Keep Reading...An eco -read
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The Measure of a Man
A certain eeling comes rom throwing your good lie away, andit is one part rapture. Or so it seemed or now, to a woman withame-colored hair who marched uphill to meet her demise. In-nocence was no part o this. She knew her own recklessness andmarveled, really, at how one hard little int o thrill could out-weigh the pillowy, suocating atermath o a long disgrace. Theshame and loss would inect her children too, that was the worsto it, in a town where everyone knew them. Even the teenagecashiers at the grocery would take an edge with her ater this,clicking painted ngernails on the counter while she wrote hercheck, eyeing the oatmeal and rozen peas o an unhinged am-ily and exchanging looks with the bag boy:
She’s that one.
Howthey admired their own steadast lives. Right up to the day whenhope in all its versions went out o stock, including the crummydiscount brands, and the heart had just one instruction let: run.Like a hunted animal, or a racehorse, winning or losing elt ex-actly alike at this stage, with the same coursing o blood andshortness o breath. She smoked too much, that was anothermortication to throw in with the others. But she had cast herlot. Plenty o people took this way out, looking uture damagein the eye and naming it something else. Now it was her turn.She could claim the tightness in her chest and call it bliss, ratherthan the same breathlessness she could be eeling at home rightnow while toting a heavy laundry basket, behaving like a sensi-ble mother o two.
March is the month to read books themed "Eco- reads".
Try a book with themes about the environment, nature, sustainability or
climate change.
This week's featured book is suspenseful, brilliant tale, centred
around the effects of climate change.
Read the following opening paragraphs to see if you would
like to keep reading this book...
A certain feeling comes from throwing your good life away,
and it is one part rapture. Or so it seemed for now, to a woman with flame-coloured hair who marched uphill
to meet her demise. Innocence was no part of this. She knew her own
recklessness and marvelled, really, at how one hard little glint of thrill
could out-weigh the pillowy, suffocating aftermath of a long disgrace. The
shame and loss would infect her children too, that was the worst of it, in a
town where everyone knew them. Even the teenage cashiers at the grocery would
take an edge with her after this, clicking painted fingernails on the counter
while she wrote her check, eyeing the oatmeal and frozen peas of an unhinged
family and exchanging looks with the bag boy:
She’s that one.
How they admired their own steadfast lives. Right up to the day
when hope in all its versions went out of stock, including the crummy discount
brands, and the heart had just one instruction left: run. Like a
hunted animal, or a racehorse, winning or losing felt exactly alike at this
stage, with the same coursing of blood and shortness of breath. She smoked too
much, that was another mortification to throw in with the others. But she had
cast her lot. Plenty of people took this way out, looking future damage in the eye
and naming it something else. Now it was her turn. She could claim the
tightness in her chest and call it bliss, rather than the same breathlessness
she could be feeling at home right now, while toting a heavy laundry basket,
behaving like a sensible mother of two.
To Keep Reading this book, request it from
the Library.
ily and exchanging looks with the bag boy
