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The Wednesday Wars and Short StoriesUnit One Packet

Mr. George

Unit 1- The Wednesday Wars and Short Stories Packet

“Where I’m From”

Because she liked the “kind of music” that I listened to and she

liked the way I walked as well as the way I talked, she always wanted

to know where I was from.

If I said that I was from 110th Street and Lexington Avenue, right

in the heart of a transported Puerto Rican town, where the hodedores

live and night turns to day without sleep, do you think then she might

know where I was from?

Where I’m from, Puerto Rico stays on our minds when the fresh

breeze of café con leche y pan con montequilla comes through our

half-open windows and under our doors while the sun starts to rise.

Where I’m from, babies fall asleep to the bark of a German

Shepherd named Tarzan. We hear his wandering footsteps under a

midnight sun. Tarzan has learned quickly to ignore the woman who

begs her man to stop slapping her with his fist. “Please baby! Por

favor! I wear it wasn’t me. I swear to my mother. Mameeee!!” (her

dead mother told her this would happen one day.)

Where I’m from, Independence Day is celebrated every day. The

final gunshot from last night’s murder is followed by the officious knock

of a warrant squad coming to take your bread, coffee and freedom

away.

Where I’m from, the police come into your house without

knocking. They throw us off rooftops and say we slipped. They shoot

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my father and say he was crazy. They put a bullet in my head and say

they found me that way.

Where I’m from, you run to the hospital emergency room

because some little boy spit a razor out of his mouth and carved a

crescent into your face. But you have to understand, where I’m from

even the dead have to wait until their number is called.

Where I’m from, you can listen to Big Daddy retelling stories on

his corner. He passes a pint of light Bacardi, pouring the dead’s

tributary swig unto the street. “I’m God when I put a gun to your head.

I’m the judge and you in my courtroom.”

Where I’m from, it’s the late night scratch of rats’ feet that

explains what my mother means when she says slowly, “Bueno, mijo,

eso es la vida del pobre.” (Well, son, that is the life of the poor.)

Where I’m from, it’s sweet like my grandmother reciting a quick

prayer over a pot of hot rice and beans. Where I’m from, it’s pretty like

my niece stopping me in the middle of the street and telling me to

notice all the stars in the sky.

- Willie Perdomo

“Where I’m From”

Answer the following questions in your notebook. Be prepared to defend your answers.

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1. What specific instances in the poem strongly portray the author’s sense of voice?

a. What do you notice about the structure of the poem? b. Where have you seen a similar structure?

2. How does where you are from give you certain privileges?

3. How does where you are from deny you of certain privileges?

4. Do the police that work on 110th street and Lexington Avenue view the same street differently? Why or why not?

5. What does Perdomo mean when he says “Independence Day is celebrated every day”?

6. What is the purpose of addressing problematic issues that arise in literature in our classroom?

Extraordinary Accomplished Competent UnsatisfactoryAbility To Catch Attention

Captures reader’s attention from first interesting sentence, paragraph, or line; reader cannot help but continue reading

Gets reader’s attention with first sentence, paragraph, or line, draws reader into the rest of piece.

First sentence, paragraph, or line lacks the ability to draw the reader into the piece; reader may not keep reading.

First sentence, paragraph, or line not only lacks interest for the reader but also contains a cliché idea/image (or worse, no ideas or images).

Originality Impresses the Interests the Offers little Lacks originality

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reader from beginning to end through original and interesting use of ideas, language, plot, character development, dialogue, imagery, etc. Contains no clichés or stereotypes.

reader most of the way through with some original and interesting use of ideas, language, plot, character development, imagery, etc. Contains a few clichés or stereotypes.

originality in ideas, language, plot, imagery, etc. May contain many clichés and/or stereotypes. Reader may lose interest.

in ideas, language, plot, imagery, etc. Filled with clichés and/or stereotypes. Reader sees the piece as “spinning its wheels” – not developing anything as it goes.

Maintenance of Interest

Succeeds in getting the reader to care about its outcome by being grounded in a significant problem, dilemma, or paradox that needs to be addressed and gets reader involved.

Possesses a quality that keeps reader reading—possibly, grounded in a problem, dilemma, or paradox that needs to be addressed.

Lacks the ability to keep the reader reading; problem, dilemma, or paradox presented may seem trivial at times.

Lacks the ability to hold reader interest; fails to present problem, dilemma, or paradox. Writer may seem as uninterested in the work.

Clarity Although challenging and requiring reader interpretation, the work has a clarity that leaves no questions in the reader’s mind. (i.e. Why is a certain character doing what she does?”)

Has a clarity that leaves few surface questions in the reader’s mind. (i.e. Why is a certain character doing what she does?”)

Leaves several surface questions in the reader’s mind. (i.e. “Why is a certain character doing what she does?”)

Is unclear because of significant and unintentional gaps or contradictions in logic, plot, character, imagery, voice, point of view, setting, etc.

Mechanics Contains no errors in grammar, usage, or mechanics (unless used for artistic purposes)

Contains few errors in grammar, usage, or mechanics (unless used for artistic purposes)

Contains errors in grammar, usage, or mechanics; that interfere with reading.

Contains many errors in grammar, usage, and mechanics; errors block understanding.

“Where I’m From” Rubric

Name_____________________________ Period _________

Anticipation Guide for The Wednesday Wars

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Directions: In the space provided by each statement, write an “A” if you agree with the statement, and a “D” if you disagree with the statement. Be able to defend your position!

1. If a lot of people want you to do something, you should do it.

2. In order to not make others feel bad, it’s okay to limit your accomplishments.

3. In order to succeed you have to do whatever it takes.

4. All’s fair in love and war.

5. You should be willing to do anything for your family.

6. Having a nice house and nice things makes you happy.

7. If someone hurts you, it’s okay to be mean to them.

8. First impressions are always right.

9. Father always knows best. 10. Celebrities are good role models. 11. Old stories can’t relate to my life.

Literary Luminary

Date: _____Chapter: ________________________

As the Literary Luminary, it is your job to read aloud parts of the story to your group in order to help your group members remember some interesting, powerful, puzzling, or important sections of the text. You decide which passages or paragraphs

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are worth reading aloud, and justify your reasons for selecting them. Write the page numbers and paragraph numbers on this form along with the reason you chose each passage. You must choose a minimum of 3 passages per chapter.

Some reasons for choosing passages to share might include:

* Pivotal events * Informative * Descriptive * Surprising * Literary Devices

* Thought-provoking * Funny * Controversial * Confusing * Personally meaningful

Location Reason for choosing the passage

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Literary Luminary

Date: _____Chapter: ________________________


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Literary Luminary

Date: _____Chapter: ________________________


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Date: _____Chapter: ________________________


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Found Poem Instructions1. Carefully re-read the last five pages of “The Wednesday Wars”

and look for 50–100 words that stand out. Highlight or underline details, words and phrases that you find particularly powerful. Note especially examples that reflect character development in Holling.

2. On a separate sheet of paper, make a list of the details, words

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and phrases you underlined, keeping them in the order that you found them. Double space between lines so that the lines are easy to work with. Feel free to add others that you notice as you go through the prose piece again.

3. Look back over your list and cut out everything that is dull, or unnecessary, or that doesn’t support a change in Holling. Try to cut your original list in half.

4. As you look over the shortened list, think about the tone that the details convey. Make sure that you have words that make a statement about Holling’s character.

5. Make any minor changes necessary to create your poem. You can change punctuation and make little changes to the words to make them fit together (such as change the tenses, possessives, plurals, and capitalizations).

6. The challenge of doing a found poem is that you have to use only the words in the poem; you cannot add your own words!

7. Check the words and choose a title—is there a better title than “Found Poem?”

8. Rewrite your found poem on another sheet of paper, neatly. Space or arrange the words so that they’re poem-like. Pay attention to line breaks, layout, and other elements that will emphasize important words or significant ideas in the poem.

• You can also put key words on lines by themselves.

• You can shape the entire poem so that it’s wide or tall or shaped like an object.

• Emphasize words by playing with boldface and italics, different sizes of letters, and so forth.

Sample Found Poem

Prose Selections from Chang-rae Lee’s “Coming Home, Again”

From that day, my mother prepared a certain meal to welcome me home. It was always the same. Even as I rode the school’s shuttle bus from Exeter to Logan airport, I could already see the exact arrangement of my mother’s table.

I knew that we would eat in the kitchen, the table brimming with

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plates. There was the kalbi, of course, broiled or grilled depending on the season. Leaf lettuce, to wrap the meat with. Bowls of garlicky clam broth with miso and tofu and fresh spinach. Shavings of cod dusted in flour and then dipped in egg wash and fried. Glass noodles with onions and shiitake. Scallion-and-hot-pepper pancakes. Chilled steamed shrimp. Seasoned salads of bean sprouts, spinach, and white radish. Crispy squares of seaweed. Steamed rice with barley and red beans. Homemade kimchi. It was all there—the old flavors I knew, the beautiful salt, the sweet, the excellent taste. (p. 5)

I wish I had paid more attention. After her death, when my father and I were the only ones left in the house, drifting through the rooms like ghosts, I sometimes tried to make that meal for him. Though it was too much for two, I made each dish anyway, taking as much care as I could. But nothing turned out quite right—not the color, not the smell. At the table, neither of us said much of anything. And we had to eat the food for days. (p. 6)

Found Poem Based on the Prose Selection

My mother preparedA certain mealTo welcome me home.We would eat in the kitchen Table brimmingKalbi, leaf lettuce to wrap the meatGarlicky clam broth with miso and tofu and fresh spinach Shavings of codScallion and pepper pancakesChilled steamed shrimpSteamed rice.The old flavors I knewBeautiful, salt, sweet, excellent.I wish I had paid more attention.

Social Criticism in Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery”

ESSENTIAL QUESTION/AIM: How does Jackson’s story employ the elements of narrative fiction to assert and criticize the flaws inherent in some socially established (and guarded) traditions?*

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REFLECT: Why do we (or many Americans) do the following? Explain the actions and their purposes.

* Kiss under mistletoe in December?*Break apart the dried wishbone of poultry once eaten.*Say, “Bless you,” when someone sneezes.*Shake hands upon greeting.*Avoid opening umbrellas indoors.*Impose rules upon selling alcohol on Sunday.*Say (or at least quiet down for) the pledge of allegiance.*Wear white (for women) at a wedding.*Hunt for eggs at Easter.*Wear certain clothes at funerals.

Define the following terms – consider both their denotations and connotations.

1. lottery :_________________________________________________________________________________

2. habit : _________________________________________________________________________________

3. custom : ________________________________________________________________________________

4. tradition : _______________________________________________________________________________

5. ritual : _________________________________________________________________________________

What does this vocabulary have to do with Jackson’s short story? What is this story about thus far? How do you know?__________________________________________________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________________________________________

In your notes or annotations, list five possible instances of foreshadowing – details that somehow imply how the events of the story might progress – and why these passages contribute to the mood and expectations of the story.

"The Lottery" Shirley Jackson

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 2th. but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than 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.

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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 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.

The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program--by Mr. Summers. who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him. because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool. and when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation before two men. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter. came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's being done.The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued. had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr.

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Graves's barn and another year underfoot in the post office. and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.

There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up--of heads of families. heads of households in each family. members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory. tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this p3rt of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans. with one hand resting carelessly on the black box. he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on. "and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty- seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there."Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or three people said. in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully. "Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said. grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you. Joe?," and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.

"Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so's we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?"

"Dunbar." several people said. "Dunbar. Dunbar."Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar." he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?""Me. I guess," a woman said. and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband." Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.

"Horace's not but sixteen vet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year."

"Right." Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?"

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A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I'm drawing for my mother and me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said thin#s like "Good fellow, lack." and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it.""Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?" "Here," a voice said. and Mr. Summers nodded.A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the names--heads of families first--and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?"The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet. wetting their lips. not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi. Steve." Mr. Summers said. and Mr. Adams said. "Hi. Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd. where he stood a little apart from his family. not looking down at his hand.

"Allen." Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham.""Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more." Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row."Seems like we got through with the last one only last week." "Time sure goes fast.-- Mrs. Graves said."Clark.... Delacroix"

"There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.

"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said. "Go on. Janey," and another said, "There she goes."

"We're next." Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand. turning them over and over nervously Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper."Harburt.... Hutchinson."

"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said. and the people near her laughed."Jones."

"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the north village they're talking of giving up the lottery."

Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live hat way for a while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody."

"Some places have already quit lotteries." Mrs. Adams said."Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."

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"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke.... Percy.""I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry."

"They're almost through," her son said."You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.

Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, "Warner."

"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh time."

"Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son."

"Zanini."After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers. holding his slip of paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saving. "Who is it?," "Who's got it?," "Is it the Dunbars?," "Is it the Watsons?" Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it."

"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly. Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. "You didn't give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"

"Be a good sport, Tessie." Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same chance." "Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.

"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?""There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!"

"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know that as well as anyone else."

"It wasn't fair," Tessie said."I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her husband's family; that's only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids.""Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in explanation, "and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?""Right," Bill Hutchinson said.

"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally."Three," Bill Hutchinson said.

"There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me.""All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?"

Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Summers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in."

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"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that."

Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box. and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground. where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.

"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her."Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked. and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children. nodded."Remember," Mr. Summers said. "take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy." Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. "Take just one paper." Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly."Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly. and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.

"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.

The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.

"It's not the way it used to be." Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be." "All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."

Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill. Jr.. opened theirs at the same time. and both beamed and laughed. turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.

"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.

"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper. Bill."Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.

"All right, folks." Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly."Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up."

Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said. gasping for breath. "I can't run at all. You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you."

The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.

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Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.

"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

In a well-organized paragraph answer the following questions:

- WHY IS NARRATIVE FICTION ESPECIALLY SUITED TO SOCIAL CRITICISM? - How might it raise issues or challenge social situations so effectively and so differently than nonfiction sources?

The Short Story – Narrative Fiction as Social Criticism

“The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson1. LIST larger ideas and themes voiced in the text – What larger human experiences

does the text explore? What flaws or problems does the story examine in the unthinking acceptance of social rituals and traditions? How does the text

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challenge individuals to reevaluate cultural norms and accepted practices for doing things? How does Jackson’s short story critique modern society and its effect on human experience?

2. Provide passages that reveal these ideas at work in the text. Textual evidence! Be specific – page numbers!

3. Identify literary devices and narrative components that build these ideas.Theme / Social Critique #1

Revealing Passage / Evidence (at least two)

Analysis

Theme / Social Critique #2

Revealing Passage / Evidence (at least two)

Analysis

Anne Hart’s “The Friday Everything Changed”

The Friday Everything Changed Anne Hart Tradition. In Miss Ralston's class the boys have always carried the water bucket. Until one day, the girls decide it's time to challenge the rule. .. The last hour of school on Friday afternoons was for Junior Red Cross. The little kids would get out their Junior Red Cross pins and put them on and us big kids would start elbowing down the aisles to the book cupboard at the back to see who would get the interesting magazines. There was a big pile of them and they were of two kinds: the National Geographic and the Junior Red Cross News. Because the boys were stronger

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and sat near the back they usually got the National Geographics first, which meant they could spend the rest of Red Cross looking at African ladies wearing nothing on top, while us girls had to be satisfied with the Junior Red Cross News, which showed little African kids wearing lots of clothes and learning how to read. Apart from the magazines for the big kids and maybe the teacher reading a story to the little kids, about the only other thing that happened regularly during Red Cross was picking the two boys who would carry water the next week. In our school the water bucket always stood on a shelf at the front of the room just behind the teacher's desk. First you'd make a paper cup out of a piece of scribbler paper, then you'd grab the teacher's attention from wherever it happened to be and then up you'd go to the front of the room for a drink from the water bucket. I t was kind of interesting to stand at the front of the room behind the teacher's desk and drink water. The school looked different from up there and sometimes you could get just a glimpse of an idea of what the teacher thought she was all about. I mean, from the front, looking down on those rows of kids with their heads bent over their desks and the sun coming in the windows and the blackboards and all that stuff on the walls, you might almost think, at first glance, that you were looking at one of those real city schools -like in the health books-where the kids were all so neat and all the same size. But after the first strange moment it just became our school again, because you had to start adding in things like the coal stove and the scarred old double desks and the kids themselves. I mean, we just didn't look like the kids in those pictures. Maybe it was because we were so many different sizes-from the kids snuffling in the front rows over their Nan and Dan readers to the big boys hunched over their desks at the back-maybe it was because we wore so many heavy clothes all the time, or maybe it was because of something that wasn't even there at all but seemed to be on the faces of the kids in those city pictures: a look as if they liked being where they were. But all that's a long way from Junior Red Cross and who would carry the water . The water for our school came from a pump at the railway station, which was about a quarter of a mile away. One day long ago a health inspector had come around and had announced that water must be made available to the school. For a while there had been some talk of digging a well but in the end we got a big, shiny, galvanized water bucket and permission to use the railway station pump. And from that day on-for all the boys-the most important thing that happened at school, even more important than softball, was who would get to carry the water. If you were a boy it was something you started dreaming about in Grade I, even though there was not the remotest chance it could ever happen to you before at least Grade 5, and only then if the teacher thought you were big and strong enough. You dreamed about it partly because carrying the water meant you were one of the big guys, and carrying the water meant you could get away from school for maybe half an hour at a time. But mostly you dreamed about it because carrying the water was something real, and had absolutely nothing whatever to do with Nan and Dan and all that stuff. So every Friday afternoon toward the end of Red Cross, when it got to be time for the teacher to pick the two boys who would go for water the next week, all the National Geographics came to rest like huge butterflies folding up their yellow wings and a big hush fell all over the back rows. And that's the

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way it had always been until one extraordinary afternoon when, right out of the blue, just after the teacher had picked Ernie Chapman and Garnet Dixon to carry the water, my seatmate, Alma Niles, put up her hand and said: "Why can't girls go for the water, too?" If one of those German planes, like in the war movies, had suddenly appeared over the school and dropped a bomb, we all couldn't have been more surprised. A silence fell over the room and in that silence everyone looked at the teacher . Now our teacher that year was named Miss Ralston and even though she came from River Hibbert we all liked her quite a lot. She was strict but she was never really mean like some of the teachers we'd had. Because she was young (she'd just finished Grade 11 the year before herself-River Hibbert had fancy things like Grade 11) she'd had quite a rough time the first week of school with the bigger boys. But she was pretty big herself and after she'd strapped most of them up at the front of the room before our very eyes (and even the little kids could see that it really hurt) things had settled down. The boys kind of admired Miss Ralston for strapping so hard, and us girls admired her because she was so pretty and wore nylon stockings and loafers all the time. But the really unusual thing about Miss Ralston was the way she sometimes stopped in the middle of a lesson and looked at us as if we were real people, instead of just a lot of kids who had to be pushed through to their next grades. And that was why, on that Friday afternoon when Alma Niles put up her hand and said: "Why can't girls go for the water, too?" we all turned and looked at Miss Ralston first instead of just bursting out laughing at Alma right away. And Miss Ralston, instead of saying, "Whoever heard of girls going for the water?" or, " Are you trying to be saucy, Alma?" like any other teacher would, said nothing at all for a moment but just looked very hard at Alma, who had gone quite white with the shock of dropping such a bombshell. After a long moment, when she finally spoke, Miss Ralston, instead of saying, "Why that's out of the question, Alma," threw a bombshell of her own: "I'll think about that," she said-as if, you know, she would-"and I'll let you know next Friday." The trouble started right away as soon as we got into the school yard, because all the boys knew, from the moment Miss Ralston had spoken, that something of theirs was being threatened and that, as long as there was the remotest chance that any girl might get to carry the water, they had to do everything in their power to stop it. Like driving a tractor or playing hockey for the Toronto Maple Leafs, carrying water was real, and because it was real it belonged to them. So they went right for Alma as soon as she came out of school and that was when another funny thing happened. Instead of just standing back and watching Alma get beaten up, as we usually did when the boys were after someone, the girls rushed right in to try and help her. In the first place we all liked Alma, and in the second place we all had seen, as clearly as the boys, what our carrying the water might mean; that, incredibly, we, too, might get to skip school for half an hour at a time, that we, too, might get to sneak into Rowsell's store on the way back and, most dizzying thought of all, that we too might get to do something real. And, because we were so intoxicated by the whole idea, and took the boys so much by surprise by standing up to them, we somehow managed to get Alma and ourselves out of the schoolyard with only a few bruises and torn stockings, leaving the boys in possession

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of the schoolyard where, as we could glimpse over our shoulders as we ran down the hill, they had begun to gather together in a single ominous knot. And for the rest of that weekend, though of course we never talked about it in front of our parents, all we could think of, both boys and girls, was what was going to happen at school that coming week. The first thing, clearly evident by recess on Monday morning, was that the boys had decided not to let us girls field at softball any more. Softball at our school used to go like this: every Monday morning at recess two of the bigger boys-that year it was usually Ernie Chapman and Junior LeBlanc-used to pick their teams for the week. Whoever came out on top in laddering hands up the softball bat got to pick first and the loser second and so it went-back and forth-until all the boys who were considered good enough to be on a team had been picked. Then Ernie and Junior laddered the bat again to see which side would get up first and the losing side took to the field to be joined by the little boys who hadn't been picked and us older girls who were allowed to act as sort of permanent supplementary fielders. And for the rest of the week the teams remained locked, at every recess and lunchtime, in one long softball game which had, as we discovered to our surprise several years later when the television came through, some strange rules. The way we played, for example, every single boy had to get out before the other team could come in. And any boy hitting a home run not only had the right to bat straight away again but also to bring back into the game any boy who had got out. Which led to kids who couldn't remember their six- times table properly being able to announce-say, by noon on Thursday-"The score's now 46 to 39 because, in the last inning starting Tuesday lunchtime, Junior's team was all out except for Irving Snell, who hit three homers in a row off of Lorne Ripley, and brought in Ira and Jim and Elton who brought in the rest except for Austin who got out for the second time on Wednesday with a foul ball one of the girls caught behind third base. .." Some days it got so exciting that at noon we couldn't wait to eat our lunches but would rush straight into the schoolyard, gobbling our sandwiches as we ran, toward that aching moment when the ball, snaking across the yellow grass or arching toward us from the marsh sky, might meet our open, eager hands. So it was a hard blow, Monday morning recess, when Ernie Chapman whirled the bat around his head, slammed it down as hard as he could on home base and announced. "The first girl that goes out to field, we break her neck." We clustered forlornly around the girls' entry door knowing there was nothing we could really do. "Oh Alma," mourned Minnie Halliday, biting the ends of her long, brown braids, "why couldn't you just have kept your mouth shut?" It was a bad moment. If we'd tried to go out to field they'd have picked us off one by one. We couldn't even play softball on our own. None of us owned a bat and ball. If it hadn't been for Doris Pomeroy, we might have broken rank right there and then. Doris, who was in Grade 9 and had had a home permanent and sometimes wore nail polish and had even, it was rumored, gone swimming in the quarry all alone with Elton Lawrence, flicked a rock against the schoolhouse wall in the silence following Minnie's remark and steadied us all by saying: "Don't be foolish, Minnie. All we have to do is

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wait. They need us to field and, besides, they kind of like to have us out there looking at them when they get up to bat." But it was a long, hard week. Besides not letting us field, the boys picked on us whenever they got the chance. I guess they figured that if they made things bad enough for us, sooner or later we'd go to Miss Ralston and ask her to forget the whole thing. But all their picking on and bullying did was to keep us together. Whenever one of us was tripped going down the aisle or got an ink ball in her hair or got trapped in the outhouse by a bunch of boys it was as if it was happening to all of us. And looking back on that week-when there were so many bad feelings and so many new feelings in the air-it was kind of nice, too, because for the first time us girls found ourselves telling each other our troubles and even our thoughts without worrying about being laughed at. And that was something new at our school. As for Alma, who kept getting notes thrown on her desk promising her everything from a bloody nose to having her pants pulled down, we stuck to her like burrs. But maybe Alma's hardest moment had nothing to do with bullying at all. It was when her cousin Arnold came over to see her Wednesday after school and asked her to drop the whole idea of girls going for the water . "If they find out about it, Alma," said Arnold. "they'll probably take away the water bucket." "Who's they?" asked Alma. She and Arnold had played a lot together when they were little kids and she was used to listening to his opinions on most things. "Well, the health inspector," said Arnold, "and guys like that.""They'll never take away that water bucket," said Alma, though she wasn't all that sure. "They don't care who carries the water as long as it gets carried."" Alma," said Arnold earnestly, "the other guys would kill me if they ever found out I told you this but sometimes carrying the water isn't that much fun. On cold days it's real hard work. You're better off in the warm school." Alma knew what it cost Arnold to tell her this but she stood firm. "I'm sorry, Arnold," she said. "but I'm used to cold weather. In winter I walk to school the same as you." So Arnold went away. If Miss Ralston, as the week wore on, noticed anything unusual going on in her school, she gave little sign of it. She passed out the usual punishments for ink balls, she intercepted threatening notes and tore them up unread, she looked at Alma's white face, and all she asked about were the principal rivers of Europe. Nor were we surprised. Nothing in our experience had led us to believe the grown-ups had the slightest inkling-or interest-in what really went on with kids. Only Doris Pomeroy thought differently. "Miss Ralston looks real mad," said Doris as we trailed in thankfully from Friday morning recess. " Mad?" a couple of us asked. "Yeah. Like when she comes out to ring the bell and we're all hanging around the entry door like a lot of scared chickens. She rings that old handbell as if she wished all those yelling boy's heads were under it. Of course they do things differently in River Hibbert. I know for a fact that girls there get to play on softball teams just like the boys."

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"On teams? Just like the boys?" But it was all too much for us to take in at that moment, so preoccupied were we with that afternoon's decision on the water. All that long, hard week it was as if Friday afternoon and Junior Red Cross would never come again. Now that it was almost upon us most of us forgot, in our excitement, at least for the time being, Doris' heady remark about softball. So at lunchtime, just as the boys were winding up their week's game ("And real great, eh? Without the girls?" Ernie Chapman was gloating loudly from the pitcher's mound), when Miss Ralston, without her bell, leaped through our clustered huddles at the entry door and headed straight toward the softball field, she took us all completely by surprise. Crunch, crunch, crunch went Miss Ralston's bright red loafers against the cinders and the next thing we knew she'd grabbed the bat from Irving Snell and, squinting against the sun, was twirling and lining it before our astonished eyes. "Come on! Come on!" cried Miss Ralston impatiently to Ernie who stood transfixed before her on the pitcher's mound. "Come on! Come on!" she cried again and she banged the bat against the ground. "Come on! Come on!" cried Doris Pomeroy and we rushed after her across the cinders. The first ball Ernie threw was pretty wobbly and Miss Ralston hit it at an angle so that it fell sideways, a foul ball, toward George Fowler's outstretched hands. " Ah-h-h-h-h," we moaned from the sidelines and some of us closed our eyes so we wouldn't have to look. But George jumped too eagerly for such an easy ball and it fell right through his fingers and rolled harmlessly along the ground. Ernie took a lot more time over his second pitch. He was getting over the first shock of finding Miss Ralston opposite him at bat and by this time he was receiving shouts of encouragement from all over the field. "Get her! Get her!" the boys yelled recklessly at Ernie and they all fanned out behind the bases. Ernie took aim slowly. None of us had ever seen the pirouettings of professional pitchers but there was a certain awesome ceremony, nevertheless, as Ernie spat savagely on the ball, glared hard at Miss Ralston, slowly swung back his big right arm and, poised for one long moment, his whole body outstretched, threw the ball as hard as he could toward home base where Miss Ralston waited, her body rocking with the bat. For a fleeting moment we had a glimpse of what life might be like in River Hibbert and then Miss Ralston hit the ball. "Ah-h-h-h-h-h," we cried as it rose high in the air, borne by the marsh wind, and flew like a bird against the sun, across the road and out of sight, into the ox pasture on the other side. " Ah-h-h-h-h-h ..." We all stared at Miss Ralston. "School's in," she announced over her shoulder, walking away. Hitting the ball into the ox pasture happened maybe once a year . That afternoon, toward the end of Red Cross, there was a big hush all over the room. "Next week," said Miss Ralston, closing the school register, tidying her books, "next week Alma Niles and Joyce Shipley will go for the water ." She swept her hand over the top of her desk and tiny dust motes danced in the slanting sun.

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DO Now- Answer the following questions individually.

1. Has anyone ever done anything to you that made you want to get revenge on them? What did they do?

2. Have you ever gotten revenge on someone for something they did to you? What did you do to them in return? Why did you feel a need to get revenge?

3. Explain how the revenge made you feel? Did you get caught? If you had gotten caught, would that have changed the feeling the revenge gave you? Explain.

The Cask of Amontillado

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Edgar Allan Poe

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my to smile now was at the thought of his immolation.He had a weak point --this Fortunato --although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; --I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.I said to him --"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day. But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.""How?" said he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!""I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain.""Amontillado!""I have my doubts.""Amontillado!""And I must satisfy them.""Amontillado!""As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me --""Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.""And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.

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"Come, let us go.""Whither?""To your vaults.""My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchresi--""I have no engagement; --come.""My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre.""Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode."The pipe," he said."It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls."He turned towards me, and looked into my eves with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication."Nitre?" he asked, at length."Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?""Ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh!"My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes."It is nothing," he said, at last."Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchresi --""Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."

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"True --true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily --but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould."Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled."I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us.""And I to your long life."He again took my arm, and we proceeded."These vaults," he said, "are extensive.""The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family.""I forget your arms.""A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel.""And the motto?""Nemo me impune lacessit.""Good!" he said.The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow."The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough --""It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement --a grotesque one."You do not comprehend?" he said."Not I," I replied."Then you are not of the brotherhood.""How?""You are not of the masons.""Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes."

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"You? Impossible! A mason?""A mason," I replied."A sign," he said, "a sign.""It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel."You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado.""Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see."Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchresi --""He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In niche, and finding an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess."Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power.""The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment."True," I replied; "the Amontillado."As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of

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Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said--"Ha! ha! ha! --he! he! he! --a very good joke, indeed --an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo --he! he! he! --over our wine --he! he! he!""The Amontillado!" I said."He! he! he! --he! he! he! --yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.""Yes," I said, "let us be gone.""For the love of God, Montresor!""Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud --"Fortunato!"No answer. I called again --"Fortunato!"No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it so. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

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Homework

1. Do you think Montresor should have killed Fortunato? Why or why not? 2. What do you think Fortunato might have done to make Montresor want such a

diabolical revenge?3. In your opinion, did Montresor have to kill Fortunato? Is their any other way

Montresor could have handled this situation? Explain 4. Do you think Montresor's crime will ever be discovered? Why or why not?5. PROMPT: Is Montresor a reliable narrator? Why or why not?

Vocabulary- define the following words in your notebook.

Amontillado [uh MON te YAH doh] Aperture Carnival Catacombs Circumscribing Fetter Flambeau Hearken Immolate - Imposture Impunity Motley Palazzo Pipe Cask holding 126 gallons. Puncheon Cask holding 84 gallons. Rapier [RAY pe er] Two-edged sword. Rheum [ROOM] Watery discharge. Sconce

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the wednesday wars and short stories - web viewjoe?," and soft laughter ran through the crowd...

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