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It’s Transitive Verb Day!
1. From “Bullet in the Brain” by Tobias Wolff
The bullet smashed Anders' skull and ploughed through his brain and exited behind his right ear, scattering shards of bone into the cerebral cortex, the
corpus callosum, back toward the basal ganglia, and down into the thalamus. But before all this occurred, the first appearance of the bullet in the cerebrum
set off a crackling chain of ion transports and neurotransmissions. Because of their peculiar origin these traced a peculiar patter, flukishly calling to life a
summer afternoon some forty years past, and long since lost to memory. After striking the cranium the bullet was moving at 900 feet per second, a
pathetically sluggish, glacial pace compared to the synaptic lighting that flashed around it. Once in the brain, that is, the bullet came under the mediation of
brain time, which gave Anders plenty of leisure to contemplate the scene that, in a phrase he would have abhorred, "passed before his eyes."
2. From Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
The door opened. Slim came in, followed by Curley and Carlson and
Whit. Slim’s hands were black with tar and he was scowling. Curley hung
close to his elbow.
Curley said, “Well, I didn’t mean nothing, Slim. I just ast you.”
Slim said, “Well, you been askin’ me too often. I’m gettin’ God damn
sick of it. If you can’t look after your own God damn wife, what you
expect me to do about it? You lay offa me.”
“I’m jus’ tryin’ to tell you I didn’t mean nothing,” said Curley. “I jus’
thought you might of saw her.”
“Why’n’t you tell her to stay the hell home where she belongs?” said
Carlson. “You let her hang around bunk houses and pretty soon you’re
gonna have som’pin on your hands and you won’t be able to do nothing
about it.”
Curley whirled on Carlson. “You keep outa this les’ you wanta step
outside.”
Carlson laughed. “You God damn punk,” he said. “You tried to throw a
scare into Slim, an’ you couldn’t make it stick. Slim throwed a scare into
you. You’re yella as a frog belly. I don’t care if you’re the best welter in
the country. You come for me, an’ I’ll kick your God damn head off.”
Candy joined the attack with joy. “Glove fulla vaseline,” he said
disgustedly. Curley glared at him. His eyes slipped on past and lighted
on Lennie; and Lennie was still smiling with delight at the memory of
the ranch.
Curley stepped over to Lennie like a terrier. “What the hell you laughin’
at?”
Lennie looked blankly at him. “Huh?”
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Then Curley’s rage exploded. “Come on, ya big bastard. Get up on your
feet. No big son-of-a-bitch is gonna laugh at me. I’ll show ya who’s
yella.”
Lennie looked helplessly at George, and then he got up and tried to
retreat. Curley was balanced and poised. He slashed at Lennie with his
left, and then smashed down his nose with a right. Lennie gave a cry of
terror. Blood welled from his nose. “George,” he cried. “Make ‘um let
me alone, George.” He backed until he was against the wall, and Curley
followed, slugging him in the face. Lennie’s hands remained at his sides;
he was too frightened to defend himself.
George was on his feet yelling, “Get him, Lennie. Don’t let him do it.”
Lennie covered his face with his huge paws and bleated with terror. He
cried, “Make ‘um stop, George.” Then Curley attacked his stomach and
cut off his wind.
Slim jumped up. “The dirty little rat,” he cried, “I’ll get ‘um myself.”
George put out his hand and grabbed Slim. “Wait a minute,” he
shouted. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Get ‘im,
Lennie!”
Lennie took his hands away from his face and looked about for George,
and Curley slashed at his eyes. The big face was covered with blood.
George yelled again, “I said get him.”
Curley’s fist was swinging when Lennie reached for it. The next minute
Curley was flopping like a fish on a line, and his closed fist was lost in
Lennie’s big hand. George ran down the room. “Leggo of him, Lennie.
Let go.”
But Lennie watched in terror the flopping little man whom he held.
Blood ran down Lennie’s face, one of his eyes was cut and closed.
George slapped him in the face again and again, and still Lennie held on
to the closed fist. Curley was white and shrunken by now, and his
struggling had become weak. He stood crying, his fist lost in Lennie’s
paw.
George shouted over and over. “Leggo his hand, Lennie. Leggo. Slim,
come help me while the guy got any hand left.”
Suddenly Lennie let go his hold. He crouched cowering against the wall.
“You tol’ me to, George,” he said miserably.
Curley sat down on the floor, looking in wonder at his crushed hand.
Slim and Carlson bent over him. Then Slim straightened up and
regarded Lennie with horror. “We got to get him in to a doctor,” he said.
“Looks to me like ever’ bone in his han’ is bust.”
“I didn’t wanta,” Lennie cried. “I didn’t wanta hurt him.”
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3. From Lord of the Flies by William Golding
The bushes crashed ahead of them. Boys flung themselves wildly from the
pig track and scrabbled in the creepers, screaming. Ralph saw Jack nudged
aside and fall. Then there was a creature bounding along the pig track
toward him, with tusks gleaming and an intimidating grunt. Ralph found he
was able to measure the distance coldly and take aim. With the boar only
five yards away, he flung the foolish wooden stick that he carried, saw it hit
the great snout and hang there for a moment. The boar's note changed to a
squeal and it swerved aside into the covert. The pig-run filled with shouting
boys again, Jack came running back, and poked about in the undergrowth.
"Through here--"
"But he'd do us!"
"Through here, I said--"
The boar was floundering away from them. They found another pigrun parallel to the first and Jack raced away. Ralph was full of fright and
apprehension and pride.
"I hit him! The spear stuck in--"
Now they came, unexpectedly, to an open space by the sea. Jack
cast about on the bare rock and looked anxious.
He felt the need of witnesses.
"Didn't you see me?"
Maurice nodded.
"I saw you. Right bang on his snout--Wheee!"
Ralph talked on, excitedly.
"I hit him all right. The spear stuck in. I wounded him!"
He sunned himself in their new respect and felt that hunting was
good after all.
"I walloped him properly. That was the beast, I think!" Jack came
back.
"That wasn't the beast. That was a boar."
"I hit him."
"Why didn't you grab him? I tried--"
Ralph's voice ran up.
"But a boar!"
"He's gone."
Jack flushed suddenly.
"I hit him," said Ralph again, "and the spear stuck in a bit."
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"You said he'd do us. What did you want to throw for? Why didn't
you wait?
He held out his arm.
"Look."
He turned his left forearm for them all to see. On the outside was a
rip; not much, but bloody.
"He did that with his tusks. I couldn't get my spear down in time."
Attention focused on Jack.
"That's a wound," said Simon, "and you ought to suck it. Like
Berengaria."
Jack sucked.
"I hit him," said Ralph indignantly. "I hit him with my spear, I
wounded him."
He tried for their attention.
"He was coming along the path. I threw, like this--"
Robert snarled at him. Ralph entered into the play and everybody
laughed. Presently they were all jabbing at Robert who made mock rushes.
Jack shouted.
"Make a ring!"
The circle moved in and round. Robert squealed in mock terror,
then in real pain.
"Ow! Stop it! You're hurting!"
The butt end of a spear fell on his back as he blundered among
them.
"Hold him!"
They got his arms and legs. Ralph, carried away by a sudden thick
excitement, grabbed Eric's spear and jabbed at Robert with it.
"Kill him! Kill him!"
All at once, Robert was screaming and struggling with the strength
of frenzy. Jack had him by the hair and was brandishing his knife. Behind
him was Roger, fighting to get close. The chant rose ritually, as at the last
moment of a dance or a hunt.
"_Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in!_"
Ralph too was fighting to get near, to get a handful of that brown,
vulnerable flesh. The desire to squeeze and hurt was over-mastering.
Jack's arm came down; the heaving circle cheered and made pigdying noises. Then they lay quiet, panting, listening to Robert's frightened
snivels. He wiped his face with a dirty arm, and made an effort to retrieve
his status.
"Oh, my bum!"
He rubbed his rump ruefully. Jack rolled over.
"That was a good game."
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4. From Animal Farm by George Orwell
Early in October, when the corn was cut and stacked and some of it was
already threshed, a flight of pigeons came whirling through the air and
alighted in the yard of Animal Farm in the wildest excitement. Jones and
all his men, with half a dozen others from Foxwood and Pinchfield, had
entered the five-barred gate and were coming up the cart-track that led to
the farm. They were all carrying sticks, except Jones, who was marching
ahead with a gun in his hands. Obviously they were going to attempt the
recapture of the farm.
This had long been expected, and all preparations had been made.
Snowball,
who had studied an old book of Julius Caesar's campaigns which he had
found in the farmhouse, was in charge of the defensive operations. He gave
his orders quickly, and in a couple of minutes every animal was at his post.
As the human beings approached the farm buildings, Snowball launched his
first attack. All the pigeons, to the number of thirty-five, flew to and
fro over the men's heads and muted upon them from mid-air; and while the
men were dealing with this, the geese, who had been hiding behind the
hedge, rushed out and pecked viciously at the calves of their legs.
However, this was only a light skirmishing manoeuvre, intended to create a
little disorder, and the men easily drove the geese off with their sticks.
Snowball now launched his second line of attack. Muriel, Benjamin, and all
the sheep, with Snowball at the head of them, rushed forward and prodded
and butted the men from every side, while Benjamin turned around and
lashed at them with his small hoofs. But once again the men, with their
sticks and their hobnailed boots, were too strong for them; and suddenly,
at a squeal from Snowball, which was the signal for retreat, all the
animals turned and fled through the gateway into the yard.
The men gave a shout of triumph. They saw, as they imagined, their
enemies
in flight, and they rushed after them in disorder. This was just what
Snowball had intended. As soon as they were well inside the yard, the
three horses, the three cows, and the rest of the pigs, who had been lying
in ambush in the cowshed, suddenly emerged in their rear, cutting them
off. Snowball now gave the signal for the charge. He himself dashed
straight for Jones. Jones saw him coming, raised his gun and fired. The
pellets scored bloody streaks along Snowball's back, and a sheep dropped
dead. Without halting for an instant, Snowball flung his fifteen stone
against Jones's legs. Jones was hurled into a pile of dung and his gun
flew out of his hands. But the most terrifying spectacle of all was Boxer,
rearing up on his hind legs and striking out with his great iron-shod
hoofs like a stallion. His very first blow took a stable-lad from Foxwood
on the skull and stretched him lifeless in the mud. At the sight, several
men dropped their sticks and tried to run. Panic overtook them, and the
next moment all the animals together were chasing them round and round
the
yard. They were gored, kicked, bitten, trampled on. There was not an
animal on the farm that did not take vengeance on them after his own
fashion. Even the cat suddenly leapt off a roof onto a cowman's shoulders
and sank her claws in his neck, at which he yelled horribly. At a moment
when the opening was clear, the men were glad enough to rush out of the
yard and make a bolt for the main road. And so within five minutes of
their invasion they were in ignominious retreat by the same way as they
had come, with a flock of geese hissing after them and pecking at their
calves all the way.
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All the men were gone except one. Back in the yard Boxer was pawing with
his hoof at the stable-lad who lay face down in the mud, trying to turn
him over. The boy did not stir.