Dr.

Son Tech
by M.M. Rold

Have you ever thought why you are the way you are? I, Dr. James Son Tech Jr, have. All my life has been
marked by this internal uneasiness of not knowing why I could not control all my acts. As time went by, I
reached some definite conclusions: We, humans, are a mix of genetic inheritance and social environment.
When I was a child, I discovered that I shared my father’s interest in science –he was awarded a Nobel Prize for
inventing a cloned embryos incubator– and my mother’s religious beliefs –she took me to church every Sunday.
However, I never found out why evil forces compelled me to do atrocious things such as kicking a little kitten
hard into the air right after helping it come down from the top of a tree just to see the effect of gravity.
As a teenager, things got worse and the forces grew stronger. I was the best in my class but I was not popular.
Therefore, I spent most of my time working with my father or praying with my mother, asking God for
forgiveness for my bad deeds; some of them are too embarrassing to be told here.
After graduating from university, I was determined to find the answer to my long-lasting question in the root of
life: Human cells, so I specialized in biogenetics. In one of my projects, I worked on my own cells. First, I
isolated the genes of good and evil and then I divided one of my own cells into two and placed both parts next to
the genes fusing them with a jolt of electricity. As a result, I got two embryos containing a group of DNA
molecules genetically manipulated. Finally, thanks to my father’s incubator, I gave birth to my twin clones:
Billy Earl and Willy Oswald Ray Son Tech –I named them like that just to play with the initials, if you know
what I mean.
Through my studies, I realized that Billy and Willy grew up ten times faster than humans so two years after they
were born, they were already adults. I discovered, too, a surprising ability to improve themselves day by day.
Besides, Billy amazed me with his never-ending good actions and Willy with his incredibly perverse doings.
One day, when they were three, or should I say thirty better? Willy did something terrible to his brother.
However, Billy forgave him and filled him with brotherly love. Surprisingly, from that day on Willy changed
and became tenderer, more compassionate. What’s more, the good in him came to the surface. My experiment
had failed but…

The Selfish Giant

by Oscar Wilde

Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children went and played in the Giant's garden. It was a
large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers, and there were
twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn
had rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children stopped their games to listen to
them.
One day, the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend, the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for
seven years. After the seven years, he had decided to return to his castle. When he arrived, he saw the children
playing in the garden.
"What are you doing here?" he cried angrily, and the children ran away. "My own garden is my own garden,"
said the Giant, "anyone can understand that and I will not allow anybody to play in it." Therefore, he built a high
wall all round it, and put up a notice-board:
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
He was a very selfish Giant and now the poor children had nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but
the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They wandered round the high wall
when their lessons were over, and talked about the beautiful garden inside.
Then, the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. However, in the
garden of the Selfish Giant, it was still winter. The birds did not sing in it as there were no children, and the
trees forgot to blossom. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. The Snow covered up
the grass in white, and the Frost painted all the trees silver.
"I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming," said the Selfish Giant as he sat at the window and
looked out at his cold white garden; "I hope there will be a change in the weather." But the Spring never came,
nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. “He is
too selfish,” she said.
One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It was only a little linnet
singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed the
most beautiful music in the world. A delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. “I believe the
Spring has come at last,” said the Giant, and he jumped out of bed and looked out.
What did he see?
He saw a wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall, the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the
branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see, there was a child. And the trees were so glad to have the
children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms. The birds were flying about and twittering
with delight, and the flowers were laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner, it was still winter. It was
the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up
to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite
covered with Frost and Snow. "How selfish I have been!" he said, "now I know why the Spring did not come
here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden
will be the children's playground for ever and ever."
He was really very sorry for what he had done so he went out into the garden. But when the children saw him
they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again. Only the little boy did not
run because his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant took him gently in
his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on
it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and put them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the
other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them
came the Spring.
"It is your garden now, little children," said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And
when the people were going to market at twelve o’clock, they found the Giant playing with the children in the
most beautiful garden they had ever seen.
All day long they played, and in the evening, they came to the Giant to tell him good-bye. "But where is your
little companion?" he said, "the boy I put into the tree." The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.
"We don't know," answered the children; "he has gone away." "You must tell him to come here tomorrow," said
the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before. The
Giant felt very sad.
Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy who the
Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children; however, he longed for his first
little friend, and often spoke of him. "How I would like to see him!" he used to say.
Years went by, and the Giant grew very old and weak. He could not play anymore, so he sat in a huge armchair,
and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. "I have many beautiful flowers," he said, "but
the children are the most beautiful flowers of all."
One winter morning, he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now as he
knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.
Suddenly, he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvelous sight. In the
farthest corner of the garden was a tree covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and it
had silver fruit, and underneath it stood the little boy that he loved.
Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He walked across the grass, and came near to the
child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, "Who hath dared to wound
thee?" For on the palms of the child's hands there were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were
on the little feet.
"Who hath dared to wound thee?" cried the Giant, "tell me, that I will take my big sword and kill him."
"Nay!" answered the child, "but these are the wounds of Love."
"Who art thou?" said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.
And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, "You let me play once in your garden, today you will come
with me to my garden, which is Paradise."
When the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white
blossoms.

The Exam

Once, there were three applicants in an exam hall. It was a freezing cold morning and it was raining heavily.
They were sitting in a room, feeling colder than the day because the company had called the three of them and
they knew there was only one vacancy.
They were waiting impatiently to be called for an exam to be employed in one of the most prestigious
multinational companies in the world when the human resource manager entered and told them the exam
conditions: “There is a pen and a sheet of paper in front of you. There is only one question and if you answer it,
you will get the job. You cannot crumple the paper and you cannot leave the room before three hours. The paper
should not be spoiled in anyway. There will be a guard in the room, to whom you cannot talk. Moreover, he will
throw you out if you don’t follow the rules.” After a pause, he asked: “Have you understood?”
No one replied to him and he left. To the candidates’ surprise, the paper sheets were blank.
When the exam started, Candidate 1 wrote something on the paper and the guard threw him out. He was
considered the most intelligent.
Candidate 2 and Candidate 3 were confused. After three hours, the manager came back and said, “Does anyone
know the question and the answer?” Candidate 3 replied, “The question is ‘Have you understood?’ and the
answer is ‘Yes’”. Of course, he got the job! Candidate 2 left the room angrily, feeling the most stupid person in
the world.

The Hunted Hunter

I know a person, in my company, who has affinity for girls (no big deal but this guy is married and has a kid).
One day, while he was having coffee, he saw a colleague from our office and he immediately decided to ask her
out. This pretty and smart girl, who knew everything about him and his intentions, accepted the invitation. They
decided to meet for a short trip outside Mumbai and return within the day, Saturday. By that day, this guy had
planned everything, what he'd do, where he’d take her, which route, etc.
As I was not comfortable with his thoughts, one day while we were working on a project, I told the girl what he
was planning. She asked me to stay calm and assured me she had it under her control (I came to know this part
later on). The next day, this guy picked her up from a pre decided place. Although she had been late by half an
hour, he still told her they were going to Khandala. She calmly accepted and asked him to stop at a restaurant
near Ghodbunder for coffee. Of course, he agreed, pretending to be a gentleman and not knowing that the night
before she had asked three of her friends to be present there.
When she saw them at the restaurant, they smiled and came to her and they began to chat. These guys told her
they were going to Khandala for a trip. Therefore, she asked them to join her and her frustrated lover. All five of
them would go there together.
Whatever had been planned by Mr. Dude was spoiled. However, she ensured that all expenses were divided and
he did not suffer any monetary loss. Next Monday, this was the talk of office. Unfortunately, Mr. Dude never
gave up his efforts and still tried but unsuccessfully.

Stitches
by G. Alex

The maquila was at the end of their street, next to the store El Quetzal, where Miguel and his mother usually got
their food. The maquila was a big, ugly metal building, hot as hell in the tropical sun. Miguel was a brave boy –
he was a Mayan, as his mother had told him so many times. But as he was only seven, when he worked in the
metal workshop, his heart felt a little weak in the loud noise of the sewing machines. Sometimes, in the middle
of the afternoon, Miguel fell asleep and that was really bad. When Señor Costas saw him sleeping on his job, he
shouted at his mother. This affected Miguel so much that he wanted to cry because his obligation was to help his
mother and not to bring her problems, as his father had told him before leaving for the plantation with Tonio, his
big brother who was already twelve so he could use a machete.
Sometimes the factory received lots of trucks and Miguel and his mother had to stay all day inside the metal
house. Sometimes, they worked more slowly and they went home for a meal to their little house by the river, at
the other end of the long street. On those days Señor Costas was friendlier and he didn’t get angry. He called
Miguel’s mother Mechita (her real name was Mercedes), probably because he had known her since she was a
child and Mamá Lala, Miguel’s grandmother, worked as a servant in the Costas family’s big house up the hill.
He wasn’t a bad man. In fact, he had given Miguel and his family a house by the river for very little money. The
payments were small and Señor Costas just took the payments from his parents’ salaries. He was the owner of
the plantation and the store, too. So, Miguel didn’t need any money to buy at El Quetzal, because the
shopkeeper, Beto, simply wrote the amount in a black notebook. Miguel was very careful with money so he got
just a lollipop or a few sweets.
That week a truck had arrived with some fantastic T-shirts. Miguel, his mother and all the other workers had to
carefully assemble them, neatly fold them and pack them to be sent to places where people bought them for their
children. On their front, the shirts had the image of a funny mouse with big black ears and a friendly smile.
Miguel wanted one; he liked them so much. He stitched small labels with the name of his country in the inside
of the shirts. He couldn’t read the labels because he hadn’t had time to start school; he would start as soon as his
family’s debt with Costas was smaller. One morning he was working on a bright red T-shirt, so soft in his
fingers that he had a crazy idea. He put a secret stitch and said to himself that that shirt, no matter who bought it,
would be his shirt forever, because it had his secret mark. That was HIS shirt now. His heart was full of pride
and he smiled into his sewing machine.
Soon after this, the rainy season came. But that season was not usual at all. The black hills sent black clouds.
Nothing good could come of that. One night, his mother took him out of bed. “El río, Miguelito”. The river. So?
Then, the deep noise uphill became louder and Miguel understood. Water was coming down from the hills.
They ran out the house and up the road and past the maquila to the paved road, which was higher than the
village. There they waited, full of fear, with their neighbours and friends. The black waters came into the village
and destroyed every house, every tree, and the maquila.
They had lost everything. Women prayed and the few old men who still remained in the village put up a refuge.
Señor Costas came with some food, but it wasn’t enough. And he also promised to rebuild the houses. But
suddenly, something extraordinary happened. A big truck arrived with food and clothes. People who spoke a
different language and wore uniforms brought boxes and boxes of good things.
Miguel was excited. A nice lady gave them a big box heavy with surprises. They sat under a tree and opened it.
Some food, medicine, bottled water and clothes. Miguel’s mother sighed. She looked around and watched the
strangers helping the villagers to rebuild their houses on safer places. She felt that they would be all right.
Miguel took out everything from the box. He didn’t want to miss anything. And he was also hungry. Suddenly,
he froze. In the bottom of the box there was a red T-shirt. It had a big mouse on the front. His little fingers
touched the label inside. That was HIS shirt! Perhaps a little older, but soft and beautiful. Then he knew that he
would be all right.

Witches’ Loaves
by O’Henry

Miss Martha Meacham kept the little bakery on the corner (the one where you go up three steps, and the bell
tinkles when you open the door). Miss Martha was forty, her bank-book showed a credit of two thousand
dollars, and she possessed two false teeth and a sympathetic heart. Many people have married whose chances to
do so were much inferior to Miss Martha's.
Two or three times a week a customer came in and she began to take an interest in him. He was a middle-aged
man, wearing spectacles and a brown beard.
He spoke English with a strong German accent. His clothes were old and wrinkled. But he looked neat enough,
and had very good manners. He always bought two loaves of stale bread. Fresh bread was five cents a loaf. Stale
ones were two for five. Never did he call for anything but stale bread.
Once Miss Martha saw a red and brown stain on his fingers. She was sure then that he was an artist and very
poor. No doubt he lived in a garret, where he painted pictures and ate stale bread and thought of the good things
to eat in Miss Martha's bakery.
Often when Miss Martha was sitting eating light rolls and jam and drinking tea she would sigh, and wish that
the gentle-mannered artist might share her tasty meal instead of eating his dry crust in that draughty attic. In
order to test her theory as to his occupation, she brought from her room one day a painting that she had bought
at a sale, and set it against the shelves behind the bread counter.
It was a Venetian scene. A splendid marble palazzio (so it said on the picture) stood in the foreground -- or
rather forewater. For the rest there were gondolas (with the lady trailing her hand in the water), clouds, sky, and
chiaro-oscuro in plenty. No artist could fail to notice it.
Two days afterward the customer came in.
"Two loafs of stale bread, if you blease.”
"You haf here a fine bicture, madame," he said while she was wrapping up the bread.
"Yes?" says Miss Martha. "I do so admire art and" (no, it would not do to say "artists" thus early) "and
paintings," she substituted. "You think it is a good picture?" "Der balance," said the customer, is not in good
drawing.
Der bairspective of it is not true. Goot morning, madame."
He took his bread, bowed, and hurried out.
Yes, he must be an artist. Miss Martha took the picture back to her room.
How gentle and kindly his eyes shone behind his spectacles! What a broad brow he had! To be able to judge
perspective at a glance -- and to live on stale bread! But genius often has to struggle before it is recognized.
What a thing it would be for art and perspective if genius were backed by two thousand dollars in bank, a
bakery, and a sympathetic heart to -- But these were day-dreams, Miss Martha.
Often now when he came he would chat for a while across the showcase. He seemed to crave Miss Martha's
cheerful words.
He kept on buying stale bread. Never a cake, never a pie, never one of her delicious Sally Lunns.
She thought he began to look thinner and discouraged. Her heart ached to add something good to eat to his
meagre purchase, but her courage failed at the act. She did not dare affront him. She knew the pride of artists.
Miss Martha took to wearing her blue-dotted silk waist behind the counter. In the back room she cooked a
mysterious compound of quince seeds and borax. Ever so many people use it for the complexion.
One day the customer came in as usual, laid his nickel on the showcase, and called for his stale loaves. While
Miss Martha was reaching for them, they heard a lot of noise outside; strange noise.
The customer hurried to the door to look, as he was curious. Suddenly inspired, Miss Martha seized the
opportunity.
On the bottom shelf behind the counter was a pound of fresh butter that the dairyman had left ten minutes
before. With a bread knife Miss Martha made a deep slash in each of the stale loaves, inserted a generous
quantity of butter, and pressed the loaves tight again.
When the customer turned once more, she was tying the paper around them.
When he had gone, after an unusually pleasant little chat, Miss Martha smiled to herself, but not without a slight
fluttering of the heart.
Had she been too bold? Would he take offense? But surely not. There was no language of edibles. Butter was no
emblem of unmaidenly forwardness.
For a long time that day her mind dwelt on the subject. She imagined the scene when he should discover her
little deception. He would lay down his brushes and palette. There would stand his easel with the picture he was
painting in which the perspective was beyond criticism.
He would prepare for his luncheon of dry bread and water. He would slice into a loaf -- ah!
Miss Martha blushed. Would he think of the hand that placed it there as he ate? Would he -- The front door bell
jangled viciously. Somebody was coming in, making a great deal of noise. Miss Martha hurried to the front.
Two men were there. One was a young man smoking a pipe -- a man she had never seen before. The other was
her artist.
His face was very red, his hat was on the back of his head, his hair was wildly rumpled. He clinched his two
fists and shook them ferociously at Miss Martha. At Miss Martha.
"Dummkopf!" he shouted with extreme loudness; and then "Tausendonfer!" or something like it in German.
The young man tried to draw him away.
"I vill not go," he said angrily, "else I shall told her."
He made a bass drum of Miss Martha's counter.
"You haf shpoilt me," he cried, his blue eyes blazing behind his spectacles."I vill tell you. You vas von
meddingsome old cat!"
Miss Martha leaned weakly against the shelves and laid one hand on her blue-dotted silk waist. The young man
took the other by the collar.
"Come on," he said, "you've said enough." He dragged the angry one out at the door to the sidewalk, and then
came back.
"Guess you ought to be told, ma'am10," he said, "what the row is about. That's Blumberger. He's an architectural
draftsman. I work in the same office with him.
"He's been working hard for three months drawing a plan for a new city hall. It was a prize competition. He
finished inking the lines yesterday. You know, a draftsman always makes his drawing in pencil first. When it's
done, he rubs out the pencil lines with handfuls of stale bread crumbs. That's better than India rubber
"Blumberger's been buying the bread here. Well, to-day -- well, you know, ma'am, that butter isn't -- well,
Blumberger's plan isn't good for anything now except to cut up into railroad sandwiches."
Miss Martha went into the back room. She took off the blue-dotted silk waist and put on the old brown serge she
used to wear. Then she poured the quince seed and borax mixture out of the window into the ash can.