burning red with shame. The horses stamped and tossed their heads, their breath like smoke in the cold air. The dogs barked impatiently. Her father, as the leader of the hunt, led the throng through the high walled passage that linked the village with the outer gate. The watchman waved as they passed. Morg stared as the long line disappeared. She scowled.      Morg She heard a shout. It was her friend Olwig. Were late taking the sheep down to the lower field. Will you come     Morg could not decide. To refuse to look after the sheep would make her mother angrier. On the other hand, she wanted to follow the hunt. However, the hunt was gone. Even the Druid had gone back into his hut. All right, she said sulkily. Where are they Olwig pointed and Morg saw Olwigs tiny brother Pridoc chasing three of the sheep with a hazel switch. For a moment, he had them cornered, until they turned as one and each jumped straight back over his head. He was so surprised he sat down in the midden. Morg was forced to laugh. Come, she said to Olwig. They were the experts. They set off to round up the flock. This was a winter job. All the villagers sheep stayed out in summer, but now the nights were darker and longer, and the sheep were easy prey. So each night the children took turns to drive them all in, and out again each morning to the fields for food. Today, the sheep were skittish and jumpy, perhaps sensing the excitement of the huntsmen and the dogs. It took all of Morg and Olwigs skill to calm and herd them through the narrow passage to the gate. As the final ram passed, Morg patted its thick, dense wool. In the spring, as the sheep started to moult, the wool hung off them in lank, brown strands. The children had to pluck the wool to be made into cloth if they could catch the sheep first. Only the very fleet of foot could race the sheep and corner them. Morg remembered that she had cornered the most sheep, and plucked the largest bundle of wool. Her mother and father had been so proud of her. They will be proud again, she thought fiercely, and she aimed a kick at the ram, who jumped nimbly out of the way with a swift flick of his heels. May the goddess Alos bless the hunt, eh shouted Olwig back to Morg. As Olwig said this, as she had said a hundred times, Morg had an idea. The goddess might bless the hunt. She might bless Morg too. She might lift the ill wishes Morg had so foolishly let loose. Morg herded the sheep through the heavy gate to the fort. She was deep in thought. The ground sloped steeply down from the gate and the way was treacherous. She had to watch where she stepped to avoid losing her footing. Short Stories that Will Change the Way You ThinkTheres always room for a story that cantransport people to another place. J. K. Rowling. Let me distract you for a moment and tell you four short stories. These are old stories familiar stories. The people and the circumstances differ slightly for everyone who tells them, but the core lessons remain the same. I hope the twist weve put on them here inspires you to think differentlyStory 1  All the Difference in The World. Every Sunday morning I take a light jog around a park near my home. Theres a lake located in one corner of the park. Each time I jog by this lake, I see the same elderly woman sitting at the waters edge with a small metal cage sitting beside her. This past Sunday my curiosity got the best of me, so I stopped jogging and walked over to her. As I got closer, I realized that the metal cage was in fact a small trap. There were three turtles, unharmed, slowly walking around the base of the trap. She had a fourth turtle in her lap that she was carefully scrubbing with a spongy brush. Hello, I said.   I see you here every Sunday morning. If you dont mind my nosiness, Id love to know what youre doing with these turtles. She smiled.   Im cleaning off their shells, she replied. Anything on a turtles shell, like algae or scum, reduces the turtles ability to absorb heat and impedes its ability to swim. It can also corrode and weaken the shell over time. Wow  Thats really nice of you I exclaimed. She went on I spend a couple of hours each Sunday morning, relaxing by this lake and helping these little guys out. Its my own strange way of making a difference. But dont most freshwater turtles live their whole lives with algae and scum hanging from their shells I asked. Yep, sadly, they do, she replied. I scratched my head. Well then, dont you think your time could be better spent  I mean, I think your efforts are kind and all, but there are fresh water turtles living in lakes all around the world. And 9. So, no offense but how exactly are your localized efforts here truly making a differenceThe woman giggled aloud. She then looked down at the turtle in her lap, scrubbed off the last piece of algae from its shell, and said, Sweetie, if this little guy could talk, hed tell you I just made all the difference in the world. The moral  You can change the world maybe not all at once, but one person, one animal, and one good deed at a time. Wake up every morning and pretend like what you do makes a difference. It does.   Read 2. Gifts. Story 2  The Weight of the Glass. Once upon a time a psychology professor walked around on a stage while teaching stress management principles to an auditorium filled with students. As she raised a glass of water, everyone expected theyd be asked the typical glass half empty or glass half full question. Instead, with a smile on her face, the professor asked, How heavy is this glass of water Im holdingStudents shouted out answers ranging from eight ounces to a couple pounds. She replied, From my perspective, the absolute weight of this glass doesnt matter. It all depends on how long I hold it. If I hold it for a minute or two, its fairly light. If I hold it for an hour straight, its weight might make my arm ache a little. If I hold it for a day straight, my arm will likely cramp up and feel completely numb and paralyzed, forcing me to drop the glass to the floor. In each case, the weight of the glass doesnt change, but the longer I hold it, the heavier it feels to me. As the class shook their heads in agreement, she continued, Your stresses and worries in life are very much like this glass of water. Think about them for a while and nothing happens. Think about them a bit longer and you begin to ache a little. Think about them all day long, and you will feel completely numb and paralyzed incapable of doing anything else until you drop them. The moral  Its important to remember to let go of your stresses and worries. No matter what happens during the day, as early in the evening as you can, put all your burdens down. Dont carry them through the night and into the next day with you. If you still feel the weight of yesterdays stress, its a strong sign that its time to put the glass down. Angel and I discuss this process of letting go in the Adversity and Self Love chapters of 1,0. Little Things Happy, Successful People Do Differently. Story 3  Shark Bait. During a research experiment a marine biologist placed a shark into a large holding tank and then released several small bait fish into the tank. As you would expect, the shark quickly swam around the tank, attacked and ate the smaller fish. The marine biologist then inserted a strong piece of clear fiberglass into the tank, creating two separate partitions. She then put the shark on one side of the fiberglass and a new set of bait fish on the other. Again, the shark quickly attacked. This time, however, the shark slammed into the fiberglass divider and bounced off. Undeterred, the shark kept repeating this behavior every few minutes to no avail. Meanwhile, the bait fish swam around unharmed in the second partition. Eventually, about an hour into the experiment, the shark gave up. This experiment was repeated several dozen times over the next few weeks. Each time, the shark got less aggressive and made fewer attempts to attack the bait fish, until eventually the shark got tired of hitting the fiberglass divider and simply stopped attacking altogether. The marine biologist then removed the fiberglass divider, but the shark didnt attack. The shark was trained to believe a barrier existed between it and the bait fish, so the bait fish swam wherever they wished, free from harm. The moral  Many of us, after experiencing setbacks and failures, emotionally give up and stop trying. Like the shark in the story, we believe that because we were unsuccessful in the past, we will always be unsuccessful. In other words, we continue to see a barrier in our heads, even when no real barrier exists between where we are and where we want to go. Read The Road Less Traveled. Story 4  Being and Breathing. One warm evening many years agoAfter spending nearly every waking minute with Angel for eight straight days, I knew that I had to tell her just one thing. So late at night, just before she fell asleep, I whispered it in her ear. She smiled the kind of smile that makes me smile back and she said, When Im seventy five and I think about my life and what it was like to be young, I hope that I can remember this very moment. A few seconds later she closed her eyes and fell asleep. The room was peaceful almost silent. All I could hear was the soft purr of her breathing. I stayed awake thinking about the time wed spent together and all the choices in our lives that made this moment possible. And at some point, I realized that it didnt matter what wed done or where wed gone. Nor did the future hold any significance. All that mattered was the serenity of the moment. Just being with her and breathing with her. The moral  We must not allow the clock, the calendar, and external pressures to rule our lives and blind us to the fact that each individual moment of our lives is a beautiful mystery and a miracle especially those moments we spend in the presence of a loved one.