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    The Hemingway Tradition
    The Hemingway Tradition
    The Hemingway Tradition
    Ebook61 pages1 hour

    The Hemingway Tradition

    By Kristin Butcher

    1.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Shaw Sebring is sixteen and trying desperately to understand and accept his father's recent suicide. Moving with his mother halfway across the county in an effort to distance themselves from the awful truth, Shaw lands in a new school and finds that the ghost of his father, a best-selling author, has followed him. Determined that he will not follow in his father's footsteps Shaw tries to chart his own course, until circumstances force him to accept that where--and who--we come from have an impact on what we become.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOrca Book Publishers
    Release dateOct 1, 2005
    ISBN9781554697380
    The Hemingway Tradition
    Author

    Kristin Butcher

    Kristin Butcher is the author of twenty books for children. She has been shortlisted for the Silver Birch Award, the CLA Children's Book of the Year, the Red Cedar Award, the IODE Violet Downey Book Award, and the Manitoba Young Reader's Choice Award, among others. Kristin lives in Campbell River, British Columbia.

    Read more from Kristin Butcher

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    • 2/5
      Butcher, Kristin. The Hemmingway Tradition. 96p. Orca Soundings, 2002. Tr.$9.95. ISBN 978-1551432427; LC 1551432420.“Shaw is trying to outrun his father’s ghost.” Without hemming or hawing, Kristin Butcher cuts through to the tough issue of prejudice and its many forms. Shaw’s father was a well-known Canadian writer but harbored a painful secret. After his father's surprising suicide, Shaw and his mother move to Saskatchewan. In an unrealistic amount of time, the main character comes to terms with his father’s death and closet homosexuality, embraces his own talent for writing, and becomes an activist for tolerance. Action-packed, this high impact and low reading level (hi/lo) book for reluctant readers from Orca Soundings is short and to the point. The Hemmingway Tradition, albeit distastefully titled, will capture the attention of reluctant readers, pique curiosity in issues of tolerance, and perhaps even spark interest in the lives of writers. (Grades 8-10)
    • 2/5
      Following his father's suicide, Shaw and his mother move from Vancouver to Winnipeg. Shaw hopes to make a fresh start at school, joining the Volleyball team, making new friends (including a possible romantic interest) and wrestling with the idea of following in his fathers footsteps as a writer.The story of The Hemingway Tradtion, a high impact and low reading level (hi-lo) book, is not enough to keep interest for very long; thankfully, it's only 92 pages. The characters are not very well developed, we never really learn who Shaw is, sometimes he's the cranky teenager, other times he comes off as introspective and quiet. The story also tries to cover quite a bit of ground, including self-image, suicide, and prejudice, none of them quite getting the time and respect they deserve. The saving grace is Butcher's writing, she provides vivid imagery in her descriptions and has good basics, if only they had been fleshed out.

    Book preview

    The Hemingway Tradition - Kristin Butcher

    forever.

    Chapter One

    We had the top down on our old LeBaron and the sun was beating on us from a sky that was nothing but blue. It was my mom’s turn to drive. I was stretched out in the passenger seat, watching Saskatchewan slide by and thinking there must be a couple dozen different ways for a guy to kill himself.

    Hanging was the first thing that popped into my head. It’s so convenient. You can do it almost anywhere with almost anything. A telephone cord, belt, bed sheet. Whatever’s handy. And depending on how much effort you want to put into it, you can break your neck and die instantly or dangle for a while until you suffocate. The cowboys in the Old West had the best idea, though. They just threw a rope over the branch of a tall tree, slipped the noose around the neck of the hangee — usually a cattle rustler — and then whacked the rump of his horse so it took off without him. Slam, bam, rest in peace, Sam.

    Very effective, but not for everybody. Another popular suicide method is wrist slitting. But that’s way too much blood for me. Of course, walking in front of a bus or diving off a bridge would work too. But I’d want something a little less traumatic. Something like poison maybe, or carbon monoxide, or sleeping pills. Something where you just slip away without realizing you’re going. I know that makes me seem like a chicken, but I think that’s because I don’t want to die. If I did I might have a whole different take on things. I might even do what my dad did.

    He ate a bullet and blew half his head away. Messy, but it did the job. I ought to know. I’m the one who found him.

    The memory of that afternoon flared inside my head like a match struck in the dark. I flinched. I couldn’t help it. Though it had been months already, my nerves were still raw.

    My dad would’ve been proud.

    Explore your feelings! Sharpen your senses! Harness your emotions to breathe life into your writing! That’s what he was always telling me. Sometimes he’d get right into my face as he was saying it. I could see the sparks fly from his eyes. I was certain that if they landed on me, I would start to burn with the same fire that was in him.

    I turned to look at the memory that was chasing me. Okay. So how would Dad have described it in one of his books?

    Dylan Sebring, so considerate of others during life, was less so in death. Oh, he’d written a farewell note. And he’d even covered the bed with heavy plastic before lying on it. But the plastic was no defense against the force of a .45-caliber bullet. His brains were part of the wallpaper before Dylan finished squeezing the trigger. The flies found him first. Then his son. By that time the day had warmed up — after all, it was June. Afterwards, Shaw couldn’t remember whether it was the stench of death or the sight of his father in a million sticky pieces that made his stomach heave.

    Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Mom’s voice cut through the wind rumbling around my ears. Wake up. It’s your turn to drive.

    She slowed down and eased the car over to the side of the highway. I pushed myself up in the seat and stretched.

    We’ll drive as far as Regina and then call it a day, she said, slipping the car into park. I’d say another forty minutes and we should be there.

    I stepped onto the pavement, yawned and looked around. I decided Saskatchewan had to be the most boring province in all of Canada. Traveling across it was like running on a treadmill. You never seemed to get anywhere. It was just mile after flat mile of blue flax, yellow sunflowers and waist-high wheat. There weren’t even any curves in the road to jazz things up. You could practically drive all the way from Alberta to Manitoba without ever touching the steering wheel.

    I adjusted the seat and mirror, fastened my seatbelt, stepped on the gas and headed back onto #1 East. Then I grabbed a CD, slipped it into the player and cranked it up. I’d burned it especially for the trip. Stuff I liked, but tame enough that my mom wouldn’t nag me

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