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1
“Eat, pray, love”
by Elizabeth
Gilbert
2
”England,
England”
by Julian
Barnes
6
7
“Text”
by Carol
Ann Duffy
“Sticky
Brains”
by Nicole
Libin
11
”Happenstance”
by Rita Dove
16
“Success
Story”
by J.G.Cozzens
21
“Rain”
by Don
Paterson
26
“Sticks”
by George
Saunders
12
”Miss Peregrine's
Home for Peculiar
Children”
by Ransom Riggs
17
“Lunch Break”
by Francisco
Aragón
22
“Charlie and
chocolate
factory”
by Roald Dahl
27
“The Veldt”
by Ray
Bradbury
3
”The Doc,
the Cock,
and the Fox”
by Aesop Fable
8
“Bridget
Jone’s Diary”
by Helen
Fielding
13
“Kafka on the
Shore”
by Haruki
Murakami
18
“The Lottery”
by Shirley
Jackson
23
“A good man is
hard to find”
by Flannery
O’Connor
28
“O Captain!
my Captain!”
by Walt
Whitman
4
“The Thursday
Murder Club”
by Richard
Osman
9
“Fire and
Ice” by
Robert
Frost
14
“Good Bones“
by Maggie
Smith
19
“A Fairy Song”
by William
Shakespeare
24
“Cat Person”
by Kristen
Roupenian
29
“The Laughing
Hippopotamus”
by L. Frank Baum
5
“Fight Club”
by Chuck
Palahniuk
10
“Song of
Solomon”
by Toni
Morrison
15
“The Hunger
Games”
by Suzanne
Collins
20
“The Tell -Tale
Heart ”
by Edgar Allan
Poe
25
“Cathedral”
by Raymond
Carver
30
“The Old
Man of the Sea”
by W. W. Jacobs
1
“Eat, pray, love” by Elizabeth Gilbert
261 words
From Intermediate
The first meal I ate in Rome was nothing much. Just some homemade
pasta (spaghetti carbonara) with a side order of sauteed spinach and
garlic. (The great romantic poet Shelley once wrote a horrified letter to a
friend in England about cuisine in Italy: 'Young women of rank actually
eat-you will never guess what-GARLIC!') Also, I had one artichoke, just to
try it; the Romans are awfully proud of their artichokes. Then there was a
pop-surprise bonus side order brought over by the waitress for free-a
serving of fried zucchini blossoms with a soft dab of cheese in the middle
(prepared so delicately that the blossoms probably didn't even notice
they weren't on the vine anymore). After the spaghetti, I tried the veal.
Oh, and also I drank a bottle of house red, just for me. And ate some
warm bread, with olive oil and salt. Tiramisu for dessert.
Walking home after that meal,
around 11:00 PM, I could hear noise
coming from one of the buildings on
my street, something that sounded
like a convention of seven-year-oldsa birthday party, maybe? Laughter
and screaming and running around. I
climbed the stairs to my apartment,
lay down in my new bed and turned
off the light. I waited to start crying or
worrying, since that's what usually
happened to me with the lights off,
but I actually felt OK. I felt fine. I felt
the early symptoms of contentment.
My weary body asked my weary
mind: 'Was this all you needed,
then?'
There was no response. I was
already fast asleep.
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5
2
”England, England” by Julian Barnes
133 words
From Intermediate
Pa-pa-pa pum pum pum. Where would Betthoven be if he were living
today? Rich, famous, and under a good doctor, that’s where. What a
shambles it must have been that December night in Vienna. 1808, if
memory serves. Bloody hopeless patrons, under-rehearsed players, a
dim and shivering audience. And which bright spark imagined it a good
idea to premiere the Fifth and the mighty Pastoral on the same night?
Plus the fourth concerto? Plus the Choral Fantasia. Four hours in an
unheated hall. No wonder it was a disaster. Nowadays, with a decent
agent, a diligent manager - or better still, with an enlightened patron who
might dispel the need for these grubbing ten-percenters… A figure who
would insist on adequate rehearsal time. Sir Jack felt for the mighty
Ludwig, he truly did. Pa-pa-pa-pum-diddy-um.
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7
3
”The Dog, the Cock, and the Fox” by Aesop Fable
307 words
From Pre-Intermediate
A Dog and a Cock, who were the best of friends, wished very much to
see something of the world. So they decided to leave the farmyard and
to set out into the world along the road that led to the woods. The two
comrades traveled along in the very best of spirits and without meeting
any adventure to speak of.
At nightfall the Cock, looking for a place to roost, as was his custom,
spied nearby a hollow tree that he thought would do very nicely for a
night’s lodging. The Dog could creep inside and the Cock would fly up on
one of the branches. So said, so done, and both slept very comfortably.
With the first glimmer of dawn the Cock awoke. For the moment he
forgot just where he was. He thought he was still in the farmyard where
it had been his duty to arouse the household at daybreak. So standing on
tip-toes he flapped his wings and crowed lustily. But instead of
awakening the farmer, he awakened a Fox not far off in the wood. The
Fox immediately had rosy visions of a very delicious breakfast. Hurrying
to the tree where the Cock was roosting, he said very politely:
“A hearty welcome to our woods,
honored sir. I cannot tell you how glad I
am to see you here. I am quite sure we
shall become the closest of friends.”
“I feel highly flattered, kind sir,”
replied the Cock slyly. “If you will please
go around to the door of my house at the
foot of the tree, my porter will let you in.”
The hungry but unsuspecting Fox, went
around the tree as he was told, and in a
twinkling the Dog had seized him.
Those who try to deceive may expect
to be paid n their own coin.
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4
“The Thursday Murder Club” by Richard Osman
196 words
From Intermediate
I think before I moved in I might have found this whole conversation
unusual, but it is pretty par for the course once you get to know
everyone here. Last week I met the man who invented Mint Choc Chip
ice cream, or so he tells it. I don’t really have any way of checking.
I was glad to have helped Elizabeth in my small way, so decided I
might ask a favour. I asked if there was any way I could take a look at
the picture of the corpse. Just out of professional interest.
Elizabeth beamed, the way people around here beam when you ask to
look at pictures of their grandchildren graduating. She slipped an A4
photocopy out of her folder, laid it, face down, in front of me and told me
to keep it, as they all had copies.
I told her that was very kind of her, and
she said not at all, but she wondered if
she could ask me one final question.
‘Of course,’ I said.
Then she said, ‘Are you ever free on
Thursdays?’
And, that, believe it or not, was the
first I had heard of Thursdays.
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11
5
“Fight Club” by Chuck Palahniuk
163 words
From Intermediate
Fight club is the basement of a bar, now, after the bar closes on
Saturday night, and every week you go and there’s more guys there.
Tyler gets under the one light in the middle of the black concrete
basement and he can see that light flickering back out of the dark in a
hundred pairs of eyes. First thing Tyler yells is “The first rule of fight club
is you don’t talk about fight club. The second rule about fight club, Tyler
yells, ‘is you don’t talk about fight club.”
Me, knew my dad for about six years, but I don;t remember anything.
My dad starts a new family in a new town about every six years. This isn’t
so much like a family in a new town about every six years.This isn’t so
much like a family as it’s like he sets up a franchise.
What you see at fight club is a generation of men raised by women.
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13
6
“Text” by Carol Ann Duffy
57 words
From Intermediate
I tend the mobile now
like an injured bird
We text, text, text
Our significant words
I re-read your first
your second, your third
look for small xx,
feeling absurd.
The codes we send
arrive with the broken chord.
I try to picture your hands
their image is blurred.
Nothing my thumbs press
will ever be heard.
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7
“Sticky brains” by Nicole Libin
486 words
From Pre-Intermediate
Aria was feeling bad. Really bad. She didn’t feel like playing at all even
when her best friend Zara had come.
“What’s wrong?”, asked Zara.
“This was the worst week ever! Everything was awful”.
“Wow”, Zara said. “What happened?”
Aria started to explain, getting madder and madder as she talked. She
felt like her head was going to burst! “On Monday I broke my new laces.
On Tuesday I fell off my bike. On Wednesday I made a mess of my favorite
shirt. On Thursday, I brought my new race in for show and tell, but Max
had the same car and he showed everyone before I got to. On Friday my
mom worked late, so I had to stay at school for an extra hour! My whole
week was Bad!”
Zara looked puzzled. “Wait, I was with you for most of that. You broke
your laces on Monday but you also got new shoes with lightning bolts on
them. You fell off your bike on Tuesday, because you were trying to ride
with no hands and you did it! You dropped ice-cream on your shirt on
Wednesday but your dad said you could clean it. On Thursday you and
Max were playing together with your cars all recess. Even the big kids
watched. And I thought your mom worked late Friday so she could take
you camping over the weekend. See, the week wasn’t all bad”.
“Yeah, I guess I have to go in now. See you later”. Aria was feeling
confused! She went into the house and found her mom. “Mom, I think
there is something wrong with me. I only remember the bad stuff that
happens. It makes me feel like I’m bad too”.
Her mom gave her a hug. “Oh sweetheart, that sounds very frustrating.
And can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure.”
“I sometimes feel that way too.”
“Really?”
“Yes. So does your dad. Almost everyone feels like that some of the
time.”
16
Her mom started to explain. “A long, long time ago… People really
needed to watch out for scary things. If they didn’t notice a mean tiger,
they could be in danger. But if they missed the good stuff, like a juicy
orange or beautiful sunset, they would still be okay. So our brain learned
to focus on the bad stuff because that’s what helped us stay safe.
But bad thoughts are like glue. They stick to us.
Even if we don’t want them to. This can make us feel like everything
is bad or even that we’re bad too.
So, bad things are stickier than good ones? asked Aria.
Yes, replied her mom. The stuff we think is bad, scary, or sad is really
sticky. Our brains see it more and remember it longer. So, it’s not just
you who sees the bad more than the good. Everyone gets stuck
sometimes”.
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18
8
“Bridget Jone's Diary” by Helen Fielding
95 words
From Intermediate
New Year’s Resolutions. I will not. Drink more than fourteen alcohol
units a week. Smoke. Waste money on. Waste money on: pasta-makers,
ice-cream machines or other culinary devices which will never use;
books by unreadable literary authors to put impressively on shelves;
exotic underwear, since pointless as having no boyfriend.
Behave slutishly around the house but instead imagine others are
watching. Spend more than earn. Allow in-tray to rage out of control. Fall
for any of the following: alcoholics, workaholics, commitment phobics,
people with girlfriends and wifes, misogynists, megalomaniacs,
chauvinists, emotional fuckwits or freeloaders, perverts.
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9
“Fire and Ice” by Robert Frost
51 words
From Intermediate
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
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22
10
“Song of Solomon” by Toni Morrison
255 words
From Intermediate
“You think because he doesn’t love you that you are worthless. You
think that because he doesn’t want you anymore that he is right — that
his judgement and opinion of you are correct. If he throws you out, then
you are garbage. You think he belongs to you because you want to belong
to him. Don’t. It’s a bad word, ‘belong.’ Especially when you put it with
somebody you love. Love shouldn’t be like that. Did you ever see the way
the clouds love a mountain? They circle all around it; sometimes you
can’t even see the mountain for the clouds. But you know what? You go
up top and what do you see? His head. The clouds never cover the head.
His head pokes through, beacuse the clouds let him; they don’t wrap him
up. They let him keep his head up high, free, with nothing to hide him or
bind him. You can’t own a human being. You can’t lose what you don’t
own. Suppose you did own him. Could you really love somebody who was
absolutely nobody without you? Do you really want somebody like that?
Somebody who falls apart when
you walk out the door? You don’t, do
you? And neither does he. You’re
turning over your whole life to him.
Your whole life, girl. And if it means
so little to you that you can just give
it away, hand it to him, then why
should it mean any more to him? He
can’t value you more than you value
yourself.”
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11
“Happenstance” by Rita Dove
58 words
From Intermediate
When you appeared it was as if
magnets cleared the air.
I had never seen that smile before
or your hair, flying silver. Someone
waving goodbye, she was silver, too.
Of course you didn’t see me.
I called softly so you could choose
not to answer—then called again.
You turned in the light, your eyes
seeking your name.
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12
“Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children”
by Ransom Riggs
422 words
From Intermediate
“You’ve been on the island for several days now,” Miss Peregrine said.
“Why have you dawdled so long before paying us a visit?”
“I didn’t know you were here,” I said. “How’d you know I was?”
“I’ve been watching you. You’ve seen me as well, though perhaps you
didn’t realize it. I had assumed my alternate form.” She reached up and
pulled a long gray feather from her hair. “It’s vastly preferable to assume
the shape of a bird when observing humans,” she explained.
My jaw dropped. “That was you in my room this morning?” I said. “The
hawk?”
“The falcon,” she corrected. “A peregrine, naturally.”
“Then it’s true!” I said. “You are the Bird!”
“It’s a moniker I tolerate but do not encourage,” she replied. “Now, to
my question,” continued Miss Peregrine. “What on earth were you
searching for in that depressing old wreck of a house?”
“You,” I replied, and her eyes widened a bit. “I didn’t know how to find
you. I only figured out yesterday that you were all—”
And then I paused, realizing how strange my next words would sound.
“I didn’t realize you were dead.”
She flashed me a tight smile. “My goodness. Hasn’t your grandfather
told you anything about his old friends?”
“Some things. But for a long time I thought they were fairy tales.”
“I see,” she replied.
“I hope that doesn’t offend you.”
“It’s a little surprising, that’s all. But in general that is how we prefer to
be thought of, for it tends to keep away unwanted visitors. These days
fewer and fewer people believe in those things—fairies and goblins and
all such nonsense—and thus common folk no longer make much of an
effort to seek us out. That makes our lives a good bit easier. Ghost
stories and scary old houses have served us well, too—though not,
apparently, in your case.” She smiled. “Lion-heartedness must run in
your family.”
27
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said with a nervous laugh, though in truth I felt as if
I might pass out at any moment.
“In any case, as regards this place,” she said, gesturing grandly. “As a
child you believed your grandfather was ‘making it all up,’ as they say?
Feeding you a great walloping pack of lies. Is that right?”
“Not lies exactly, but—”
“Fictions, whoppers, paradiddles—whatever terminology you like.
When did you realize Abraham was telling you the truth?”
“Well,” I said, staring at the labyrinth of interlocking patterns woven
into the carpet, “I guess I’m just realizing it now.”
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13
“Kafka On The Shore” by Haruki Murakami
263 words
From Intermediate
“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing
directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn
again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some
ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm
isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to
do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do
is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging
up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step.
There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine
white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind
of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical,
symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be,
make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor
blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood.
You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of
others.
And once the storm is over you
won’t remember how you made it
through, how you managed to
survive. You won’t even be sure, in
fact, whether the storm is really
over. But one thing is certain. When
you come out of the storm you
won’t be the same person who
walked in. That’s what this storm’s
all about.”
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14
“Good Bones“ by Maggie Smith
140 words
From Intermediate
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
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15
“The Hunger Games” by Suzanne Collins
70 words
From Intermediate
‘The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment for the
uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy,
called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four tributes will be
imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a
burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks,
the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.’
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16
”Success Story” by J. G. Cozzens
702 words
From Upper-Intermediate
I met Richards ten or more years ago when I first went down to Cuba.
He was a short, sharp-faced, agreeable chap, then about 22. He
introduced himself to me on the boat and I was surprised to find that
Panamerica Steel was sending us both to the same job.
Richards was from some not very good state university engineering
school. Being the same age myself, and just out of technical college I saw
at once that his knowledge was rather poor. In fact I couldn't imagine how
he had managed to get this job.
Richards was naturally likable, and I liked him a lot. The firm had a
contract for the construction of a private railroad. For Richards and me it
was mostly an easy job of inspections and routine paperwork. At least it
was easy for me. It was harder for Richards, because he didn't appear to
have mastered the use of a slide rule. When he asked me to check his
figures I found his calculations awful. "Boy," I was at last obliged to say,
"you are undoubtedly the silliest white man in this province. Look, stupid,
didn't you evertake arithmetic? How much are seven times thirteen?"
"Work that out," Richards said, "and let me have a report tomorrow."
So when I had time I checked his figures for him, and the inspector only
caught him in a bad mistake about twice. In January several directors of
the United Sugar Company came down to us on business, but mostly for
pleasure; a good excuse to 'get south on a vacation. Richards and I were
to accompany them around the place. One of the directors, Mr. Prosset,
was asking a number of questions. I knew the job well enough to answer
every sensible question – the sort of question that a trained engineer
would be likely to ask. As it was Mr. Prosset was not an engineer and
some of his questions put me at a loss. For the third time I was obliged to
say, "I'm afraid I don't know, sir. We haven't done any calculations on
that".
When suddenly Richards spoke up. "I think, about nine million cubic
feet, sir", he said. "I just happened to be working this out last night. Just
for my own interest".
36
"Oh," said Mr. Prosset, turning in his seat and giving him a sharp look.
"That's very interesting, Mr. -er- Richards, isn't it? Well, now, maybe you
could tell me about".
Richards could. Richards knew everything. All the way up Mr. Prosset
fired questions on him and he fired answers right back. When we reached
the head of the rail, a motor was waiting for Mr. Prosset. He nodded
absent-mindedly to me, shook hands with Richards.
"Very interesting, indeed," he said. "Good-bye, Mr. Richards, and thank you."
"Not, at all, sir," Richards said. "Glad if I could be of service to you."
As soon as the car moved off, I exploded. "A little honest bluff doesn't
hurt; but some of your figures...!"
"I like to please," said Richards grinning. "If a man like Prosset wants to
know something, who am I to hold out on him?"
"What's he going to think when he looks up the figures or asks somebody
who does know?"
"Listen, my son," said Richards kindly. "He wasn't asking for any
information he was going to use. He doesn't want to know these figures.
He won't remember them. I don't even remember them myself. What he
is going to remember is you and me."
"Yes," said Richards firmly. "He is going to
remember that Panamerica Steel has a
bright young man named Richards who
could tell him everything, he wanted, – just
the sort of chap he can use; not like that
other fellow who took no interest in his
work, couldn't answer the simplest question
and who is going to be doing small-time
contracting all his life."
It is true. I am still working for the
Company, still doing a little work for the
construction line. And Richards? I happened
to read in a newspaper a few weeks ago that
Richards had been made a vice-president
and director of Pan American Steel when
the Prosset group bought the old firm.
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17
”Lunch Break” by Francisco Aragón
79 words
From Intermediate
Two hours between classes.
The short Metro ride home.
Coffee table, plates, glasses,
the TV flickering afternoon
news, sometimes a car bomb…
And in the kitchen the singular tune
of his voice, his jokes, recounting this
or that—plot of a novel, book
he’s put down, I bought for his
monthly fix (how he’d love
reading in the park what I took
half an hour to choose). Above
all, the sofa: digestion a nap,
my head nestled in his lap.
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18
“The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson
397 words
From Intermediate
The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth
of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the
grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the
square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o’clock; in some
towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had
to be started on June 26th, but in this village, where there were only
about three hundred people, the whole lottery took only about two hours,
so it could begin at ten o’clock in the morning and still be through in time
to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.
The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for
the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they
tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into
boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher,
of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets
full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting
the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie
Delacroix—the villagers pronounced this name “Dellacroy”—eventually
made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it
against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among
themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small
children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or
sisters.
Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking
of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from
the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they
smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses
and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one
another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands.
Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their
children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or
five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother’s grasping hand and
ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and
Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest
brother.
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19
“A Fairy Song” by William Shakespeare
77 words
From Intermediate
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire!
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;
And I serve the Fairy Queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green;
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours;
In those freckles live their savours;
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
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20
“The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe by Edgar Allan Poe
191 words
From Intermediate
True! — nervous — very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am;
but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my
senses — not destroyed — not dulled them. Above all was the sense of
hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard
many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how
healthily — how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once
conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion
there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had
never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye!
yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture — a pale blue
eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and
so by degrees — very gradually — I made up my mind to take the life of
the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
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21
“Rain” by Don Paterson
184 words
From Intermediate
I love all films that start with rain:
rain, braiding a windowpane
or darkening a hung-out dress
or streaming down her upturned face;
one long thundering downpour
right through the empty script and score
before the act, before the blame,
before the lens pulls through the frame
to where the woman sits alone
beside a silent telephone
or the dress lies ruined on the grass
or the girl walks off the overpass,
and all things flow out from that source
along their fatal watercourse.
However bad or overlong
such a film can do no wrong,
so when his native twang shows through
or when the boom dips into view
or when her speech starts to betray
its adaptation from the play,
I think to when we opened cold
on a rain-dark gutter, running gold
with the neon of a drugstore sign,
and I’d read into its blazing line:
forget the ink, the milk, the blood—
all was washed clean with the flood
we rose up from the falling waters
the fallen rain’s own sons and daughters
and none of this, none of this matters.
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22
“Charlie and chocolate factory” by Roald Dahl
411 words
From Pre-Intermediate
These two very old people are the father and mother of Mr Bucket.
Their names are Grandpa Joe and Grandma Josephine. And these two
very old people are the father and mother of Mrs Bucket. Their names
are Grandpa George and Grandma Georgina.
This is Mr Bucket. This is Mrs Bucket. Mr and Mrs Bucket have a small
boy whose name is Charlie Bucket. This is Charlie.
How d'you do? And how d'you do? And how d'you do again? He is
pleased to meet you.
The whole of this family - the six grown-ups (count them) and little
Charlie Bucket - live together in a small wooden house on the edge of a
great town.
The house wasn't nearly large enough for so many people, and life was
extremely uncomfortable for them all. There were only two rooms in the
place altogether, and there was only one bed. The bed was given to the
four old grandparents because they were so old and tired. They were so
tired, they never got out of it.
Grandpa Joe and Grandma Josephine on this side, Grandpa George and
Grandma Georgina on this side.
Mr and Mrs Bucket and little Charlie Bucket slept in the other room,
upon mattresses on the floor. In the summertime, this wasn't too bad, but
in the winter, freezing cold draughts blew across the floor all night long,
and it was awful.
There wasn't any question of them being able to buy a better house - or
even one more bed to sleep in. They were far too poor for that. Mr Bucket
was the only person in the family with a job. He worked in a toothpaste
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Factory, where he sat all day long at a bench and screwed the little
caps on to the tops of the tubes of toothpaste after the tubes had been
filled. But a toothpaste cap-screwer is never paid very much money, and
poor Mr Bucket, however hard he worked, and however fast he screwed
on the caps, was never able to make enough to buy one half of the things
that so large a family needed. There wasn't even enough money to buy
proper food for them all. The only meals they could afford were bread
and margarine for breakfast, boiled potatoes and cabbage for lunch, and
cabbage soup for supper. Sundays were a bit better. They all looked
forward to Sundays because then, although they had exactly the same,
everyone was allowed a second helping.
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23
“A good man is hard to find” by Flannery O’Connor
304 words
From Intermediate
The grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida. She wanted to visit some
of her connections in east Tennessee and she was seizing at every chance
to change Bailey’s mind. Bailey was the son she lived with, her only boy.
He was sitting on the edge of his chair at the table, bent over the orange
sports section of the Journal. “Now look here, Bailey,” she said, “see
here, read this,” and she stood with one hand on her thin hip and the
other rattling the newspaper at his bald head. “Here this fellow that calls
himself The Misfit is a loose from the Federal Pen and headed toward
Florida and you read here what it says he did to these people. Just read it.
I wouldn’t take my children in any direction with a criminal like that
aloose in it. I couldn’t answer to my conscience if I did.”
Bailey didn’t look up from his reading so she wheeled around then and
faced the children’s mother, a young woman in slacks, whose face was as
broad and innocent as a cabbage and was tied around with a green headkerchief that had two points on the top like rabbit’s ears. She was sitting
on the sofa, feeding the baby his apricots out of a jar. “The children have
been to Florida before,” the old lady said. “You all ought to take them
somewhere else for a change so they would see different parts of the
world and be broad. They never have been to east Tennessee.”
The children’s mother didn’t seem
to hear her but the eight-year-old
boy, John Wesley, a stocky child with
glasses, said, “If you don’t want to
go to Florida, why dontcha stay at
home?” He and the little girl, June
Star, were reading the funny papers
on the floor.
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24
“Cat Person” by Kristen Roupenian
304 words
From Upper-Intermediate
Margot met Robert on a Wednesday night toward the end of her fall
semester. She was working behind the concession stand at the artsy
movie theatre downtown when he came in and bought a large popcorn
and a box of Red Vines.
“That’s an . . . unusual choice,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually
sold a box of Red Vines before.”
Flirting with her customers was a habit she’d picked up back when she
worked as a barista, and it helped with tips. She didn’t earn tips at the
movie theatre, but the job was boring otherwise, and she did think that
Robert was cute. Not so cute that she would have, say, gone up to him at
a party, but cute enough that she could have drummed up an imaginary
crush on him if he’d sat across from her during a dull class—though she
was pretty sure that he was out of college, in his mid-twenties at least.
He was tall, which she liked, and she could see the edge of a tattoo
peeking out from beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. But he was on
the heavy side, his beard was a little too long, and his shoulders slumped
forward slightly, as though he were protecting something.
Robert did not pick up on her flirtation. Or, if he did, he showed it only
by stepping back, as though to make her lean toward him, try a little
harder. “Well,” he said. “O.K., then.” He pocketed his change.
But the next week he came into the movie theatre again, and bought
another box of Red Vines. “You’re getting better at your job,” he told her.
“You managed not to insult me this time.”
She shrugged. “I’m up for a promotion, so,” she said.
After the movie, he came back to her. “Concession-stand girl, give me
your phone number,” he said, and, surprising herself, she did.
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25
“Cathedral” by Raymond Carver
349 words
From Upper-Intermediate
This blind man, an old friend of my wife’s, he was on his way to spend
the night. His wife had died. So he was visiting the dead wife’s relatives in
Connecticut. He called my wife from his in-law’s. Arrangements were
made. He would come by train, a five-hour trip, and my wife would meet
him at the station. She hadn’t seen him since she worked for him one
summer in Seattle ten years ago. But she and the blind man had kept in
touch. They made tapes and mailed them back and forth. I wasn’t
enthusiastic about his visit. He was no one I knew. And his being blind
bothered me. My idea of blindness came from the movies. In the movies,
the blind moved slowly and never laughed. Sometimes they were led by
seeing- eye dogs. A blind man in my house was not something I looked
forward to.
That summer in Seattle she had needed a job. She didn’t have any
money. The man she was going to marry at the end of the summer was in
officers’ training school. He didn’t have any money, either. But she was in
love with the guy, and he was in love with her, etc. She’d seen something
in the paper: HELP WANTED—Reading to Blind Man, and a telephone
number. She phoned and went over, was hired on the spot. She worked
with this blind man all summer. She read stuff to him, case studies,
reports, that sort of thing. She helped him organize his little office in the
county social- service department.
They’d become good friends, my wife
and the blind man. On her last day in the
office, the blind man asked if he could
touch her face. She agreed to this. She
told me he touched his fingers to every
part of her face, her nose—even her neck!
She never forgot it. She even tried to write
a poem about it. She was always trying to
write a poem. She wrote a poem or two
every year, usually after something really
important had happened to her.
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26
“Sticks” by George Saunders
392 words
From Upper-Intermediate
Every year Thanksgiving night we flocked out behind Dad as he dragged
the Santa suit to the road and draped it over a kind of crucifix he'd built
out of metal pole in the yard. Super Bowl week the pole was dressed in a
jersey and Rod's helmet and Rod had to clear it with Dad if he wanted to
take the helmet off. On the Fourth of July the pole was Uncle Sam, on
Veteran’s Day a soldier, on Halloween a ghost. The pole was Dad's only
concession to glee. We were allowed a single Crayola from the box at a
time. One Christmas Eve he shrieked at Kimmie for wasting an apple
slice. He hovered over us as we poured ketchup saying: good enough
good enough good enough. Birthday parties consisted of cupcakes, no ice
cream. The first time I brought a date over she said: what's with your dad
and that pole? and I sat there blinking.
We left home, married, had children of our own, found the seeds of
meanness blooming also within us. Dad began dressing the pole with
more complexity and less discernible logic. He draped some kind of fur
over it on Groundhog Day and lugged out a floodlight to ensure a shadow.
When an earthquake struck Chile he lay the pole on its side and spray
painted a rift in the earth. Mom died and he dressed the pole as Death
and hung from the crossbar photos of Mom as a baby. We'd stop by and
find odd talismans from his youth arranged around the base: army
medals, theater tickets, old sweatshirts, tubes of Mom's makeup.
One autumn he painted the pole bright yellow. He covered it with cotton
swabs that winter for warmth and provided offspring by hammering in six
crossed sticks around the yard. He ran lengths of string between the pole
and the sticks, and taped to the string letters of apology, admissions of
error, pleas for understanding, all written in a frantic hand on index
cards. He painted a sign saying LOVE and hung it from the pole and
another that said FORGIVE? and then he died in the hall with the radio on
and we sold the house to a young couple who yanked out the pole and the
sticks and left them by the road on garbage day.
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27
“The Veldt” by Ray Bradbury
172 words
From Upper-Intermediate
“George, I wish you’d look at the nursery.” “What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, then.”
(The Saturday Evening Post, 1950)
“I just want you to look at it, is all, or call a psychologist in to look at it.”
“What would a psychologist want with a nursery?”
“You know very well what he’d want.” His wife paused in the middle of the
kitchen and watched the stove busy humming to itself, making supper for
four.
“It’s just that the nursery is different now than it was.”
“All right, let’s have a look.”
They walked down the hall of their
soundproofed Happylife Home, which had
cost them thirty thousand dollars installed,
this house which clothed and fed and
rocked them to sleep and played and sang
and was good to them. Their approach
sensitized a switch somewhere and the
nursery light flicked on when they came
within ten feet of it. Similarly, behind them,
in the halls, lights went on and off as they
left them behind, with a soft automaticity.
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28
“O Captain! my Captain!” by Walt Whitman
66 words
From Upper-Intermediate
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen, cold and dead…
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29
“The Laughing Hippopotamus” by L. Frank Baum
256 words
From Upper-Intermediate
On one of the upper branches of the Congo river lived an ancient and
aristocratic family of hippopotamuses, which boasted a pedigree dating
back beyond the days of Noah--beyond the existence of mankind--far into
the dim ages when the world was new.
They had always lived upon the banks of this same river, so that every
curve and sweep of its waters, every pit and shallow of its bed, every rock
and stump and wallow upon its bank was as familiar to them as their own
mothers. And they are living there yet, I suppose.
Not long ago the queen of this tribe of hippopotamuses had a child
which she named Keo, because it was so fat and round. Still, that you may
not be misled, I will say that in the hippopotamus language "Keo,"
properly translated, means "fat and lazy" instead of fat and round.
However, no one called the queen's attention to this error, because her
tusks were monstrous long and sharp, and she thought Keo the sweetest
baby in the world.
He was, indeed, all right for a
hippopotamus. He rolled and played
in the soft mud of the river bank,
and waddled inland to nibble the
leaves of the wild cabbage that grew
there, and was happy and contented
from morning till night. And he was
the jolliest hippopotamus that
ancient family had ever known. His
little red eyes were forever
twinkling with fun, and he laughed
his merry laugh on all occasions,
whether there was anything to
laugh at or not.
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30
“The Old Man of the Sea” by W. W. Jacobs
337 words
From Upper-Intermediate
"What I want you to do," said Mr. George Wright, as he leaned towards
the old sailor, "is to be an uncle to me."
"Aye, aye," said the mystified Mr. Kemp, pausing with a mug of beer
midway to his lips.
"A rich uncle," continued the young man, lowering his voice to prevent
any keen ears in the next bar from acquiring useless knowledge. "An
uncle from New Zealand, who is going to leave me all 'is money."
"Where's it coming from?" demanded Mr. Kemp, with a little
excitement.
"It ain't coming," was the reply. "You've only got to say you've got it.
Fact of the matter is, I've got my eye on a young lady; there's another
chap after 'er too, and if she thought I'd got a rich uncle it might make all
the difference. She knows I 'ad an uncle that went to New Zealand and
was never heard of since. That's what made me think of it."
Mr. Kemp drank his beer in thoughtful silence. "How can I be a rich
uncle without any brass?" he inquired at length.
"I should 'ave to lend you some--a little," said Mr. Wright.
The old man pondered. "I've had money lent me before," he said,
candidly, "but I can't call to mind ever paying it back. I always meant to,
but that's as far as it got."
"It don't matter," said the other. "It'll only be for a little while, and then
you'll 'ave a letter calling you back to New Zealand. See? And you'll go
back, promising to come home in a year's time, after you've wound up
your business, and leave us all your money. See?"
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Mr. Kemp scratched the back of his neck. "But she's sure to find it out
in time," he objected.
"P'r'aps," said Mr. Wright. "And p'r'aps not. There'll be plenty of time
for me to get married before she does, and you could write back and say
you had got married yourself, or given your money to a hospital."
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