The Necklace

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  “SHE WAS one of those pretty, charming young ladies, born, as if through an error of destiny, into a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no hopes, no means of becoming known, appreciated, loved, and married by a man either rich or distinguished; and she allowed herself to marry a petty clerk in the office of the Board of Education. . . .  She had neither frocks nor jewels, nothing. And she loved only those things. She felt that she was made for them. She had such a desire to please, to be sought after, to be clever, and courted.” —THE NECKLACE Guy de Maupassant    France, 1884 (pic by Grok) Read this short story here:  https://americanliterature.com/author/guy-de-maupassant/short-story/the-necklace

Gen. Bradbury's Chicken

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The pain was unspeakable. His body jerked and different parts of his body seemed to take on peronalities of their own. He imagined his limbs were like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

In one simultaneous response, his mouth clamped shut so he could not scream; his eyes clamped shut and tears gushed from under his eyelids--or his eyeballs were melting. Somewhere off in the distance he could hear his wife call his name, "Honey . . .?"

The fire roared in ears. He could hear the crackling of the timbers as his bones were being consumed in the bonfire, the flames licking at his chest, his throat, his face. Behind his soldered mouth he grunted in excruciating pain as his ears vanished like match-tips.

"Sweetheart . . .?" he could hear her voice imploring.

He turned his head to one side and managed to open one eye to a slit. The moisture that streamed from his eyes blurred his vision and he could only discern swimming swaths of color all around him. He tried to swallow as the fire torched in his head.

"Are you ok?" She asked.

He wasn't sure, though he knew. She knew. He could just picture the flames shooting from the top of his head where his hair used to be combed to one side on the top of his head.

He managed to move his fisted hands and pointed with one to his mouth, the other opening to cover his scorched lips. He choked.

"Are you ok, honey?" She started to slide out of the booth, placing the napkin on the table.

He reached over the plate and found the icy red glass already sweating for him. Forcing both eyes open, tears streaming down his face, he took large gulps, the waitress already crossing the floor with the refill.

She stood beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Honey, are you alright? Do you need a hiemlich?"

He glanced down at the noodles and stir-fried chicken, wondering how it happened himself.
Gasping for breath, he opened his mouth, "ok," he said weakly.

"Did you choke on something?" she asked, touching his face with a napkin, mopping sweat from his brow.

"The mustard. I did'nt mix enough sweet-n-sour into the Chinese mustard," he apologized. "I'll be alright." He bent his mouth into a weak apologetic grin.

The waitress smiled as she filled his glass. Again.