English 9R
Short Story Unit
“Hunger” by Richard Wright………………………………………………..2-5
“A Man Who Had No Eyes” by Mackinlay Kantor…………………………6-7
“The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson…………………………………………...8-15
“August Heat” by William Harvey………………………………………….16-20
Name: ______
“Hunger” by Richard Wright
-an excerpt from Black Boy
The streets of a city can be a battlefield. In this true selection, Richard Wright tells how his mother taught him one of the necessities demanded for survival on such a street. In what tone does he describe the incident?
Hunger stole upon me so slowly that at first I was not aware of what hunger really meant. Hunger had always been more or less at my elbow when I played, but now I began to wake up at night to find hunger standing at my bedside, staring at me gauntly. The hunger I had known before this had been no grim, hostile stranger; it had been a normal hunger that had made me beg constantly for bread, and when I ate a crust or two I was satisfied. But this new hunger baffled me, scared me, made me angry and insistent. Whenever I begged for food now, my mother would pour me a cup of tea, which would still the clamor in my stomach for a moment or two; but a little later I would feel hunger nudging my ribs, twisting my empty guts until they ached. I would grow dizzy and my vision would dim. I became less active in my play, and for the first time in my life I had to pause and think of what was happening to me.
“Mama, I’m hungry,” I complained one afternoon.
“Jump up and catch a kungry,” she said, trying to make me laugh and forget.
“What’s a kungry?”
“It’s what little boys eat when they get hungry,” she said.
“What does it taste like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why do you tell me to catch one?”
“Because you said that you were hungry,” she said, smiling.
I sensed that she was teasing me and it made me angry.
“But I’m hungry. I want to eat.”
“You’ll have to wait.”
“But I want to eat now.”
“But there’s nothing to eat,” she told me.
“Why?”
“Just because there’s none,” she explained.
“But I want to eat,” I said, beginning to cry.
“You’ll just have to wait,” she said again.
“But why?”
“For God to send some food.”
“When is He going to send it?”
“I don’t know.”
“But I’m hungry!”
She was ironing and she paused and looked at me with tears in her eyes.
“Where’s your father?” she asked me.
I stared in bewilderment. Yes, it was true that my father had not come home to sleep for many days now and I could make as much noise as I wanted. Though I had not known why he was absent, I had been glad that he was not there to shout his restrictions at me. But it had never occurred to me that his absence would mean that there would be no food.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Who brings food into the house?” my mother asked me.
“Papa,” I said. “He always brought food.”
“Well, your father isn’t here now,” she said.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“But I’m hungry,” I whimpered, stomping my feet.
“You’ll have to wait until I get a job and buy food,” she said.
As the days slid past, the image of my father became associated with my pangs of hunger, and whenever I felt hunger, I thought of him with a deep biological bitterness.
My mother finally went to work as a cook and left me and my brother alone in the flat1 each day with a loaf of bread and a pot of tea. When she returned at evening, she would be tired and dispirited and would cry a lot. Sometimes, when she was in despair, she would call us to her and talk to us for hours, telling us that we now had no father, that our lives would be different from those of other children, that we must learn as soon as possible to take care of ourselves, to dress ourselves, to prepare our own food; that we must take upon ourselves the responsibility of the flat while she worked. Half frightened, we would promise solemnly. We did not understand what had happened between our father and our mother, and the most that these long talks did to us was to make us feel a vague dread. Whenever we asked why father had left, she would tell us that we were too young to know.
One evening my mother told me that thereafter I would have to do the shopping for food. She took me to the corner store to show me the way. I was proud; I felt like a grown-up. The next afternoon I looped the basket over my arm and went down the pavement toward the store. When I reached the corner, a gang of boys grabbed me, knocked me down, snatched the basket, took the money, and sent me running home in panic. That evening I told my mother what had happened, but she made no comment; she sat down at once, wrote another note, gave me more money, and sent me out to the grocery again. I crept down the steps and saw the same gang of boys playing down the street. I ran back into the house.
“What’s the matter?” my mother asked.
“It’s those same boys,” I said. “They’ll beat me.”
“You’ve got to get over that,” she said. “Now, go on.”
“I’m scared,” I said.
“Go on and don’t pay any attention to them,” she said.
I went out of the door and walked briskly down the sidewalk, praying that the gang would not molest me. But when I came abreast of them, someone shouted.
“There he is!”
They came toward me and I broke into a wild run toward home. They overtook me and flung me to the pavement. I yelled, pleaded, kicked, but they wrenched the money out of my hand. They yanked me to my feet, gave me a few slaps, and sent me home sobbing. My mother met me at the door.
“They b-beat m-me,” I gasped. “They t-t-took the m-money.”
I started up the steps, seeking the shelter of the house.
“Don’t you come in here,” my mother warned me.
I froze in my tracks and stared at her.
“But they’re coming after me,” I said.
“You just stay right where you are,” she said in a deadly tone. “I’m going to teach you this night to stand up and fight for yourself.”
She went into the house and I waited, terrified, wondering what she was about. Presently she returned with more money and another note; she also had a long, heavy stick.
“Take this money, this note, and this stick,” she said. “Go to the store and buy those groceries. If those boys bother you, then fight.”
I was baffled. My mother was telling me to fight, a thing that she had never done before.
“But I’m scared,” I said.
“Don’t you come into this house until you’ve gotten those groceries,” she said.
“They’ll beat me; they’ll beat me,” I said.
“Then stay in the streets; don’t come back here!”
I ran up the steps and tried to force my way past her into the house. A stinging slap came on my jaw. I stood on the sidewalk, crying.
“Please, let me wait until tomorrow,” I begged.
“No,” she said. “Go now! If you come back into this house without those groceries, I’ll whip you!”
She slammed the door and I heard the key turn in the lock. I shook with fright. I was alone upon the dark, hostile streets and gangs were after me. I had the choice of being beaten at home or away from home. I clutched the stick, crying, trying to reason. If I were beaten at home, there was absolutely nothing that I could do about it; but if I were beaten in the streets, I had a chance to fight and defend myself. I walked slowly down the sidewalk, coming closer to the gang of boys, holding the stick tightly. I was so full of fear that I could scarcely breathe. I was almost upon them now.
“There he is again!” the cry went up.
They surrounded me quickly and began to grab for my hand.
“I’ll kill you!” I threatened.
They closed in. In blind fear I let the stick fly, feeling it crack against a boy’s skull. I swung again, lamming another skull, then another. Realizing that they would retaliate if I let up for but a second, I fought to lay them low, to knock them cold, to kill them so that they could not strike back at me. I flayed with tears in my eyes, teeth clenched, stark fear making me throw every ounce of my strength behind each blow. I hit again and again, dropping the money and the grocery list. The boys scattered, yelling, nursing their heads, staring at me in utter disbelief. They had never seen such frenzy. I stood panting, egging them on, taunting them to come on and fight. When they refused, I ran after them and they tore out for their homes, screaming. The parents of the boys rushed into the streets and threatened me, and for the first time in my life I shouted at grown-ups, telling them that I would give them the same if they bothered me. I finally found my grocery list and the money and went to the store. On my way back I kept my stick poised for instant use, but there was not a single boy in sight. That night I won the right to the streets of Memphis.
A Man Who Had No Eyes by Mackinlay Kantor
A beggar was coming down the avenue just as Mr. Parsons emerged from his hotel.
He was a blind beggar, carrying the traditional battered can, and thumping his way before him with the cautious, half-furtive effort of the sightless. He was a shaggy, thick-necked fellow; his coat was greasy about the lapels and pockets, and his hand splayed over the cane’s crook with a futile sort of clinging. He wore a black pouch slung over his shoulder. Apparently he had something to sell.
The air was rich with spring; sun was warm and yellowed on the asphalt. Mr. Parsons, standing there in front of his hotel and noting the clack-clack approach of the sightless man, felt a sudden and foolish sort of pity for all blind creatures.
And, thought Mr. Parsons, he was very glad to be alive. A few years ago he had been little more than a skilled laborer; now he was successful, respected, admired… Insurance… And he had done it alone, unaided, struggling beneath handicaps… And he was still young. The blue air of spring, fresh from its memories of windy pools and lush shrubbery, could thrill him with eagerness.
He took a step forward just as the tap-tapping blind man passed him by. Quickly the shabby fellow turned.
"Listen guv’nor. Just a minute of your time."
Mr. Parsons said, "It’s late. I have an appointment. Do you want me to give you something?"
"I ain’tno beggar, guv’nor. You bet I ain’t. I got a handy little article here" he
fumbled a small article into Mr. Parsons’ hand --- "that I sell. One buck. Best cigarette
lighter made."
Mr. Parsons stood there, somewhat annoyed and embarrassed. He was a handsome figure with his immaculate grey suit and grey hat and malacca stick. Of course, the man with the cigarette lighter could not see him…
"But I don’t smoke," he said.
"Listen. I bet you know plenty people who smoke. Nice little present," wheedled the man. "And, mister, you wouldn’t mind helping a poor guy out?" He clung to Mr. Parsons’ sleeve.
Mr. Parsons sighed and felt in his vest pocket. He brought out two half dollars and pressed them into the man’s hand. "Certainly I’ll help you out. As you say, I can give it to someone. Maybe the elevator boy would ---" He hesitated, not wishing to be boorish and inquisitive, even with a blind peddlar. "Have you lost your sight entirely?"
The shabby man pocketed the two half dollars. "Fourteen years, guv’nor." Then he added with an insane sort of pride: "Westbury, sir, I was one of ‘em."
"Westbury," repeated Mr. Parsons. "Ah yes. The chemical explosion . . . the papers haven’t mentioned it for years. But at the time it was supposed to be one of the greatest disasters in--- "
"They’ve all forgot about it." The fellow shifted his feet wearily. "I tell you, guv’nor, a man who was in it don’t forget about it. Last thing I ever saw was C shop going up in one grand smudge, and that damn gas pouring in at all the busted windows."
Mr. Parsons coughed. But the blind peddler was caught up with the train of his one dramatic reminiscence. And, also, he was thinking that there might be more half dollars in Mr. Parsons’ pocket.
"Just think about it, guv’nor. There was a hundred and eight people killed, about
two hundred injured, and over fifty of them lost their eyes. Blind as bats." He groped forward until his dirty hand rested against Mr. Parsons’ coat. "I tell you sir, there wasn’t nothing worse than that in the war. If I had lost my eyes in the war, okay. I would have been well took care of. But, I was just a worker, working for what was in it. And I got it. You’re damn right I got it, while the capitalists were making their dough! They was insured, don’t worry about that. They ---"
"Insured," repeated his listener. "Yes, that’s what I sell. ---"
"You want to know how I lost my eyes?" cried the man. "Well, here it is!" His words fell with the bitter and studied drama of a story often told and told for
money. "I was there in C shop, last of all the folks rushin’ out. Out in the air there was a
chance, even with buildings exploding right and left. A lot of guys made it safe out the door and got away. And just when I was about there, crawling along between those big vats, a guy behind me grabs my leg. He says, ‘Let me past, you ---! Maybe he was nuts. I dunno. I try to forgive him in my heart, guv’nor. But he was bigger than me. He hauls me back and climbs right over me! Tramples me into the dirt. And he gets out, and I lie there with all that poison gas pouring down on all sides of me, and flame and stuff . . ."
He swallowed ---a studied sob---and stood dumbly expectant. He could imagine the next words: Tough luck, my man. Damned tough luck.Now I want to ---"That’s the story, guv’nor."
The spring wind shrilled past them, damp and quivering.
Not quite," said Mr. Parsons.
The blind peddlar shivered crazily. "Not quite? What do you mean, you ---? "
"The story is true," Mr. Parsons said, "except that it was the other way around."
"Other way around?" He croaked unamiably. "Say, guv’nor---"
"I was in C shop," said Mr. Parsons. "It was the other way around. You were the fellow who hauled back on me and climbed over me. You were bigger than I was, Markwardt."
The blind man stood for a long time, swallowing hoarsely. He gulped: "Parsons. By heaven. By heaven! I thought you---" And then he screamed fiendishly: "Yes. Maybe so.Maybe so. But I’m blind! I’m blind, and you’ve been standing there letting me spout to you, and laughing at me every minute of it! I’m blind!"
People in the street turned to stare at him.
"You got away but I’m blind! Do you hear? I’m---"
"Well," said Mr. Parsons, don’t make such a row about it, Markwardt…So am I."
“The Lottery” by 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.
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.