Siapa yang tidak suka mendengarkan cerita sewaktu kecil? Rasanya mustahil seorang anak tidak menyukai berbagai bentuk cerita, bukan?
Terlebih jika cerita tersebut ditulis dalam bahasa asing misalnya bahasa Inggris, akan ada banyak manfaat baik yang didapatkan. Manfaat belajar cerita pendek diantaranya adalah membuat suasana hati menjadi tenang, sebagai media hiburan agar tidak jenuh, menambah inspirasi bagi pembaca, menambah pengetahuan, dan mengubah pola pikir.
Cerita Pendek Bahasa Inggris dan Artinya
The Ant and the Dove
One hot day, an ant was searching for some water. After walking around for some time, she came to a spring. To reach the spring, she had to climb up a blade of grass. While making her way up, she slipped and fell into the water.
She could have drowned if a dove up a nearby tree had not seen her. Seeing that the ant was in trouble, the dove quickly plucked off a leaf and dropped it into the water near the struggling ant. The ant moved towards the leaf and climbed up there. Soon it carried her safely to dry ground. Just at that time, a hunter nearby was throwing out his net towards the dove, hoping to trap it.
Guessing what he was about to do, the ant quickly bit him on the heel. Feeling the pain, the hunter dropped his net. The dove was quick to fly away to safety.
Semut dan Merpati
Suatu hari yang panas, semut sedang mencari air. Setelah berjalan ke sekitar untuk beberapa waktu, dia datang ke mata air. Untuk mencapai musim semi, dia harus memanjat rumput. Sementara membuat jalan ke atas, dia terpeleset dan jatuh ke dalam air.
Dia bisa tenggelam jika burung merpati di atas pohon di dekatnya tidak melihatnya. Melihat bahwa semut dalam kesulitan, burung merpati cepat memetik daun dan menjatuhkannya ke dalam air dekat semut berjuang. semut bergerak menuju daun dan naik ke sana. Segera dilakukan dengan selamat ke tanah kering. Hanya saja, seorang pemburu di dekatnya membuang jaring ke arah burung merpati, berharap untuk menjebak nya
Menebak-nebak apa yang akan ia lakukan, semut cepat menggigit tumitnya. Merasakan sakit, pemburu menjatuhkan gawangnya. merpati pun terbang ke tempat yang aman.
Cerita Pendek Bahasa Inggris Tentang Binatang
Cat And Mouse In Partnership
Once upon a time, there lived a cat and a mouse in partnership in the same house. They were best of friends and shared a great bond of friendship. They shared every household work and everything was equally divided amongst them. Soon as the winters were approaching, they decided to store up some food for themselves. You may also like to read, The Mouse Maid.
On the very next day, they went to the market and bought a little pot of fat. But they did not know where to put it. After thinking for a while, the cat suggested to hide it behind the shrine of the church. They both agreed and went to hide it away from the other cats and mice. But, the cat had a great longing for it and soon she made a plan to steal the entire pot of fat.
One day, the cat went to the mouse and said, “My cousin has a little son and has invited me to the godmother of that little kitten.” The mouse trusted the cat but she went straight to the church, slunk to the little pot of fat, began to lick it and licked the top off. This was her first steal. In the evening, she returned home happily. When the mouse curiously asked the child’s name, the cat replied, “Top-off!” The mouse was shocked at the name.
A few days later, the cat again started to crave for the pot of fat. Whenever she thought about the little pot of fat, she licked her lips. This time, the cat said, “I have been asked to be the godmother to another child!” The kind mouse agreed. The cat hurried to the church and ate up half of the pot of fat. When the cat returned, the mouse was very excited to know the name of the second child. The cat told the mouse, this time the child was named as “Half-gone!” The mouse was again surprised at the name.
Not long after this, another great longing came over the cat. Like always, the cat made the same excuse and went to the church. She ate up all the remaining fat in the pot. At that night, she came home sleek and satisfied. The mouse asked at once after the third child’s name. This time, the name of the child was “Clean-gone!” The mouse was totally confused at the cat’s behavior but he did not utter a word. From then on, no one called the cat to be the godmother anymore. Also, read The Foolish Mouse.
Soon as the winters came and there was nothing left at home to eat, the mouse remembered their provision and said, “Come cat, let’s bring the pot of fat that we had stored away!” They went to the church and found the little pot of fat empty. At last, the mouse understood the trick of the greedy cat. In that very moment, the unkind cat jumped onto the poor mouse, seized and swallowed him.
Cerita Pendek Bahasa Inggris Tentang Liburan
Short Story: Happy holidays
Eight is an age too young for anyone to know the different shades of “normal.” The day you came home from school to find all your Crayolas snapped in half, your piggy-bank smashed too early, colored dust and peach ceramics littering your desk like the aftermath of a childhood memory that didn’t happen but exploded anyway, was the day your universe changed its course and your sun set in the east on gloomy mornings.
On my eighth Christmas, which was two weeks after my eighth birthday, I’d received a postcard and a songbird necklace. I managed to fish the postcard out of the bin, but Jo had taken away the necklace and now it had become one with the bushes and the shrubs in our backyard. On my ninth Christmas there was no postcard, just a small statue of a fairy with wings the same color as sunset.
On my 10th and 11th Christmases, Gia had sent me ridiculously long letters and it was a surprise that Jo had left the envelopes untouched, although I was sure she did not fail to recognize the spidery writing scrawled on the envelopes. Amara Brinkley-Cook, it said, in Gia’s signature handwriting. 76 Springfield Mount. On my 12th birthday, I received a miniature replica of the Tower of Belem, which was located in Lisbon, the capital city of Portugal. After rooting around in one of the boxes in our shed that contained Gia’s things, I found a stack of photos from when she and Jo went on vacation to Portugal.
I am almost 13 and since Christmas is drawing nearer and nearer, sitting on the top of the stairs while pretending to do my homework when I am actually waiting for the mail has become a tedious routine that Jo despises. She has told me numerous times that there is no use waiting for someone who has started another life without us and I have paid no attention to what she says. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school today?” Jo wants to know, peering over my shoulder as I begin to write my essay, the one about family that is supposed to be due today. Jo’s question is more like a demand than a question and I shrug. “They canceled school because of the snow.” She does not look convinced at all, but holds up her hands in surrender and before I know it, she has disappeared up the staircase.
It is easy when you are Madeleine Gellberg-Stowell, whose father owns multiple mansions all over the country and spends most of his time outside of the house going to parties and auctions. It is easy when you are Marjaan Roufi because you’ve got loving parents whose affection toward you will not lessen, no matter how many brothers and sisters you have. It is not easy when you are Amara Brinkley-Cook, a scrawny 13-year-old kid with a single mum who works the cash register at Tesco’s.
Out of the three members of my family, Gia has the loudest laugh, I begin to write, but a tinge of guilt creeps in and I rip out the page loudly because it feels disloyal to Jo. No, not because it feels disloyal to Jo, but because those memories I have of her are the only proof I have of the times when we used to have pancakes on Sunday mornings, of the times when we spent our summer days sunbathing and swimming, of the times when we were happy. Our life wasn’t perfect but we were happy and happy was enough.
Cerita Pendek Bahasa Inggris Tentang Sekolah
The road to neverwhere
“Dad, I want to finish my studies,” says Jamshed in outrage while throwing his schoolbag on to the floor. “I don’t want to continue my education anymore, not even a single day. I would prefer illiteracy than literacy.” He takes aimless steps toward the kitchen and sinks into the darkness. He turns on the light and then strikes the switch off. He then reemerges into the light in the living room where he had left his father. Pinching a lit cigarette between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and twirling an empty cup of tea in his other hand, while leaning back against a pillow, he sucks the cigarette smoke into his lungs and puffs rings of white clouds into the air and lets them dance in the dim light pouring directly from the window.
Jamshed’s father gazes at the boy in a panic and asks, “What has happened to you, son?” “Haven’t you heard the latest news? The terrorists have gunned down another five innocent Hazaras. Three of them were professors and two of them were university students. The culprits opened fire on them while they were coming back home from the university. The living situation here in Quetta is not favorable anymore. There is no violence left that I haven’t seen in my life. I lost my uncle in a blast a year ago. The beheaded body of Ahmed still haunts my dreams,” says the boy. Jamshed moves impulsively to the edge of the shelf standing by the window. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his thighs, blocking the light.
He clasps his hands and crosses his fingers, then takes his gaze off the floor. His eyes pierce through the dancing clouds of smoke in the air. After a while, he sighs and says, “The violence has killed my desire to learn anything in school. Walking to school every morning, all I see is death and despair. I want to go to Australia. I want a future I can count on. “ Jamshed pauses, takes a deep breath and continues with another long sigh, “When you leave home for work in the morning, I can’t think straight until I see you safe back at home in the evening. I keep thinking the worst is going to happen at any moment.
Dad, two years ago there were 40 students in our class. Today, there’s only half that. Most of my classmates were killed in the attacks. How am I supposed to live, Dad?” Silence permeates the room. The father kills the cigarette by pressing forcefully its angry orange tip against the bottom of the ash pan. “Son, I truly understand what you are going through. You and I are not the only ones suffering this genocide. The black cloud is hanging over the heads of all Hazara people in every corner of Pakistan and Afghanistan, but quitting education is not the solution. On the contrary, education is the only weapon by which we can gain our rights back and raise our voices.”
“But what if we do not survive? What should we do with the education for which we study hard, day and night? After all we’ve done, all we get in return is death?” After a small pause, he continues in anguish, “Tell me Dad, wasn’t Mom educated? She was among the first Hazara women advocates. She served the nation and the government with true devotion and commitment. She fought in every possible way for our rights and raised our voices on every platform she came across. What did she get in return?” There is a long pause. “Two bullets: one in the head and one in the heart. Nothing else, Dad! Finally, the terrorists took her right to life and silenced her forever.”
“But still we can hope for a better tomorrow.” “Hope? Hope from whom, Dad?” Jamshed swallows the sorrow that rises to a storm deep down in his gut and triggers his voice briefly. He can feel the panic bubble up in his throat. He swipes the tear that has glistened in his eyes and digs his teeth into his lower trembling lip and continues “Hope from the government, which even didn’t bother to pay their condolences to mum? The government that she served throughout her career?” The father leans forward and stretches his legs. He covers both knees with his hands to support his frail body.
He thinks of the tragedy that claimed his wife’s life. He speaks with a hoarse voice as he looks at Jamshed. He says, “There is no certainty you will make Australia your home, either. Do you think you will survive the boat journey over the ruthless ocean that has already swallowed hundreds of lives, which has separated children from their parents and husbands from their wives and their families? The journey that has neither beginning nor end, and which only serves as a bet between life and death?” The father continues, “Did you forget your cousin, Saqib, who disappeared into the great nothingness from the day he left years ago? His old mother still waits for him to return, hoping against all hope that one day he will show up at her doorstep.
Do you not think of what may happen to you if you were to take on that treacherous road toward — what, exactly?” Jamshed replies, almost too sternly, “There are many ways to get to Australia, Dad. We can go to Indonesia and seek asylum there. We can wait until we are approved to relocate to Australia. I can secure my own future”. The father shakes his head. “The world does not recognize humanity, anymore,” he says. “Our people have been turned away so many times and these places you believe will show you mercy will do nothing but watch you suffer. My son, we are a vulnerable people and we will be vulnerable for years to come. In the last 60 years, we have been deprived of our basic rights.
No one is listening to us. We continue to live in fear. Our wounds are left open for all to gawk at and to pick at. Son, you know how our women have been made widows, the children orphans, and the blood of our innocent people continues to wet the earth. It doesn’t matter where you turn, Afghanistan and Pakistan are the only safe place for us. There’s nowhere else for us to turn to. We’re waiting for tragedy to claim our lives by staying here, but for the moment it is the only choice we have.” Jamshed drops his gaze, his eyes searching the floor. Then, he buries his head deeper into his arms. His breathing slows, now exhausted and hopeless. He looks up and gazes at the ceilings. At long last, he mutters a prayer, “God, must you be so cruel to us?”
Itulah ulasan tentang cerita pendek dalam bahasa Inggris, seru ya! Belajar cerita pendek dalam bahasa Inggris tak hanya akan memperkaya kosakata namun juga memberi moral cerita yang bermanfaat. Apalagi kalau kamu juga belajar materi bahasa Inggris lain dengan pengajar berpengalaman di Lister, kemampuan bahasa Inggris kamu makin bertambah oke!