By Linda Sue Park
Tree-ear, an orphan, lives below a bridge in Ch’ulp’o, a potters’ village famed for soft celadon ware. He has develop into interested by the potter’s craft; he desires not anything greater than to observe grasp potter Min at paintings, and he desires of constructing a pot of his personal sometime. while Min takes Tree-ear on as his helper, Tree-ear is elated–until he unearths hindrances in his direction: the backbreaking hard work of digging and hauling clay, Min’s irascible mood, and his personal lack of awareness. yet Tree-ear is decided to turn out himself–even if it skill taking a protracted, solitary trip taking walks to offer Min’s paintings within the wish of a royal fee . . . no matter if it capability arriving on the royal court docket with not anything to teach yet a unmarried celadon shard.
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Extra resources for A Single Shard
A better way to go, or not? You’re off on a holiday, something goes wrong, fifteen minutes later you’re dead. ” “You’re sick,” said Marty. “That’s my point. ” said Jeremy. “I mean, even your own death isn’t only about you. It’s about everyone else you know, too. That airliner—can’t even think about it. But what about all those relatives today? In New York and Cairo? ” “I think that’s sick,” said Sean. “Prolong your suffering so you can prolong their suffering? ” Some other patrons came in—several corpses in white powder and high collars, blood dripping from their mouths.
We’re not necessarily a gay group,” said Sean, examining the bowl of his spoon as he spoke. ” Jeremy and Marty glanced at each other. Sean hadn’t come out to his family and he was still living with them, so his reticence was second nature by now. But really. With HIV and AIDS incubating right there in the booth with them, like holy ghosts—well, that kind of timidity just wasn’t on any more. There was no time. ” said Marty. ” “I got sidetracked. Some woman from Cliffs of Zion fell down the stairs or something.
Angels and little stupid flowers and, for some reason, a fire hydrant. The constant pinging of the hospital PA system paused for once, allowing airtime for a half-dozen measures of some weary song that had been played too often all year long. What was it? Oh, right. “Believe,” by Cher. Tabitha experienced a certain lift. Mom was comatose and Caleb was waiting offstage. For the last day of October, the sun was curiously strong. She thought that she might be blushing, though maybe that was the aftereffect of the idea of blowing the football team in alphabetical order.
A Single Shard by Linda Sue Park