Mentor Texts |
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Mon. 8/26
“That was the sky up above, hot, with a fried egg of a sun stuck in the middle of it, and this was the ground down here, hard, with a layer of parched grass and a smell of dirt and leaf mold, and no matter how much he shouted there didn’t seem to be much else in between. What he could use was a glass of water. He’d been here, what—an hour, maybe? —he was never hungry anymore. It was just an image, that was all. He could use a chair, though, and somebody to help him up and put him in it. And some shade. Some iced tea, maybe, beads of moisture sliding down the outside of the glass.”
Excerpt taken from the story “Rust” by T.C. Boyle from the collection of stories After the Plague
“That was the sky up above, hot, with a fried egg of a sun stuck in the middle of it, and this was the ground down here, hard, with a layer of parched grass and a smell of dirt and leaf mold, and no matter how much he shouted there didn’t seem to be much else in between. What he could use was a glass of water. He’d been here, what—an hour, maybe? —he was never hungry anymore. It was just an image, that was all. He could use a chair, though, and somebody to help him up and put him in it. And some shade. Some iced tea, maybe, beads of moisture sliding down the outside of the glass.”
Excerpt taken from the story “Rust” by T.C. Boyle from the collection of stories After the Plague