高中生小说作文
高中生小小说作文（精选）
高中生小小说作文（精选）第一篇：夜月，圆圆的;星儿，亮亮的;树林里呢?静悄悄的……一棵柳树下面，站着一位青年警察和一位姑娘。
“你看今晚的月亮多美……嗳，你怎么不说话?”“明天，你要走了，我们结婚的日期要吹了……”“小娣，警校学习才三年，我很快就会回来的;回来后，我们第一件事就是结婚，你说好不好?”“……”“……要不，我明天申请不去了……”“去你的，谁说不好拉!只是……你要常想着我!”“啧”真响。
夜。
月，圆圆的;星儿，亮亮的;树林里呢?静悄悄的……一棵柳树下面，站着一位青年警察和一位姑娘。
“你看今晚的月亮多美……嗳，你怎么不说话?”“明天，你要走了，我们结婚的日期又要吹了……”“小娣，追捕逃犯我一定得去!我是刑警队长，又熟悉犯人的行踪……我回来后，我们就结婚你说好不好?”“……”“……要不，我明天申请不去了……”“去你的，谁说不好拉!只是……你要小心哪!”“啧”真响。
夜。
月，圆圆的;星儿，亮亮的;树林里呢?静悄悄的……一棵柳树下面，站着一位青年女警察，手里拿着一束白菊花;旁边，是一座新坟。
“大勇，明天，我要去警校学习了;三年后，我再回来看你!”说着，“啧”地吻了一下手里的白菊花，放在了坟头。
月，圆圆的;星儿，亮亮的;树林里呢?响起了一串有力的脚步声，渐渐远去……第二篇：荒男生翻过围墙，揉了揉手上的淤青，然后向夕阳跑去。
记忆里很小的时候就记得和爸爸在一起了，那个时侯妈妈早就离开了，听说是为了爸爸的一个学生，妈妈发了很大的脾气，他还记得，妈妈临走前的那个晚上到他房间里说了很多话，他都听见，只是都没记得。
后来的日子都跟着当大学美术老师的爸爸过日子。
妈妈走了，家里的经济来源也一下子少了不少。
爸爸开始在外面喝酒，然后一个晚上都没有回来。
林十仰就自己做饭，吃饭，写作业，洗澡，睡觉。
一直到酒吧的人来砸家里的门，要老爸还债。
爸爸就捂住林十仰的嘴巴，靠在家里的门上，喃喃到，十仰十仰，爸爸对不起你。
最后爸爸辞职，逃到了一个沿海的小城。
高中生优秀作文精选：十年开一花――记《吉祥纹莲花楼》
十年开一花――记《吉祥纹莲花楼》十年开一花――记《吉祥纹莲花楼》十年能磨一剑，有些人却用十年，很低调地开了一朵花。
――题前记关于这篇文章的主题，我想了很长时间，某一天偶然点开了贴吧，看到我曾经为李莲花写的歌词，就突然很想认真的写一次书评。
毕竟李莲花这个人物陪着我走过了高三，也曾经教会我许多事情。
谨以此怀念那些年我记得的李莲花。
P.S：歌词会附在最后。
（1）一夜风雨凋落谁家门前盛世花小说在开始做足了铺垫，那个凭空出现的木楼，上面雕着华丽的莲花，然后引出江湖最神秘的人物莲花楼楼主――李莲花。
很多人都会以为李莲花就像往常小说里的高人，玉树临风，器宇轩昂，但是藤萍很巧妙的将主角变成了一个很普通的人，李莲花的登场，可以算的上很普通的登场，灰色布衣，一脸温吞的笑，还很滑稽的把别人的拜帖当做垃圾扫掉，没有半分世外高人的样子。
他甚至有些怕事，带着些市侩，还特别小气，打算着用五十两银子过一辈子，把他放在人群里基本认不出来。
可就是这样一个人，明明平凡的不得了，做的事却可以称得上非凡。
李莲花总是带着温吞的笑，满心愉悦的将故事的来龙去脉讲给别人。
《吉祥纹莲花楼》可以算的上是一个类似于古代破案小说，里面有各种人物，他们会为了自己的想法而做出一些伤人之事，李莲花很多时候只是意外出现在现场，本来他可以当一个路人，就像别的旁观者一样，看个热闹，但他不是，他用自己的方法，为冤者叫屈，也令许多权贵的罪行大白天下。
后来他与百川院的人不期而遇，也是在一个案件中，带出了另一个人物李相夷。
十年前李相夷凭着一手惊世剑法，纵行江湖，未及弱冠却凭借着无人可比的智慧创建了四顾门，后来在于笛飞声的决战中，两人双双坠海，下落不明。
很多人觉得李莲不是李相夷，尽管这两人外貌相似，但他们有着云泥之别，平庸的李莲花怎么可能是当年一剑惊天下的李相夷。
但却也有人坚信他们就是一个人。
十年前有人一时看不开，至今仍是放不下，十年前有人放不下，至今却已然看开。
管他一夜风雨，凋谢了谁家门前的花，李莲花依旧是带着他乌龟壳一样的房子，慢吞吞地走在世间风雨里，安然自在。
高中生红楼梦满分作文1000字
高中生红楼梦满分作文1000字高中生红楼梦满分作文1000字（精选24篇）在日常学习、工作或生活中，大家都有写作文的经历，对作文很是熟悉吧，作文根据体裁的不同可以分为记叙文、说明文、应用文、议论文。
你所见过的作文是什么样的呢？下面是店铺整理的高中生红楼梦满分作文1000字（精选24篇），仅供参考，希望能够帮助到大家。
高中生红楼梦满分作文1000字篇1白玉为堂金作马的贾府终究还是覆灭了，只留下宝玉出家和宝钗作寡的悲惨结局供世人哀叹，究竟是什么导致了这个兴盛了几十年的大家族的衰亡？纵观红楼历史，贾史王薛的衰败是必然。
封建统治者有意的削弱了四大家族的权力，同时，四大家族内部的腐朽也是导致这种结局的必要因素。
荣国府其实就是当时社会的一个缩影。
等级分明的“社会封建阶层”，“统治者”的独裁转职，追名逐利的争斗陷害，攀比虚荣的腐朽心理……要说《红楼梦》中让人印象深刻的，除了宝玉黛玉宝钗三人的爱情悲剧，恐怕就是那些丫鬟们了。
她们是为主子服务的直接下属，要千方百计的讨好主子。
有的费尽心思为主子铺路，为的就是“一荣俱荣”；有的则想方设法地迎合“上位者”，以求更大的利益；更有甚者，爬上主子们的床，以求更高的身份……当然，有能耐再加上运气，一跃成为贾府丫鬟组成的金字塔的最顶峰也不是不可能的，金铃儿就是一个典型，可这种人毕竟在少数，剩下的人，无非是一级压一级罢了，得势的去压迫那些失势的，大丫鬟们去压迫小丫鬟们，压迫者趾高气昂，被压迫者有的苦不堪言，不堪侮辱，于是自尽在这肮脏的贾府，成为了一缕亡魂；有的怀恨在心，秉着“君子报仇，十年不晚”的心理，不择手段的向上攀爬，为的就是一朝得势，报仇雪恨，可这又陷入了不断重复的恶心循环之中了……贾府中的真正“统治者”是谁，细细想来，不是贾赦，贾政，更不是贾敬，而是年长的贾母，在“百善孝为先”的封建社会，这个答案不足为奇，贾母偏向谁，荣国府的恩宠就指向谁，贾母忽视谁，荣国府的矛头就对准谁。
【单元作文】高二下册第三单元作文 写一篇小小说
【单元作文】高二下册第三单元作文写一篇小小说大卫是一个普通的高中生，在学校里过着平淡无奇的生活。
他是一个内向的人，不太善于交际，更喜欢独自一人阅读或者写作。
每天放学后，他都会去图书馆，找一个安静的角落，享受独自沉浸在书海中的快乐。
有一天，当他走进图书馆时，恰好碰到了一个和他穿着一样的女生，她也是个中二病患者，经常穿着黑色的衣服，戴着小巧的墨镜，总是给人一种神秘的感觉。
大卫心里对她产生了一种莫名的好感，但又觉得自己不值得和她交流。
一次偶然的机会，大卫被安排和她一起完成一个小组作业。
在这次合作中，大卫渐渐发现她并不是他所想象的那样冷漠和神秘，而是一个非常聪明和有趣的人。
他们开始一起交谈，分享彼此的喜好和理念。
在此后的日子里，他们逐渐建立了深厚的友谊。
大卫觉得，他今天的生活有了趣味，变得有滋有味。
他们经常一起探讨书中的故事情节，互相推荐好书，一起欣赏文艺作品。
而且，他们也喜欢一起写作，并互相鼓励彼此不断进步。
渐渐地，大卫发现他与她之间的情感不再是简单的友谊，而是一种更深层次的感情。
他心里开始有了一个奇怪的念头，他想告诉她自己的感受。
他内心的顾虑让他始终没有鼓起勇气去表达。
终于，有一天，大卫不能再忍受内心的挣扎，他决定向她坦白自己的感情。
于是，他邀请她一起去图书馆，他们站在窗边，望着远处的湖泊。
大卫紧张地说出了他内心的秘密。
她静静地听完，没有说话。
大卫的心开始揪紧，他开始后悔自己的冲动。
但就在这时，她突然转过身来，对大卫笑了笑，然后靠近他的耳边轻声说：“我也一直想告诉你，我也喜欢你。
”大卫顿时感到如释重负，他们相拥在一起，眼中满是欣喜和幸福的泪水。
从那一刻起，他们的关系更加亲密了，他们一起走进了彼此的心灵深处，从此开始了他们幸福的爱情故事。
这个小小说告诉我们，有时候，在我们最不敢表达自己的时候，对方也可能有着同样的感受。
勇敢地去追求自己的幸福，或许会有意料之外的收获。
就像大卫一样，只要敞开自己的心扉，幸福会悄悄地降临。
高中生《最后一片叶子》读后感作文
高中生《最后一片叶子》读后感作文导读:《最后一片叶子》读后感欧·亨利是世界文坛上最杰出的短篇小说家之一，他的文章以“含泪的微笑”打动着世人的心。
我最喜欢的是他的小小说《最后一片叶子》。
《最后一片叶子》这篇小说主要叙述的是这样一个故事：有一位年轻的少女画家乔安西不幸得了肺炎，生命垂危。
医生告诉他的朋友现在药物已经没有作用了。
乔安西的信念越坚定，她生存下去的希望就越大。
但是乔安西却把自己的生命和长春藤叶子联系起来，认为最后一片叶子飘落时，自己也将死去。
为了让乔安西燃起活下去的信心，老画家贝尔曼在最后一片叶子飘落的夜晚用画笔在墙上画上了一片永不凋落的长春藤叶，让乔安西重新有了活下去的信念，最后活了下去。
但是贝尔曼却被病魔无情地夺去了生命。
读罢这篇文章，我深有感触：坚定的信念是成功的必要条件小小的一片藤叶，竟然挽救了一个年轻的生命。
看来有些不可思议，但是也有道理。
乔安西之所以能够战胜病魔顽强地活下去，正是因为她有了活下去的坚定信念，也正是这个坚定的信念，帮助她建立起了勇敢地与病魔作斗争的勇气，从而战胜病魔。
生存如此，生活也是如此。
在人生中，只要有了坚定的信念，坚信自己不会失败，永远顽强地奋斗，那么一定能取得成功。
一个人可以被打倒，但是不可以被打败，只有有了这种信念，才不会被社会所淘汰，取得人生的成功。
所以，坚定的信念是成功的一个必要条件。
天地之间，会有真爱这篇小说之中的主人公贝尔曼老人是一个极富爱心的人，他也知道乔安西已经丧失了与病魔作斗争的勇气，当最后一片叶子掉下来时，乔安西一定会绝望而死。
为了挽救这条年轻的生命，贝尔曼老人不顾自己已经被病魔侵蚀的身体，在风雨之夜为乔安西画了一片永不凋落的叶子，从而帮乔安西找回了希望。
这幅画，是贝尔曼老人一生最美的作品，是贝尔曼老人用心灵的画笔画出的绝世佳作。
刘欢的一首歌中唱到：天地之间，还有真爱。
是啊，天地之间，会有真爱。
真爱是无处不在的，像贝尔曼老人一样的人还有很多。
T高中生经典英文小说阅读欣赏与写作系列To Build a Fire
To Build a Fireby Jack LondonDay 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.The man flung a look back along the way he had come. The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. On top of this ice were as many feet of snow. It was all pure white, rolling in gentle undulations where the ice-jams of the freeze-up had formed. North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white, save for a dark hair-line that curved and twisted from around the spruce- covered island to the south, and that curved and twisted away into the north, where it disappeared behind another spruce-covered island. This dark hair-line was the trail--the main trail--that led south five hundred miles to the Chilcoot Pass, Dyea, and salt water; and that led north seventy miles to Dawson, and still on to the north a thousand miles to Nulato, and finally to St. Michael on Bering Sea, a thousand miles and half a thousand more.But all this--the mysterious, far-reaching hairline trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all--made no impression on the man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a new-comer in the land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meant eighty odd degrees of frost. Such fact impressed him as being cold and uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temperature, and upon man's frailty in general, able only to live within certain narrow limits of heat and cold; and from there on it did not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man's place in the universe. Fifty degrees below zero stood for a bite of frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by the use of mittens, ear-flaps, warm moccasins, and thick socks. Fifty degrees belowzero was to him just precisely fifty degrees below zero. That there should be anything more to it than that was a thought that never entered his head.As he turned to go on, he spat speculatively. There was a sharp, explosive crackle that startled him. He spat again. And again, in the air, before it could fall to the snow, the spittle crackled. He knew that at fifty below spittle crackled on the snow, but this spittle had crackled in the air. Undoubtedly it was colder than fifty below--how much colder he did not know. But the temperature did not matter. He was bound for the old claim on the left fork of Henderson Creek, where the boys were already. They had come over across the divide from the Indian Creek country, while he had come the roundabout way to take a look at the possibilities of getting out logs in the spring from the islands in the Yukon. He would be in to camp by six o'clock; a bit after dark, it was true, but the boys would be there, a fire would be going, and a hot supper would be ready. As for lunch, he pressed his hand against the protruding bundle under his jacket. It was also under his shirt, wrapped up in a handkerchief and lying against the naked skin. It was the only way to keep the biscuits from freezing. He smiled agreeably to himself as he thought of those biscuits, each cut open and sopped in bacon grease, and each enclosing a generous slice of fried bacon.He plunged in among the big spruce trees. The trail was faint. A foot of snow had fallen since the last sled had passed over, and he was glad he was without a sled, travelling light. In fact, he carried nothing but the lunch wrapped in the handkerchief. He was surprised, however, at the cold. It certainly was cold, he concluded, as he rubbed his numbed nose and cheek-bones with his mittened hand. He was a warm-whiskered man, but the hair on his face did not protect the high cheek-bones and the eager nose that thrust itself aggressively into the frosty air.At the man's heels trotted a dog, a big native husky, the proper wolf-dog, grey-coated and without any visible or temperamental difference from its brother, the wild wolf. The animal was depressed by the tremendous cold. It knew that it was no time for travelling. Its instinct told it a truer tale than was told to the man by the man's judgment. In reality, it was not merely colder than fifty below zero; it was colder than sixty below, than seventy below. It was seventy-five below zero. Since the freezing-point is thirty-two above zero, it meant that one hundred and seven degrees of frost obtained. The dog did not know anything about thermometers. Possibly in its brain there was no sharp consciousness of a condition of very cold such as was in the man's brain. But the brute had its instinct. It experienced a vague but menacing apprehension that subdued it and made it slink along at the man's heels, and that made it question eagerly every unwonted movement of the man as if expecting him to go into camp or to seek shelter somewhere and build a fire. The dog had learned fire, and it wanted fire, or else to burrow under the snow andcuddle its warmth away from the air.The frozen moisture of its breathing had settled on its fur in a fine powder of frost, and especially were its jowls, muzzle, and eyelashes whitened by its crystalled breath. The man's red beard and moustache were likewise frosted, but more solidly, the deposit taking the form of ice and increasing with every warm, moist breath he exhaled. Also, the man was chewing tobacco, and the muzzle of ice held his lips so rigidly that he was unable to clear his chin when he expelled the juice. The result was that a crystal beard of the colour and solidity of amber was increasing its length on his chin. If he fell down it would shatter itself, like glass, into brittle fragments. But he did not mind the appendage. It was the penalty all tobacco- chewers paid in that country, and he had been out before in two cold snaps. They had not been so cold as this, he knew, but by the spirit thermometer at Sixty Mile he knew they had been registered at fifty below and at fifty-five.He held on through the level stretch of woods for several miles, crossed a wide flat of nigger-heads, and dropped down a bank to the frozen bed of a small stream. This was Henderson Creek, and he knew he was ten miles from the forks. He looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. He was making four miles an hour, and he calculated that he would arrive at the forks at half-past twelve. He decided to celebrate that event by eating his lunch there.The dog dropped in again at his heels, with a tail drooping discouragement, as the man swung along the creek-bed. The furrow of the old sled-trail was plainly visible, but a dozen inches of snow covered the marks of the last runners. In a month no man had come up or down that silent creek. The man held steadily on. He was not much given to thinking, and just then particularly he had nothing to think about save that he would eat lunch at the forks and that at six o'clock he would be in camp with the boys. There was nobody to talk to and, had there been, speech would have been impossible because of the ice-muzzle on his mouth. So he continued monotonously to chew tobacco and to increase the length of his amber beard.Once in a while the thought reiterated itself that it was very cold and that he had never experienced such cold. As he walked along he rubbed his cheek-bones and nose with the back of his mittened hand. He did this automatically, now and again changing hands. But rub as he would, the instant he stopped his cheek-bones went numb, and the following instant the end of his nose went numb. He was sure to frost his cheeks; he knew that, and experienced a pang of regret that he had not devised a nose-strap of the sort Bud wore in cold snaps. Such a strap passed across the cheeks, as well, and saved them. But it didn't matter much, after all. What were frosted cheeks? A bit painful, that was all; they were never serious.Empty as the man's mind was of thoughts, he was keenly observant, and henoticed the changes in the creek, the curves and bends and timber- jams, and always he sharply noted where he placed his feet. Once, coming around a bend, he shied abruptly, like a startled horse, curved away from the place where he had been walking, and retreated several paces back along the trail. The creek he knew was frozen clear to the bottom--no creek could contain water in that arctic winter--but he knew also that there were springs that bubbled out from the hillsides and ran along under the snow and on top the ice of the creek. He knew that the coldest snaps never froze these springs, and he knew likewise their danger. They were traps. They hid pools of water under the snow that might be three inches deep, or three feet. Sometimes a skin of ice half an inch thick covered them, and in turn was covered by the snow. Sometimes there were alternate layers of water and ice-skin, so that when one broke through he kept on breaking through for a while, sometimes wetting himself to the waist.That was why he had shied in such panic. He had felt the give under his feet and heard the crackle of a snow-hidden ice-skin. And to get his feet wet in such a temperature meant trouble and danger. At the very least it meant delay, for he would be forced to stop and build a fire, and under its protection to bare his feet while he dried his socks and moccasins. He stood and studied the creek-bed and its banks, and decided that the flow of water came from the right. He reflected awhile, rubbing his nose and cheeks, then skirted to the left, stepping gingerly and testing the footing for each step. Once clear of the danger, he took a fresh chew of tobacco and swung along at his four-mile gait.In the course of the next two hours he came upon several similar traps. Usually the snow above the hidden pools had a sunken, candied appearance that advertised the danger. Once again, however, he had a close call; and once, suspecting danger, he compelled the dog to go on in front. The dog did not want to go. It hung back until the man shoved it forward, and then it went quickly across the white, unbroken surface. Suddenly it broke through, floundered to one side, and got away to firmer footing. It had wet its forefeet and legs, and almost immediately the water that clung to it turned to ice. It made quick efforts to lick the ice off its legs, then dropped down in the snow and began to bite out the ice that had formed between the toes. This was a matter of instinct. To permit the ice to remain would mean sore feet. It did not know this. It merely obeyed the mysterious prompting that arose from the deep crypts of its being. But the man knew, having achieved a judgment on the subject, and he removed the mitten from his right hand and helped tear out the ice- particles. He did not expose his fingers more than a minute, and was astonished at the swift numbness that smote them. It certainly was cold. He pulled on the mitten hastily, and beat the hand savagely across his chest.At twelve o'clock the day was at its brightest. Yet the sun was too far south onits winter journey to clear the horizon. The bulge of the earth intervened between it and Henderson Creek, where the man walked under a clear sky at noon and cast no shadow. At half-past twelve, to the minute, he arrived at the forks of the creek. He was pleased at the speed he had made. If he kept it up, he would certainly be with the boys by six. He unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and drew forth his lunch. The action consumed no more than a quarter of a minute, yet in that brief moment the numbness laid hold of the exposed fingers. He did not put the mitten on, but, instead, struck the fingers a dozen sharp smashes against his leg. Then he sat down on a snow-covered log to eat. The sting that followed upon the striking of his fingers against his leg ceased so quickly that he was startled, he had had no chance to take a bite of biscuit. He struck the fingers repeatedly and returned them to the mitten, baring the other hand for the purpose of eating. He tried to take a mouthful, but the ice-muzzle prevented. He had forgotten to build a fire and thaw out. He chuckled at his foolishness, and as he chuckled he noted the numbness creeping into the exposed fingers. Also, he noted that the stinging which had first come to his toes when he sat down was already passing away. He wondered whether the toes were warm or numbed. He moved them inside the moccasins and decided that they were numbed.He pulled the mitten on hurriedly and stood up. He was a bit frightened. He stamped up and down until the stinging returned into the feet. It certainly was cold, was his thought. That man from Sulphur Creek had spoken the truth when telling how cold it sometimes got in the country. And he had laughed at him at the time! That showed one must not be too sure of things. There was no mistake about it, it was cold. He strode up and down, stamping his feet and threshing his arms, until reassured by the returning warmth. Then he got out matches and proceeded to make a fire. From the undergrowth, where high water of the previous spring had lodged a supply of seasoned twigs, he got his firewood. Working carefully from a small beginning, he soon had a roaring fire, over which he thawed the ice from his face and in the protection of which he ate his biscuits. For the moment the cold of space was outwitted. The dog took satisfaction in the fire, stretching out close enough for warmth and far enough away to escape being singed.When the man had finished, he filled his pipe and took his comfortable time over a smoke. Then he pulled on his mittens, settled the ear-flaps of his cap firmly about his ears, and took the creek trail up the left fork. The dog was disappointed and yearned back toward the fire. This man did not know cold. Possibly all the generations of his ancestry had been ignorant of cold, of real cold, of cold one hundred and seven degrees below freezing-point. But the dog knew; all its ancestry knew, and it had inherited the knowledge. And it knew that it was not good to walk abroad in such fearful cold. It was the time to lie snug in a hole in the snow andwait for a curtain of cloud to be drawn across the face of outer space whence this cold came. On the other hand, there was keen intimacy between the dog and the man. The one was the toil-slave of the other, and the only caresses it had ever received were the caresses of the whip- lash and of harsh and menacing throat-sounds that threatened the whip-lash. So the dog made no effort to communicate its apprehension to the man. It was not concerned in the welfare of the man; it was for its own sake that it yearned back toward the fire. But the man whistled, and spoke to it with the sound of whip-lashes, and the dog swung in at the man's heels and followed after.The man took a chew of tobacco and proceeded to start a new amber beard. Also, his moist breath quickly powdered with white his moustache, eyebrows, and lashes. There did not seem to be so many springs on the left fork of the Henderson, and for half an hour the man saw no signs of any. And then it happened. At a place where there were no signs, where the soft, unbroken snow seemed to advertise solidity beneath, the man broke through. It was not deep. He wetted himself half-way to the knees before he floundered out to the firm crust.He was angry, and cursed his luck aloud. He had hoped to get into camp with the boys at six o'clock, and this would delay him an hour, for he would have to build a fire and dry out his foot-gear. This was imperative at that low temperature--he knew that much; and he turned aside to the bank, which he climbed. On top, tangled in the underbrush about the trunks of several small spruce trees, was a high-water deposit of dry firewood--sticks and twigs principally, but also larger portions of seasoned branches and fine, dry, last-year's grasses. He threw down several large pieces on top of the snow. This served for a foundation and prevented the young flame from drowning itself in the snow it otherwise would melt. The flame he got by touching a match to a small shred of birch-bark that he took from his pocket. This burned even more readily than paper. Placing it on the foundation, he fed the young flame with wisps of dry grass and with the tiniest dry twigs.He worked slowly and carefully, keenly aware of his danger. Gradually, as the flame grew stronger, he increased the size of the twigs with which he fed it. He squatted in the snow, pulling the twigs out from their entanglement in the brush and feeding directly to the flame. He knew there must be no failure. When it is seventy- five below zero, a man must not fail in his first attempt to build a fire--that is, if his feet are wet. If his feet are dry, and he fails, he can run along the trail for half a mile and restore his circulation. But the circulation of wet and freezing feet cannot be restored by running when it is seventy-five below. No matter how fast he runs, the wet feet will freeze the harder.All this the man knew. The old-timer on Sulphur Creek had told him about itthe previous fall, and now he was appreciating the advice. Already all sensation had gone out of his feet. To build the fire he had been forced to remove his mittens, and the fingers had quickly gone numb. His pace of four miles an hour had kept his heart pumping blood to the surface of his body and to all the extremities. But the instant he stopped, the action of the pump eased down. The cold of space smote the unprotected tip of the planet, and he, being on that unprotected tip, received the full force of the blow. The blood of his body recoiled before it. The blood was alive, like the dog, and like the dog it wanted to hide away and cover itself up from the fearful cold. So long as he walked four miles an hour, he pumped that blood, willy-nilly, to the surface; but now it ebbed away and sank down into the recesses of his body. The extremities were the first to feel its absence. His wet feet froze the faster, and his exposed fingers numbed the faster, though they had not yet begun to freeze. Nose and cheeks were already freezing, while the skin of all his body chilled as it lost its blood.But he was safe. Toes and nose and cheeks would be only touched by the frost, for the fire was beginning to burn with strength. He was feeding it with twigs the size of his finger. In another minute he would be able to feed it with branches the size of his wrist, and then he could remove his wet foot-gear, and, while it dried, he could keep his naked feet warm by the fire, rubbing them at first, of course, with snow. The fire was a success. He was safe. He remembered the advice of the old-timer on Sulphur Creek, and smiled. The old-timer had been very serious in laying down the law that no man must travel alone in the Klondike after fifty below. Well, here he was; he had had the accident; he was alone; and he had saved himself. Those old-timers were rather womanish, some of them, he thought. All a man had to do was to keep his head, and he was all right. Any man who was a man could travel alone. But it was surprising, the rapidity with which his cheeks and nose were freezing. And he had not thought his fingers could go lifeless in so short a time. Lifeless they were, for he could scarcely make them move together to grip a twig, and they seemed remote from his body and from him. When he touched a twig, he had to look and see whether or not he had hold of it. The wires were pretty well down between him and his finger-ends.All of which counted for little. There was the fire, snapping and crackling and promising life with every dancing flame. He started to untie his moccasins. They were coated with ice; the thick German socks were like sheaths of iron half-way to the knees; and the mocassin strings were like rods of steel all twisted and knotted as by some conflagration. For a moment he tugged with his numbed fingers, then, realizing the folly of it, he drew his sheath-knife.But before he could cut the strings, it happened. It was his own fault or, rather, his mistake. He should not have built the fire under the spruce tree. He should havebuilt it in the open. But it had been easier to pull the twigs from the brush and drop them directly on the fire. Now the tree under which he had done this carried a weight of snow on its boughs. No wind had blown for weeks, and each bough was fully freighted. Each time he had pulled a twig he had communicated a slight agitation to the tree--an imperceptible agitation, so far as he was concerned, but an agitation sufficient to bring about the disaster. High up in the tree one bough capsized its load of snow. This fell on the boughs beneath, capsizing them. This process continued, spreading out and involving the whole tree. It grew like an avalanche, and it descended without warning upon the man and the fire, and the fire was blotted out! Where it had burned was a mantle of fresh and disordered snow.The man was shocked. It was as though he had just heard his own sentence of death. For a moment he sat and stared at the spot where the fire had been. Then he grew very calm. Perhaps the old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right. If he had only had a trail-mate he would have been in no danger now. The trail-mate could have built the fire. Well, it was up to him to build the fire over again, and this second time there must be no failure. Even if he succeeded, he would most likely lose some toes. His feet must be badly frozen by now, and there would be some time before the second fire was ready.Such were his thoughts, but he did not sit and think them. He was busy all the time they were passing through his mind, he made a new foundation for a fire, this time in the open; where no treacherous tree could blot it out. Next, he gathered dry grasses and tiny twigs from the high-water flotsam. He could not bring his fingers together to pull them out, but he was able to gather them by the handful. In this way he got many rotten twigs and bits of green moss that were undesirable, but it was the best he could do. He worked methodically, even collecting an armful of the larger branches to be used later when the fire gathered strength. And all the while the dog sat and watched him, a certain yearning wistfulness in its eyes, for it looked upon him as the fire-provider, and the fire was slow in coming.When all was ready, the man reached in his pocket for a second piece of birch-bark. He knew the bark was there, and, though he could not feel it with his fingers, he could hear its crisp rustling as he fumbled for it. Try as he would, he could not clutch hold of it. And all the time, in his consciousness, was the knowledge that each instant his feet were freezing. This thought tended to put him in a panic, but he fought against it and kept calm. He pulled on his mittens with his teeth, and threshed his arms back and forth, beating his hands with all his might against his sides. He did this sitting down, and he stood up to do it; and all the while the dog sat in the snow, its wolf-brush of a tail curled around warmly over its forefeet, its sharp wolf-ears pricked forward intently as it watched the man. And the man as he beat and threshed with his arms and hands, felt a great surge of envy ashe regarded the creature that was warm and secure in its natural covering.After a time he was aware of the first far-away signals of sensation in his beaten fingers. The faint tingling grew stronger till it evolved into a stinging ache that was excruciating, but which the man hailed with satisfaction. He stripped the mitten from his right hand and fetched forth the birch-bark. The exposed fingers were quickly going numb again. Next he brought out his bunch of sulphur matches. But the tremendous cold had already driven the life out of his fingers. In his effort to separate one match from the others, the whole bunch fell in the snow. He tried to pick it out of the snow, but failed. The dead fingers could neither touch nor clutch. He was very careful. He drove the thought of his freezing feet; and nose, and cheeks, out of his mind, devoting his whole soul to the matches. He watched, using the sense of vision in place of that of touch, and when he saw his fingers on each side the bunch, he closed them--that is, he willed to close them, for the wires were drawn, and the fingers did not obey. He pulled the mitten on the right hand, and beat it fiercely against his knee. Then, with both mittened hands, he scooped the bunch of matches, along with much snow, into his lap. Yet he was no better off.After some manipulation he managed to get the bunch between the heels of his mittened hands. In this fashion he carried it to his mouth. The ice crackled and snapped when by a violent effort he opened his mouth. He drew the lower jaw in, curled the upper lip out of the way, and scraped the bunch with his upper teeth in order to separate a match. He succeeded in getting one, which he dropped on his lap. He was no better off. He could not pick it up. Then he devised a way. He picked it up in his teeth and scratched it on his leg. Twenty times he scratched before he succeeded in lighting it. As it flamed he held it with his teeth to the birch-bark. But the burning brimstone went up his nostrils and into his lungs, causing him to cough spasmodically. The match fell into the snow and went out.The old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right, he thought in the moment of controlled despair that ensued: after fifty below, a man should travel with a partner. He beat his hands, but failed in exciting any sensation. Suddenly he bared both hands, removing the mittens with his teeth. He caught the whole bunch between the heels of his hands. His arm-muscles not being frozen enabled him to press the hand-heels tightly against the matches. Then he scratched the bunch along his leg. It flared into flame, seventy sulphur matches at once! There was no wind to blow them out. He kept his head to one side to escape the strangling fumes, and held the blazing bunch to the birch-bark. As he so held it, he became aware of sensation in his hand. His flesh was burning. He could smell it. Deep down below the surface he could feel it. The sensation developed into pain that grew acute. And still he endured it, holding the flame of the matches clumsily to the bark that would not light readily because his own burning hands were in the way, absorbing most of theflame.At last, when he could endure no more, he jerked his hands apart. The blazing matches fell sizzling into the snow, but the birch-bark was alight. He began laying dry grasses and the tiniest twigs on the flame. He could not pick and choose, for he had to lift the fuel between the heels of his hands. Small pieces of rotten wood and green moss clung to the twigs, and he bit them off as well as he could with his teeth. He cherished the flame carefully and awkwardly. It meant life, and it must not perish. The withdrawal of blood from the surface of his body now made him begin to shiver, and he grew more awkward. A large piece of green moss fell squarely on the little fire. He tried to poke it out with his fingers, but his shivering frame made him poke too far, and he disrupted the nucleus of the little fire, the burning grasses and tiny twigs separating and scattering. He tried to poke them together again, but in spite of the tenseness of the effort, his shivering got away with him, and the twigs were hopelessly scattered. Each twig gushed a puff of smoke and went out. The fire-provider had failed. As he looked apathetically about him, his eyes chanced on the dog, sitting across the ruins of the fire from him, in the snow, making restless, hunching movements, slightly lifting one forefoot and then the other, shifting its weight back and forth on them with wistful eagerness.The sight of the dog put a wild idea into his head. He remembered the tale of the man, caught in a blizzard, who killed a steer and crawled inside the carcass, and so was saved. He would kill the dog and bury his hands in the warm body until the numbness went out of them. Then he could build another fire. He spoke to the dog, calling it to him; but in his voice was a strange note of fear that frightened the animal, who had never known the man to speak in such way before. Something was the matter, and its suspicious nature sensed danger,--it knew not what danger but somewhere, somehow, in its brain arose an apprehension of the man. It flattened its ears down at the sound of the man's voice, and its restless, hunching movements and the liftings and shiftings of its forefeet became more pronounced but it would not come to the man. He got on his hands and knees and crawled toward the dog. This unusual posture again excited suspicion, and the animal sidled mincingly away.The man sat up in the snow for a moment and struggled for calmness. Then he pulled on his mittens, by means of his teeth, and got upon his feet. He glanced down at first in order to assure himself that he was really standing up, for the absence of sensation in his feet left him unrelated to the earth. His erect position in itself started to drive the webs of suspicion from the dog's mind; and when he spoke peremptorily, with the sound of whip-lashes in his voice, the dog rendered its customary allegiance and came to him. As it came within reaching distance, the man lost his control. His arms flashed out to the dog, and he experienced genuine。
高中小说范文
高中小说范文夏日的阳光透过树叶的缝隙洒在小路上，微风吹过，树叶发出沙沙的声音。
在这个阳光明媚的午后，高中生小明独自一人走在回家的路上。
他是学校的篮球队队长，长着一头乌黑的短发，眉宇间透着一股坚毅的气息。
他的双眼闪烁着对未来的向往，对梦想的执着。
小明的父亲是一名退伍军人，对于小明的未来一直寄予厚望。
小明也一直努力学习，希望能够考上理想的大学，成为一名优秀的篮球运动员。
但是，命运却给了他一个重重的打击。
在一次篮球比赛中，小明不慎受伤，导致右膝受损，医生告诉他，这个伤势需要长时间的康复，甚至可能会影响他的篮球生涯。
小明在康复的过程中，经历了许多的煎熬和挣扎。
他曾一度陷入绝望，觉得自己的人生已经没有了希望。
但是，他并没有放弃，而是选择了坚持和奋斗。
在家人和朋友的鼓励下，他重新振作起来，用坚定的信念和毅力去面对康复的艰辛。
在康复的过程中，小明结识了一个叫做小芳的女孩。
小芳是一名乐观开朗的女孩，她总是用她的笑容和阳光的性格来鼓励小明。
在小芳的陪伴下，小明渐渐地走出了阴霾，重新燃起了对未来的希望。
他明白了，即使人生中遇到了困难和挫折，也要坚持不懈地去追求自己的梦想。
在康复后，小明重新踏上了篮球场，他用自己的实力和毅力，赢得了队友和教练的认可。
他再次展现了自己的风采，成为了学校篮球队的灵魂人物。
在一次重要的比赛中，小明挺身而出，用自己的表现带领球队取得了胜利。
他的努力和拼搏得到了回报，他也重新找回了自信和勇气。
在高考的那一年，小明顺利地考上了心仪已久的大学。
他选择了体育专业，希望能够成为一名优秀的篮球教练。
小芳也考上了同一所大学，他们依然是最好的朋友。
他们一起走进了大学校园，迎接着属于他们的未来。
青春是一双羽翼，让我们展翅飞翔。
在生命的征途上，我们会遇到挫折和困难，但只要我们坚持不懈，就一定能够战胜一切。
让我们用青春的羽翼，去追逐梦想，去创造精彩的人生。
高中生小说作文
高中生小说作文在那个陈旧而温馨的小镇，有一所名为青山的高中。
学校的红砖墙已经有些斑驳，操场的跑道也被岁月打磨得不再平整，但这里却承载着无数青春的梦想和故事。
林晓是青山高中高二的学生，一个总是带着灿烂笑容的女孩。
她有着一头乌黑的长发，眼睛里透着灵动和倔强。
在课堂上，她总是积极回答问题，对知识充满了渴望；而在课后，她则是同学们的开心果，总是能想出各种有趣的点子让大家欢笑。
林晓最好的朋友是苏瑶，一个安静而温柔的女孩。
苏瑶的成绩优异，总是默默地帮助林晓解决学习上的难题。
她们一起在校园的小径上漫步，分享着彼此的小秘密和心事。
这一天，学校里来了一位新的实习老师，名叫程阳。
程阳老师年轻帅气，充满了朝气和活力。
他的课堂生动有趣，很快就赢得了同学们的喜爱。
林晓对程阳老师的课格外感兴趣，每次都听得格外认真。
然而，一场突如其来的考试打破了平静。
林晓的成绩一落千丈，她的心情也跌入了谷底。
她觉得自己的努力都白费了，开始怀疑自己的能力。
苏瑶一直陪伴在她身边，鼓励她不要放弃。
就在林晓陷入迷茫的时候，程阳老师找到了她。
老师耐心地帮她分析了试卷，指出了她的问题所在，并给了她许多学习的建议。
在程阳老师的鼓励下，林晓重新振作起来，每天都刻苦学习。
日子一天天过去，林晓的成绩逐渐有了起色。
而在这个过程中，她对程阳老师的感情也发生了微妙的变化。
她发现自己不仅仅是对老师的尊敬和感激，还有一种难以言喻的喜欢。
林晓知道这种感情是不被允许的，她努力地克制着自己。
可是，每当看到程阳老师的身影，她的心还是会不由自主地加速跳动。
与此同时，学校里要举办一场文艺演出。
林晓和苏瑶决定一起排练一个舞蹈节目。
在排练的过程中，她们遇到了很多困难，舞蹈动作不熟练，配合也不默契。
但是，她们没有放弃，一遍又一遍地练习着。
终于，到了演出的那一天。
林晓和苏瑶在舞台上尽情地舞动着，她们的精彩表演赢得了台下阵阵掌声。
那一刻，林晓感到无比的自豪和快乐。
然而，就在林晓以为一切都在慢慢变好的时候，一场意外发生了。
高中生小说作文
高中生小说作文在一个名叫林城的小镇上，有一所名为林城中学的学校。
这所学校虽然不大，但在小镇上却是众多学子们梦想起航的地方。
高二三班的教室里，阳光透过窗户洒在课桌上，映出一片片斑驳的光影。
林晓坐在靠窗的位置，手中握着一支笔，眼睛却望向窗外，思绪早已飘远。
林晓是一个有些内向的女孩，平时总是默默地坐在角落里，不太引人注目。
但她的内心世界却无比丰富，充满了各种奇思妙想。
她喜欢写作，经常在自己的笔记本上写下一个个小故事。
这一天，学校里来了一位转学生，名叫苏杨。
苏杨是一个阳光帅气的男孩，脸上总是带着灿烂的笑容，一进教室就吸引了众多同学的目光。
老师安排苏杨坐在了林晓的旁边，这让林晓感到有些不自在。
“你好，我叫苏杨，以后多多关照啦！”苏杨主动向林晓打招呼，林晓红着脸，小声地回应了一句：“你好。
”随着时间的推移，林晓和苏杨渐渐熟悉起来。
苏杨发现林晓虽然不太爱说话，但她的文笔很好，写的故事特别有意思。
于是，苏杨经常鼓励林晓把自己写的故事拿出来给大家分享。
在苏杨的鼓励下，林晓逐渐变得自信起来，她开始在班级里分享自己的作品。
同学们对她的故事很感兴趣，这让林晓感到无比开心。
然而，好景不长。
学校要举办一场作文比赛，林晓和苏杨都报名参加了。
为了准备比赛，林晓花费了大量的时间和精力，可就在比赛的前一天，她突然发现自己精心准备的作文稿不见了。
林晓着急得快要哭了，苏杨安慰她：“别着急，我们一起想想办法，说不定能找回来。
”他们在教室里找了很久，还是没有找到。
就在林晓感到绝望的时候，苏杨突然想到了一个办法。
他带着林晓来到了学校的广播室，通过广播向全校同学求助。
没想到，还真有同学捡到了林晓的作文稿，并送了回来。
林晓感激地看着苏杨，心中充满了温暖。
在这次比赛中，林晓发挥出色，获得了一等奖。
从那以后，林晓和苏杨的关系更加亲密了。
他们一起学习，一起讨论写作，一起度过了许多美好的时光。
转眼间，到了高三。
学习的压力越来越大，林晓和苏杨不得不把更多的时间和精力放在功课上。
高中生经典英文小说阅读欣赏与写作系列 Odour of Chrysanthemums
Odour of Chrysanthemumsby D. H. LawrenceIThe small locomotive engine, Number 4, came clanking, stumbling down from Selston--with seven full waggons. It appeared round the corner with loud threats of speed, but the colt that it startled from among the gorse, which still flickered indistinctly in the raw afternoon, outdistanced it at a canter. A woman, walking up the railway line to Underwood, drew back into the hedge, held her basket aside, and watched the footplate of the engine advancing. The trucks thumped heavily past, one by one, with slow inevitable movement, as she stood insignificantly trapped between the jolting black waggons and the hedge; then they curved away towards the coppice where the withered oak leaves dropped noiselessly, while the birds, pulling at the scarlet hips beside the track, made off into the dusk that had already crept into the spinney. In the open, the smoke from the engine sank and cleaved to the rough grass. The fields were dreary and forsaken, and in the marshy strip that led to the whimsey, a reedy pit-pond, the fowls had already abandoned their run among the alders, to roost in the tarred fowl-house. The pit-bank loomed up beyond the pond, flames like red sores licking its ashy sides, in the afternoon's stagnant light. Just beyond rose the tapering chimneys and the clumsy black head-stocks of Brinsley Colliery. The two wheels were spinning fast up against the sky, and the winding-engine rapped out its little spasms. The miners were being turned up.The engine whistled as it came into the wide bay of railway lines beside the colliery, where rows of trucks stood in harbour.Miners, single, trailing and in groups, passed like shadows diverging home. At the edge of the ribbed level of sidings squat a low cottage, three steps down from the cinder track. A large bony vine clutched at the house, as if to claw down the tiled roof. Round the bricked yard grew a few wintry primroses. Beyond, the long garden sloped down to a bush-covered brook course. There were some twiggy apple trees, winter-crack trees, and ragged cabbages. Beside the path hung dishevelled pink chrysanthemums, like pink cloths hung on bushes. A woman came stooping out of the felt-covered fowl-house, half-way down the garden. She closed and padlocked the door, then drew herself erect, having brushed some bits from her white apron.She was a till woman of imperious mien, handsome, with definite black eyebrows. Her smooth black hair was parted exactly. For a few moments she stood steadily watching the miners as they passed along the railway: then she turnedtowards the brook course. Her face was calm and set, her mouth was closed with disillusionment. After a moment she called:"John!" There was no answer. She waited, and then said distinctly:"Where are you?""Here!" replied a child's sulky voice from among the bushes. The woman looked piercingly through the dusk."Are you at that brook?" she asked sternly.For answer the child showed himself before the raspberry-canes that rose like whips. He was a small, sturdy boy of five. He stood quite still, defiantly."Oh!" said the mother, conciliated. "I thought you were down at that wet brook--and you remember what I told you--"The boy did not move or answer."Come, come on in," she said more gently, "it's getting dark. There's your grandfather's engine coming down the line!"The lad advanced slowly, with resentful, taciturn movement. He was dressed in trousers and waistcoat of cloth that was too thick and hard for the size of the garments. They were evidently cut down from a man's clothes.As they went slowly towards the house he tore at the ragged wisps of chrysanthemums and dropped the petals in handfuls along the path."Don't do that--it does look nasty," said his mother. He refrained, and she, suddenly pitiful, broke off a twig with three or four wan flowers and held them against her face. When mother and son reached the yard her hand hesitated, and instead of laying the flower aside, she pushed it in her apron-band. The mother and son stood at the foot of the three steps looking across the bay of lines at the passing home of the miners. The trundle of the small train was imminent. Suddenly the engine loomed past the house and came to a stop opposite the gate.The engine-driver, a short man with round grey beard, leaned out of the cab high above the woman."Have you got a cup of tea?" he said in a cheery, hearty fashion.It was her father. She went in, saying she would mash. Directly, she returned."I didn't come to see you on Sunday," began the little grey-bearded man."I didn't expect you," said his daughter.The engine-driver winced; then, reassuming his cheery, airy manner, he said: "Oh, have you heard then? Well, and what do you think--?""I think it is soon enough," she replied.At her brief censure the little man made an impatient gesture, and said coaxingly, yet with dangerous coldness:"Well, what's a man to do? It's no sort of life for a man of my years, to sit at my own hearth like a stranger. And if I'm going to marry again it may as well be soonas late--what does it matter to anybody?"The woman did not reply, but turned and went into the house. The man in the engine-cab stood assertive, till she returned with a cup of tea and a piece of bread and butter on a plate. She went up the steps and stood near the footplate of the hissing engine."You needn't 'a' brought me bread an' butter," said her father. "But a cup of tea"--he sipped appreciatively--"it's very nice." He sipped for a moment or two, then: "I hear as Walter's got another bout on," he said."When hasn't he?" said the woman bitterly."I heered tell of him in the 'Lord Nelson' braggin' as he was going to spend that b---- afore he went: half a sovereign that was.""When?" asked the woman."A' Sat'day night--I know that's true.""Very likely," she laughed bitterly. "He gives me twenty-three shillings.""Aye, it's a nice thing, when a man can do nothing with his money but make a beast of himself!" said the grey-whiskered man. The woman turned her head away. Her father swallowed the last of his tea and handed her the cup."Aye," he sighed, wiping his mouth. "It's a settler, it is--"He put his hand on the lever. The little engine strained and groaned, and the train rumbled towards the crossing. The woman again looked across the metals. Darkness was settling over the spaces of the railway and trucks: the miners, in grey sombre groups, were still passing home. The winding-engine pulsed hurriedly, with brief pauses. Elizabeth Bates looked at the dreary flow of men, then she went indoors. Her husband did not come.The kitchen was small and full of firelight; red coals piled glowing up the chimney mouth. All the life of the room seemed in the white, warm hearth and the steel fender reflecting the red fire. The cloth was laid for tea; cups glinted in the shadows. At the back, where the lowest stairs protruded into the room, the boy sat struggling with a knife and a piece of whitewood. He was almost hidden in the shadow. It was half-past four. They had but to await the father's coming to begin tea. As the mother watched her son's sullen little struggle with the wood, she saw herself in his silence and pertinacity; she saw the father in her child's indifference to all but himself. She seemed to be occupied by her husband. He had probably gone past his home, slunk past his own door, to drink before he came in, while his dinner spoiled and wasted in waiting. She glanced at the clock, then took the potatoes to strain them in the yard. The garden and fields beyond the brook were closed in uncertain darkness. When she rose with the saucepan, leaving the drain steaming into the night behind her, she saw the yellow lamps were lit along the high road that went up the hill away beyond the space of the railway lines and thefield.Then again she watched the men trooping home, fewer now and fewer.Indoors the fire was sinking and the room was dark red. The woman put her saucepan on the hob, and set a batter pudding near the mouth of the oven. Then she stood unmoving. Directly, gratefully, came quick young steps to the door. Someone hung on the latch a moment, then a little girl entered and began pulling off her outdoor things, dragging a mass of curls, just ripening from gold to brown, over her eyes with her hat.Her mother chid her for coming late from school, and said she would have to keep her at home the dark winter days."Why, mother, it's hardly a bit dark yet. The lamp's not lighted, and my father's not home.""No, he isn't. But it's a quarter to five! Did you see anything of him?"The child became serious. She looked at her mother with large, wistful blue eyes."No, mother, I've never seen him. Why? Has he come up an' gone past, to Old Brinsley? He hasn't, mother, 'cos I never saw him.""He'd watch that," said the mother bitterly, "he'd take care as you didn't see him. But you may depend upon it, he's seated in the 'Prince o' Wales'. He wouldn't be this late."The girl looked at her mother piteously."Let's have our teas, mother, should we?" said she.The mother called John to table. She opened the door once more and looked out across the darkness of the lines. All was deserted: she could not hear the winding-engines."Perhaps," she said to herself, "he's stopped to get some ripping done."They sat down to tea. John, at the end of the table near the door, was almost lost in the darkness. Their faces were hidden from each other. The girl crouched against the fender slowly moving a thick piece of bread before the fire. The lad, his face a dusky mark on the shadow, sat watching her who was transfigured in the red glow."I do think it's beautiful to look in the fire," said the child."Do you?" said her mother. "Why?""It's so red, and full of little caves--and it feels so nice, and you can fair smell it.""It'll want mending directly," replied her mother, "and then if your father comes he'll carry on and say there never is a fire when a man comes home sweating from the pit.--A public-house is always warm enough."There was silence till the boy said complainingly: "Make haste, our Annie.""Well, I am doing! I can't make the fire do it no faster, can I?""She keeps wafflin' it about so's to make 'er slow," grumbled the boy."Don't have such an evil imagination, child," replied the mother.Soon the room was busy in the darkness with the crisp sound of crunching. The mother ate very little. She drank her tea determinedly, and sat thinking. When she rose her anger was evident in the stern unbending of her head. She looked at the pudding in the fender, and broke out:"It is a scandalous thing as a man can't even come home to his dinner! If it's crozzled up to a cinder I don't see why I should care. Past his very door he goes to get to a public-house, and here I sit with his dinner waiting for him--"She went out. As she dropped piece after piece of coal on the red fire, the shadows fell on the walls, till the room was almost in total darkness."I canna see," grumbled the invisible John. In spite of herself, the mother laughed."You know the way to your mouth," she said. She set the dustpan outside the door. When she came again like a shadow on the hearth, the lad repeated, complaining sulkily:"I canna see.""Good gracious!" cried the mother irritably, "you're as bad as your father if it's a bit dusk!"Nevertheless she took a paper spill from a sheaf on the mantelpiece and proceeded to light the lamp that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room. As she reached up, her figure displayed itself just rounding with maternity."Oh, mother--!" exclaimed the girl."What?" said the woman, suspended in the act of putting the lamp glass over the flame. The copper reflector shone handsomely on her, as she stood with uplifted arm, turning to face her daughter."You've got a flower in your apron!" said the child, in a little rapture at this unusual event."Goodness me!" exclaimed the woman, relieved. "One would think the house was afire." She replaced the glass and waited a moment before turning up the wick.A pale shadow was seen floating vaguely on the floor."Let me smell!" said the child, still rapturously, coming forward and putting her face to her mother's waist."Go along, silly!" said the mother, turning up the lamp. The light revealed their suspense so that the woman felt it almost unbearable. Annie was still bending at her waist. Irritably, the mother took the flowers out from her apron-band."Oh, mother--don't take them out!" Annie cried, catching her hand and trying to replace the sprig."Such nonsense!" said the mother, turning away. The child put the pale chrysanthemums to her lips, murmuring:"Don't they smell beautiful!"Her mother gave a short laugh."No," she said, "not to me. It was chrysanthemums when I married him, and chrysanthemums when you were born, and the first time they ever brought him home drunk, he'd got brown chrysanthemums in his button-hole."She looked at the children. Their eyes and their parted lips were wondering. The mother sat rocking in silence for some time. Then she looked at the clock."Twenty minutes to six!" In a tone of fine bitter carelessness she continued: "Eh, he'll not come now till they bring him. There he'll stick! But he needn't come rolling in here in his pit-dirt, for I won't wash him. He can lie on the floor--Eh, what a fool I've been, what a fool! And this is what I came here for, to this dirty hole, rats and all, for him to slink past his very door. Twice last week--he's begun now-"She silenced herself, and rose to clear the table.While for an hour or more the children played, subduedly intent, fertile of imagination, united in fear of the mother's wrath, and in dread of their father's home-coming, Mrs Bates sat in her rocking-chair making a 'singlet' of thick cream-coloured flannel, which gave a dull wounded sound as she tore off the grey edge. She worked at her sewing with energy, listening to the children, and her anger wearied itself, lay down to rest, opening its eyes from time to time and steadily watching, its ears raised to listen. Sometimes even her anger quailed and shrank, and the mother suspended her sewing, tracing the footsteps that thudded along the sleepers outside; she would lift her head sharply to bid the children 'hush', but she recovered herself in time, and the footsteps went past the gate, and the children were not flung out of their playing world.But at last Annie sighed, and gave in. She glanced at her waggon of slippers, and loathed the game. She turned plaintively to her mother."Mother!"--but she was inarticulate.John crept out like a frog from under the sofa. His mother glanced up."Yes," she said, "just look at those shirt-sleeves!"The boy held them out to survey them, saying nothing. Then somebody called in a hoarse voice away down the line, and suspense bristled in the room, till two people had gone by outside, talking."It is time for bed," said the mother."My father hasn't come," wailed Annie plaintively. But her mother was primed with courage."Never mind. They'll bring him when he does come--like a log." She meantthere would be no scene. "And he may sleep on the floor till he wakes himself. I know he'll not go to work tomorrow after this!"The children had their hands and faces wiped with a flannel. They were very quiet. When they had put on their nightdresses, they said their prayers, the boy mumbling. The mother looked down at them, at the brown silken bush of intertwining curls in the nape of the girl's neck, at the little black head of the lad, and her heart burst with anger at their father who caused all three such distress. The children hid their faces in her skirts for comfort.When Mrs Bates came down, the room was strangely empty, with a tension of expectancy. She took up her sewing and stitched for some time without raising her head. Meantime her anger was tinged with fear.IIThe clock struck eight and she rose suddenly, dropping her sewing on her chair. She went to the stairfoot door, opened it, listening. Then she went out, locking the door behind her.Something scuffled in the yard, and she started, though she knew it was only the rats with which the place was overrun. The night was very dark. In the great bay of railway lines, bulked with trucks, there was no trace of light, only away back she could see a few yellow lamps at the pit-top, and the red smear of the burning pit-bank on the night. She hurried along the edge of the track, then, crossing the converging lines, came to the stile by the white gates, whence she emerged on the road. Then the fear which had led her shrank. People were walking up to New Brinsley; she saw the lights in the houses; twenty yards further on were the broad windows of the 'Prince of Wales', very warm and bright, and the loud voices of men could be heard distinctly. What a fool she had been to imagine that anything had happened to him! He was merely drinking over there at the 'Prince of Wales'. She faltered. She had never yet been to fetch him, and she never would go. So she continued her walk towards the long straggling line of houses, standing blank on the highway. She entered a passage between the dwellings."Mr Rigley?--Yes! Did you want him? No, he's not in at this minute."The raw-boned woman leaned forward from her dark scullery and peered at the other, upon whom fell a dim light through the blind of the kitchen window."Is it Mrs Bates?" she asked in a tone tinged with respect."Yes. I wondered if your Master was at home. Mine hasn't come yet.""'Asn't 'e! Oh, Jack's been 'ome an 'ad 'is dinner an' gone out. E's just gone for 'alf an hour afore bedtime. Did you call at the 'Prince of Wales'?""No--""No, you didn't like--! It's not very nice." The other woman was indulgent. There was an awkward pause. "Jack never said nothink about--about your Mester,"she said."No!--I expect he's stuck in there!"Elizabeth Bates said this bitterly, and with recklessness. She knew that the woman across the yard was standing at her door listening, but she did not care. As she turned:"Stop a minute! I'll just go an' ask Jack if e' knows anythink," said Mrs Rigley."Oh, no--I wouldn't like to put--!""Yes, I will, if you'll just step inside an' see as th' childer doesn't come downstairs and set theirselves afire."Elizabeth Bates, murmuring a remonstrance, stepped inside. The other woman apologized for the state of the room.The kitchen needed apology. There were little frocks and trousers and childish undergarments on the squab and on the floor, and a litter of playthings everywhere. On the black American cloth of the table were pieces of bread and cake, crusts, slops, and a teapot with cold tea."Eh, ours is just as bad," said Elizabeth Bates, looking at the woman, not at the house. Mrs Rigley put a shawl over her head and hurried out, saying: "I shanna be a minute."The other sat, noting with faint disapproval the general untidiness of the room. Then she fell to counting the shoes of various sizes scattered over the floor. There were twelve. She sighed and said to herself, "No wonder!"--glancing at the litter. There came the scratching of two pairs of feet on the yard, and the Rigleys entered. Elizabeth Bates rose. Rigley was a big man, with very large bones. His head looked particularly bony. Across his temple was a blue scar, caused by a wound got in the pit, a wound in which the coal-dust remained blue like tattooing."Asna 'e come whoam yit?" asked the man, without any form of greeting, but with deference and sympathy. "I couldna say wheer he is--'e's non ower theer!"--he jerked his head to signify the 'Prince of Wales'."'E's 'appen gone up to th' 'Yew'," said Mrs Rigley.There was another pause. Rigley had evidently something to get off his mind: "Ah left 'im finishin' a stint," he began. "Loose-all 'ad bin gone about ten minutes when we com'n away, an' I shouted, 'Are ter comin', Walt?' an' 'e said, 'Go on, Ah shanna be but a'ef a minnit,' so we com'n ter th' bottom, me an' Bowers, thinkin' as 'e wor just behint, an' 'ud come up i' th' next bantle--"He stood perplexed, as if answering a charge of deserting his mate. Elizabeth Bates, now again certain of disaster, hastened to reassure him:"I expect 'e's gone up to th' 'Yew Tree', as you say. It's not the first time. I've fretted myself into a fever before now. He'll come home when they carry him.""Ay, isn't it too bad!" deplored the other woman."I'll just step up to Dick's an' see if 'e is theer," offered the man, afraid of appearing alarmed, afraid of taking liberties."Oh, I wouldn't think of bothering you that far," said Elizabeth Bates, with emphasis, but he knew she was glad of his offer.As they stumbled up the entry, Elizabeth Bates heard Rigley's wife run across the yard and open her neighbour's door. At this, suddenly all the blood in her body seemed to switch away from her heart."Mind!" warned Rigley. "Ah've said many a time as Ah'd fill up them ruts in this entry, sumb'dy 'll be breakin' their legs yit."She recovered herself and walked quickly along with the miner."I don't like leaving the children in bed, and nobody in the house," she said."No, you dunna!" he replied courteously. They were soon at the gate of the cottage."Well, I shanna be many minnits. Dunna you be frettin' now, 'e'll be all right," said the butty."Thank you very much, Mr Rigley," she replied."You're welcome!" he stammered, moving away. "I shanna be many minnits."The house was quiet. Elizabeth Bates took off her hat and shawl, and rolled back the rug. When she had finished, she sat down. It was a few minutes past nine. She was startled by the rapid chuff of the winding-engine at the pit, and the sharp whirr of the brakes on the rope as it descended. Again she felt the painful sweep of her blood, and she put her hand to her side, saying aloud, "Good gracious!--it's only the nine o'clock deputy going down," rebuking herself.She sat still, listening. Half an hour of this, and she was wearied out."What am I working myself up like this for?" she said pitiably to herself, "I s'll only be doing myself some damage."She took out her sewing again.At a quarter to ten there were footsteps. One person! She watched for the door to open. It was an elderly woman, in a black bonnet and a black woollen shawl--his mother. She was about sixty years old, pale, with blue eyes, and her face all wrinkled and lamentable. She shut the door and turned to her daughter-in-law peevishly."Eh, Lizzie, whatever shall we do, whatever shall we do!" she cried.Elizabeth drew back a little, sharply."What is it, mother?" she said.The elder woman seated herself on the sofa."I don't know, child, I can't tell you!"--she shook her head slowly. Elizabeth sat watching her, anxious and vexed."I don't know," replied the grandmother, sighing very deeply. "There's no endto my troubles, there isn't. The things I've gone through, I'm sure it's enough--!" She wept without wiping her eyes, the tears running."But, mother," interrupted Elizabeth, "what do you mean? What is it?"The grandmother slowly wiped her eyes. The fountains of her tears were stopped by Elizabeth's directness. She wiped her eyes slowly."Poor child! Eh, you poor thing!" she moaned. "I don't know what we're going to do, I don't--and you as you are--it's a thing, it is indeed!"Elizabeth waited."Is he dead?" she asked, and at the words her heart swung violently, though she felt a slight flush of shame at the ultimate extravagance of the question. Her words sufficiently frightened the old lady, almost brought her to herself."Don't say so, Elizabeth! We'll hope it's not as bad as that; no, may the Lord spare us that, Elizabeth. Jack Rigley came just as I was sittin' down to a glass afore going to bed, an' 'e said, ''Appen you'll go down th' line, Mrs Bates. Walt's had an accident. 'Appen you'll go an' sit wi' 'er till we can get him home.' I hadn't time to ask him a word afore he was gone. An' I put my bonnet on an' come straight down, Lizzie. I thought to myself, 'Eh, that poor blessed child, if anybody should come an' tell her of a sudden, there's no knowin' what'll 'appen to 'er.' You mustn't let it upset you, Lizzie--or you know what to expect. How long is it, six months--or is it five, Lizzie? Ay!"--the old woman shook her head--"time slips on, it slips on! Ay!"Elizabeth's thoughts were busy elsewhere. If he was killed--would she be able to manage on the little pension and what she could earn?--she counted up rapidly. If he was hurt--they wouldn't take him to the hospital--how tiresome he would be to nurse!--but perhaps she'd be able to get him away from the drink and his hateful ways. She would--while he was ill. The tears offered to come to her eyes at the picture. But what sentimental luxury was this she was beginning?--She turned to consider the children. At any rate she was absolutely necessary for them. They were her business."Ay!" repeated the old woman, "it seems but a week or two since he brought me his first wages. Ay--he was a good lad, Elizabeth, he was, in his way. I don't know why he got to be such a trouble, I don't. He was a happy lad at home, only full of spirits. But there's no mistake he's been a handful of trouble, he has! I hope the Lord'll spare him to mend his ways. I hope so, I hope so. You've had a sight o' trouble with him, Elizabeth, you have indeed. But he was a jolly enough lad wi' me, he was, I can assure you. I don't know how it is . . ."The old woman continued to muse aloud, a monotonous irritating sound, while Elizabeth thought concentratedly, startled once, when she heard the winding-engine chuff quickly, and the brakes skirr with a shriek. Then she heard the engine more slowly, and the brakes made no sound. The old woman did not notice. Elizabeth。
- 1、下载文档前请自行甄别文档内容的完整性，平台不提供额外的编辑、内容补充、找答案等附加服务。
- 2、"仅部分预览"的文档,不可在线预览部分如存在完整性等问题,可反馈申请退款(可完整预览的文档不适用该条件!)。
- 3、如文档侵犯您的权益，请联系客服反馈,我们会尽快为您处理(人工客服工作时间：9:00-18:30)。
高中生小说作文范文
以下是为大家整理的关于高中生小说作文范文的文章，希望大家能够喜欢！
不能不承认，某个男人和某个女人之间，是存在一种无法解释的、天然亲密的缘份的。
我和霖素不相识，看了她发在网上的诗作，我的心中却像着了火，在初秋山居不怎么热的日子，在清清山溪水清凉相伴，草木鲜绿，山花斑斓，本该气定神闲的日子。
我的激情如火如荼，如一片燃烧的海。
我文思如潮，阵阵袭来；灵感的赠品如退潮后沙滩上的彩贝，惊喜连连。
先后有《问情》、《我思念五月的槐花岁岁年年》、《沙漠和草原的协奏》等诗作在网上接连发表。
那么霖呢？她是否也有按捺不住的窃喜？
通过互发短信息得知，霖是惊喜异常的，说我很像他以前的网友，说话的口气和文才都像。
这也奇了，我从不在网上聊天，在网上写文，也还是今年下半年的事情。
这不是一种天然的缘分吗，我和霖之间？
究竟是霖的什么打动了我？心情平静的时候我自问。
是她的美丽，是她的痴情。
我自答。
在世俗庸俗媚俗三俗风行天下的今天，美丽的女人比比皆是，而美丽而痴情的女人却是少之又少，珍稀如珠玉。
能得到他的爱，哪怕是爱屋及乌的爱吧，我也欣喜若狂。
或许因为我说了不恰当的话吧，某一天我发的短信息她竟没有回复。
我懊悔不已，紧接着又发短信息，一面致歉，一面苦心孤诣，尽显才气的解释着，宽慰着。
这个短信息她肯定会回复吧？这样想着，第二天我一整天上班情绪都很好，况且再而三天就仲秋节了。
我甚至想哼一首自己编的歌：望着月亮的时候，我会想起你。
望着你的时候，我会想起月亮。
啊，天上的月亮，照着我心爱的红颜知己。
饮一杯桂花酒，醉了中秋醉了月亮，醉了我心爱的红颜知己。
伴明月，相拥入梦乡。
晚上下班的路上我还想着这事，大脑沉浸在兴奋之中。
我骑着电动车马上就要到家了。
前面的路是一段没有路灯的窄窄的环山路，两边草木簇拥，光线幽暗，秋虫吱吱，如一首节奏徐缓的秋夜曲，为我兴奋的大脑伴奏着。
我正悠然沉醉，一个骑车人的黑影风驰电掣般的从前面不远处的斜坡上飞驰而下，我的脑中还没有闪过要躲的念头，即与那黑影撞在了一块。
好在与我相撞的是一个醉汉骑的自行车，若是与一辆摩托车相撞，谁伤谁亡，还未可知。
各自慌忙扶起车子之后，借着微光我发现，车把下面的外壳撞坏了，不过还能骑。
而那醉汉和自行车更没有什么大碍。
我正待发怒，那家伙却一个劲的求饶，说他认识这里的某某。
我一看也算
是熟人，只好作罢。
然而却觉着右手小拇指剧烈地地疼了。
热血一滴一滴地在裤筒上，滴在电动车上，滴在回家的路上。
晦气压倒了兴奋。
到了家里包扎时发现，撞裂开的皮肉到骨头了。
因为手疼，因为有人占着，这一晚我没有上网。
第二天凌晨，我在半梦半醒之间听到有人哼唱有关玫瑰的歌。
我欣慰的舒了一口气，因为我记起了她“我是你窗外的玫瑰”的诗句。
心想看来古人说的心有灵犀一点通的心灵感应是灵验的，今天肯定有她给我回复的短消息。
这一天上夜班，时间可以从容安排。
起床后急急打开电脑，依然没有那婉转悦耳的莺声燕语：有短消息请查收，有短消息请查收……这一天第二次第三次打开电脑，依然是依然后的依然。
不仅如此，更令我哑然失笑的是，再浏览她文集时，表明她心迹的日记竟被删掉了！
我知道，我不能再欺骗自己了，我们爱恋的故事的确是落幕了，尽管是多么地不该落幕！
别人的玫瑰依旧海棠依旧，我卧室内呵护备至的扶桑花呀，你的娇红欲滴灿烂依旧，你可懂我心忧？
我是悲哀的，甚至是悲愤的，为爱的无奈无助。
然而我没有眼泪，我一遍一遍听着陈升的：
“我想是因为我不够温柔
不能分担你的忧愁
如果这样说不出口
就把遗憾放在心中
把我的悲伤留给自己
你的美丽让你带走
我想我可以忍住悲伤
可不可以你会想起我……”
让这永远抚慰失恋者的美丽而忧伤的歌稀释着我哀愁的浓度，心痛的酸度。
正像歌中唱到的：“从此以后我再也没有快乐起来的理由，我在这里日夜等待你的消息。
”李商隐的无题诗，成了我止痛的良药——
（一）
“昨夜星辰昨夜风，画楼西畔桂堂东。
身无彩凤双飞翼，心有灵犀一点通。
”
（二）
“怅卧新春白袷衣，白门寥落意多违。
红楼隔雨相望冷，珠箔飘灯独自归。
远路应悲春晼晚，残宵犹得梦依稀。
玉铛缄札何由达，万里云罗一雁飞。
”
（三）
“曾是寂寥金烬暗，断无消息石榴红。
斑骓只系垂杨岸，何处西南待好风？”
然而李商隐的无题诗只能麻醉我的怅痛，不但不能使我忘忧，反倒愈使我对他产生了不绝如缕的思念之情。
我发狠要把她忘却了，就心无旁骛地投入到小说《狐缘情劫》的创作之中。