“55 Miles to the Gas Pump” by Annie Proulx.
Rancher Croom in handmade boots and filthy hat, that walleyed cattleman, stray hairs like the curling fiddle
string ends, that warm-handed, quick-foot dancer on splintery boards or down the cellar stairs to a rack of
bottles of his own strange beer, yeasty, cloudy, bursting out in garlands of foam, Rancher Coom at night
galloping drunk over the dark plain, turning off at a place he knows to arrive at a canyon brink where he
dismounts and looks down on tumbled rock, waits, then steps out, parting the air with his last roar, sleeves
surging up, windmill arms, jeans riding over boot tops, but before he hits he rises again to the top of the cliff
like a cork in a bucket of milk.
Mrs. Croom on the roof with a saw cutting a hole into the attic where she has not been for twelve years
thanks to old Croom’s padlocks and warnings, whets to her desire, and the sweat flies as she exchanges the
saw for a chisel and hammer until a ragged slab peak is free and she can see inside: just as she thought: the
corpses of Mr. Croom’s paramours – she recognizes them from their photographs in the paper: MISSING
WOMAN – some desiccated as jerky and much the same color, some moldy from lying beneath roof leaks,
and, all of them used hard, covered with tarry handprints, the marks of boot heels, some bright blue with
remnants of paint used on the shutters years ago, one wrapped in newspaper nipple to knee.
When you live a long way out you make your own fun.
Prompt: What literary devices does Annie Proulx use to develop the characters of Rancher and Mrs. Croom?
What does her characterization suggest about people who live in a ranching community?
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“The School” by Donald Barthelme
Well, we had all these children out planting trees, see, because we figured that ... that was part of their education, to see
how, you know, the root systems ... and also the sense of responsibility, taking care of things, being individually
responsible. You know what I mean. And the trees all died. They were orange trees. I don’t know why they died, they just
died. Something wrong with the soil possibly or maybe the stuff we got from the nursery wasn’t the best. We complained
about it. So we’ve got thirty kids there, each kid had his or her own little tree to plant and we’ve got these thirty dead
trees. All these kids looking at these little brown sticks, it was depressing.
It wouldn’t have been so bad except that just a couple of weeks before the thing with the trees, the snakes all died. But I
think that the snakes – well, the reason that the snakes kicked off was that ... you remember, the boiler was shut off for
four days because of the strike, and that was explicable. It was something you could explain to the kids because of the
strike. I mean, none of their parents would let them cross the picket line and they knew there was a strike going on and
what it meant. So when things got started up again and we found the snakes they weren’t too disturbed.
With the herb gardens it was probably a case of overwatering, and at least now they know not to overwater. The children
were very conscientious with the herb gardens and some of them probably ... you know, slipped them a little extra water
when we weren’t looking. Or maybe ... well, I don’t like to think about sabotage, although it did occur to us. I mean, it
was something that crossed our minds. We were thinking that way probably because before that the gerbils had died, and
the white mice had died, and the salamander ... well, now they know not to carry them around in plastic bags.
Of course we expected the tropical fish to die, that was no surprise. Those numbers, you look at them crooked and they’re
belly-up on the surface. But the lesson plan called for a tropical fish input at that point, there was nothing we could do, it
happens every year, you just have to hurry past it.
We weren’t even supposed to have a puppy.
We weren’t even supposed to have one, it was just a puppy the Murdoch girl found under a Gristede’s truck one day and
she was afraid the truck would run over it when the driver had finished making his delivery, so she stuck it in her
knapsack and brought it to the school with her. So we had this puppy. As soon as I saw the puppy I thought, Oh Christ, I
bet it will live for about two weeks and then... And that’s what it did. It wasn’t supposed to be in the classroom at all,
there’s some kind of regulation about it, but you can’t tell them they can’t have a puppy when the puppy is already there,
right in front of them, running around on the floor and yap yap yapping. They named it Edgar – that is, they named it after
me. They had a lot of fun running after it and yelling, “Here, Edgar! Nice Edgar!” Then they’d laugh like hell. They
enjoyed the ambiguity. I enjoyed it myself. I don’t mind being kidded. They made a little house for it in the supply closet
and all that. I don’t know what it died of. Distemper, I guess. It probably hadn’t had any shots. I got it out of there before
the kids got to school. I checked the supply closet each morning, routinely, because I knew what was going to happen. I
gave it to the custodian.
And then there was this Korean orphan that the class adopted through the Help the Children program, all the kids brought
in a quarter a month, that was the idea. It was an unfortunate thing, the kid’s name was Kim and maybe we adopted him
too late or something. The cause of death was not stated in the letter we got, they suggested we adopt another child instead
and sent us some interesting case histories, but we didn’t have the heart. The class took it pretty hard, they began (I think,
nobody ever said anything to me directly) to feel that maybe there was something wrong with the school. But I don’t think
there’s anything wrong with the school, particularly, I’ve seen better and I’ve seen worse. It was just a run of bad luck.
We had an extraordinary number of parents passing away, for instance. There were I think two heart attacks and two
suicides, one drowning, and four killed together in a car accident. One stroke. And we had the usual heavy mortality rate
among the grandparents, or maybe it was heavier this year, it seemed so. And finally the tragedy.
The tragedy occurred when Matthew Wein and Tony Mavrogordo were playing over where they’re excavating for the
new federal office building. There were all these big wooden beams stacked, you know, at the edge of the excavation.
There’s a court case coming out of that, the parents are claiming that the beams were poorly stacked. I don’t know what’s
true and what’s not. It’s been a strange year.
Prompt: Analyze Barthelme’s depiction of the characters in “The School” as they deal with death. You may wish
to explore point-of-view, detail, and imagery.
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“Everything Is Green” by David Foster Wallace
She says I do not care if you believe me or not, it is the truth, go on and believe what you want to. So it is for sure that
she is lying. When it is the truth she will go crazy trying to get you to believe her. So I feel like I know.
She lights up and looks off away from me, looking sly with her cigarette in light through a wet window, and I can not feel
what to say.
I say Mayfly I can not feel what to do or say or believe you any more. But there is things I know. I know I am older and
you are not. And I give to you all I got to give you, with my hands and my heart both. Everything that is inside me I have
gave you. I have been keeping it together and working steady every day. I have made you the reason I got for what I
always do. I have tried to make a home to give to you, for you to be in, and for it to be nice.
I light up myself and I throw the match in the sink with other matches and dishes and a sponge and such things.
I say Mayfly my heart has been down the road and back for you but I am forty-eight years old. It is time I have got to not
let things just carry me by any more. I got to use some time that is still mine to try to make everything feel right. I got to
try to feel how I need to. In me there is needs which you can not even see any more, because there is too many needs in
you in the way.
She does not say any thing and I look at her window and I can feel that she knows I know about it, and she shifts her self
on my sofa lounger. She brings her legs up underneath her in some shorts.
I say It really does not matter what I seen or what I think I seen. That is not it any more. I know I am older and you are
not. But now I am feeling like there is all of me going in to you and nothing of you is coming back any more.
Her hair is up with a barret and pins and her chin is in her hand, it’s early, she looks like she is dreaming out at the
clean light through the wet window over my sofa lounger.
Everything is green she says. Look how green it all is Mitch. How can you say the things you say you feel like when
everything outside is green like it is.
The window over the sink of my kitchenet is cleaned off from the hard rain last night and it is a morning with sun, it is
still early, and there is a mess of green out. The trees are green and some grass out past the speed bumps is green and
slicked down. But everything is not green. The other trailers are not green, and my card table out with puddles in lines
and beer cans and butts floating in the ash trays is not green, or my truck, or the gravel of the lot, or the big wheel toy
that is on its side under a clothes line without no clothes on it by the next trailer, where the guy has got him some kids.
Everything is green she is saying. She is whispering it and the whisper is not to me no more, I know.
I chuck my smoke and turn hard from the morning outside with the taste of something true in my mouth. I turn hard
toward her in the light on the sofa lounger.
She is looking outside, from where she is sitting, and I look at her, and there is something in me that can not close up, in
that looking. Mayfly has a body. And she is in my morning. This is about my everything. I tell her name.
Prompt: How does the author use point of view, details, and language to characterize Mitch?
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“Birthday Party” by Katherine Brush
They were a couple in their late thirties, and they looked unmistakably married. They sat on the banquette
opposite us in a little narrow restaurant, having dinner. The man had a round, self-satisfied face, with glasses on it; the
woman was fadingly pretty, in a big hat.
There was nothing conspicuous about them, nothing particularly noticeable, until the end of their meal, when it
suddenly became obvious that this was an Occasion—in fact, the husband’s birthday, and the wife had planned a little
surprise for him. It arrived, in the form of a small but glossy birthday cake, with one pink candle burning in the center.
The headwaiter brought it in and placed it before the husband, and meanwhile the violin-and-piano orchestra played
“Happy Birthday to You,” and the wife beamed with shy pride over her little surprise, and such few people as there were
in the restaurant tried to help out with a pattering of applause. It became clear at once that help was needed, because
the husband was not pleased. Instead, he was hotly embarrassed, and indignant at his wife for embarrassing him.
You looked at him and you saw this and you thought, “Oh, now, don’t be like that!” But he was like that, and as
soon as the little cake had been deposited on the table, and the orchestra had finished the birthday piece, and the
general attention had shifted from the man and the woman, I saw him say something to her under his breath—some
punishing thing, quick and curt and unkind. I couldn’t bear to look at the woman then, so I stared at my plate and waited
for quite a long time. Not long enough, though. She was still crying when I finally glanced over there again. Crying quietly
and heartbrokenly and hopelessly, all to herself, under the gay big brim of her best hat.
Prompt: Analyze how the author depicts the husband in the story and his relationship with his wife. You might discuss
point-of-view and choice of details.
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“Popular Mechanics” by Raymond Carver
Early that day the weather turned and the snow was melting into dirty water. Streaks of it ran
down from the little shoulder-high window that faced the backyard. Cars slushed by on the street
outside, where it was getting dark. But it was getting dark on the inside too.
He was in the bedroom pushing clothes into a suitcase when she came to the door.
I’m glad you’re leaving! I’m glad you’re leaving! she said. Do you hear?
He kept on putting his things into the suitcase.
Son of a bitch! I’m so glad you’re leaving! She began to cry. You can’t even look me in the
face, can you?
Then she noticed the baby’s picture on the bed and picked it up.
He looked at her and she wiped her eyes and stared at him before turning and going back to
the living room.
Bring that back, he said.
Just get your things and get out, she said.
He did not answer. He fastened the suitcase, put on his coat, looked around the bedroom
before turning off the light. Then he went out to the living room.
She stood in the doorway of the little kitchen, holding the baby.
I want the baby, he said.
Are you crazy?
No, but I want the baby. I’ll get someone to come for his things.
You’re not touching this baby, she said. The baby had begun to cry and she uncovered the
blanket from around his head.
Oh, oh, she said, looking at the baby.
He moved toward her.
For God’s sake! she said. She took a step back into the kitchen.
I want the baby.
Get out of here!
She turned and tried to hold the baby over in a corner behind the stove.
But he came up. He reached across the stove and tightened his hands on the baby.
Let go of him, he said.
Get away, get away! she cried.
The baby was red-faced and screaming. In the scuffle they knocked down a flowerpot that
hung behind the stove. He crowded her into the wall then, trying to break her grip. He held onto
the baby and pushed with all his weight.
Let go of him, he said.
Don’t, she said. You’re hurting the baby, she said.
I’m not hurting the baby, he said.
The kitchen window gave no light. In the near dark he worked on her fisted fingers with one
hand and with the other hand he gripped the screaming baby up under an arm near the shoulder.
She felt her fingers being forced open. She felt the baby going from her.
No! she screamed just as her hands came loose.
She would have it, this baby. She grabbed for the baby’s other arm. She caught the baby
around the wrist and leaned back.
But he would not let go. He felt the baby slipping out of his hands and he pulled back very
hard.
In this manner, the issue was decided.
Prompt: How does the author develop the characters’ personalities? What influence might
their personalities have on the ending?
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“The Eclipse” by Augusto Monterroso
WHEN BROTHER Bartolome Arrazola felt lost he accepted that nothing could save him anymore. The
powerful Guatemalan jungle had trapped him inexorably and definitively. Before his topographical
ignorance he sat quietly awaiting death. He wanted to die there, hopelessly and alone, with his thoughts
fixed on far-away Spain, particularly on the Los Abrojos convent where Charles the Fifth had once
condescended to lessen his prominence and tell him that he trusted the religious zeal of his redemptive
work.
Upon awakening he found himself surrounded by a group of indifferent natives who were getting
ready to sacrifice him in front of an altar, an altar that to Bartolome seemed to be the place in which he
would finally rest from his fears, his destiny, from himself.
Three years in the land had given him a fair knowledge of the native tongues. He tried
something. He said a few words which were understood.
He then had an idea he considered worthy of his talent, universal culture and steep knowledge of
Aristotle. He remembered that a total eclipse of the sun was expected on that day and in his innermost
thoughts he decided to use that knowledge to deceive his oppressors and save his life.
“If you kill me”–he told them, “I can darken the sun in its heights.”
The natives looked at him fixedly and Bartolome caught the incredulity in their eyes. He saw that a
small counsel was set up and waited confidently, not without some disdain.
Two hours later Brother Bartolome Arrazola’s heart spilled its fiery blood on the sacrificial stone (brilliant
under the opaque light of an eclipsed sun), while one of the natives recited without raising his voice,
unhurriedly, one by one, the infinite dates in which there would be solar and lunar eclipses, that the
astronomers of the Mayan community had foreseen and written on their codices without Aristotle’s
valuable help.
Prompt: Analyze how the author depicts Brother Arrazola. What social commentary is the author
making through this characterization?
“Sleep-over” by Bonnie Jo Campbell
Ed and I were making out by the candlelight on the couch. Pammy was in my bedroom with Ed’s
brother; she wanted to be in the dark because her face was broke out.
“We were wishing your head could be on Pammy’s body,” Ed said. “You two together would make the
perfect girl.”
I took it as a compliment—unlike Pammy I was flat chested. Ed kissed my mouth, throat, collarbone;
he pressed his pelvis into mine. The full moon over the driveway reminded me of a single headlamp or a
giant eyeball. Ed’s tongue was in my ear when Mom’s car lights hit the picture window. Ed slid to the floor
and whistled for his brother who crawled from the bedroom on hands and knees. They scurried out of the
screen door into the backyard and hopped the fence. Pammy and I fixed our clothes and hurriedly dealt a
hand of Michigan rummy by candlelight.
“You girls are going to ruin your eyes,” Mom said, switching on the table lamp. When Mom went to
change her clothes, Pammy whispered that she’d let Ed’s brother go into her pants. Her hair was messed
up, so I smoothed it behind her ear.
“Too bad this isn’t in color,” Pammy said later, when we were watching Frankenstein. While the doctor
was still cobbling together body parts, Pammy fell asleep with her small pretty fee on my lap. I stayed
awake, though, and saw the men from town band together and kill the monster.
Prompt: Analyze the character speaking and her reaction to the events of the night.
“Girl” by Jamaica Kincaid
Wash the white clothes on Monday and put them on the stone heap; wash the color clothes on
Tuesday and put them on the clothesline to dry; don't walk barehead in the hot sun; cook
pumpkin fritters in very hot sweet oil; soak your little cloths right after you take them off; when
buying cotton to make yourself a nice blouse, be sure that it doesn't have gum on it, because
that way it won't hold up well after a wash; soak salt fish overnight before you cook it; is it true
that you sing benna in Sunday school?; always eat your food in such a way that it won't turn
someone else's stomach; on Sundays try to walk like a lady and not like the slut you are so bent
on becoming; don't sing benna in Sunday school; you mustn't speak to wharf–rat boys, not even
to give directions; don't eat fruits on the street—flies will follow you; but I don't sing benna on
Sundays at all and never in Sunday school; this is how to sew on a button; this is how to make
a button–hole for the button you have just sewed on; this is how to hem a dress when you see
the hem coming down and so to prevent yourself from looking like the slut I know you are so
bent on becoming; this is how you iron your father's khaki shirt so that it doesn't have a crease;
this is how you iron your father's khaki pants so that they don't have a crease; this is how you
grow okra—far from the house, because okra tree harbors red ants; when you are growing
dasheen, make sure it gets plenty of water or else it makes your throat itch when you are eating
it; this is how you sweep a corner; this is how you sweep a whole house; this is how you sweep a
yard; this is how you smile to someone you don't like too much; this is how you smile to
someone you don't like at all; this is how you smile to someone you like completely; this is how
you set a table for tea; this is how you set a table for dinner; this is how you set a table for
dinner with an important guest; this is how you set a table for lunch; this is how you set a table
for breakfast; this is how to behave in the presence of men who don't know you very well, and
this way they won't recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming; be sure
to wash every day, even if it is with your own spit; don't squat down to play marbles—you are
not a boy, you know; don't pick people's flowers—you might catch something; don't throw
stones at blackbirds, because it might not be a blackbird at all; this is how to make a bread
pudding; this is how to make doukona; this is how to make pepper pot; this is how to make a
good medicine for a cold; this is how to make a good medicine to throw away a child before it
even becomes a child; this is how to catch a fish; this is how to throw back a fish you don't like,
and that way something bad won't fall on you; this is how to bully a man; this is how a man
bullies you; this is how to love a man; and if this doesn't work there are other ways, and if they
don't work don't feel too bad about giving up; this is how to spit up in the air if you feel like it,
and this is how to move quick so that it doesn't fall on you; this is how to make ends meet;
always squeeze bread to make sure it's fresh; but what if the baker won't let mefeel the bread?;
you mean to say that after all you are really going to be the kind of woman who the baker won't
let near the bread?
Prompt: Analyze the development of the speaker’s character. You may want to consider
point-of-view, diction, syntax, and specific detail.