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Quote by Michael Grant

“Hey, brah,” Quinn said. “What is going on, do you know?” Sam asked. “It’s a club.” Quinn grinned. “Man, you must be working too hard. Everyone knows about it.” Sam stared at him. “It’s a what?” “McClub, brah. All you need is some batteries or some toilet paper.” This announcement left Sam baffled. He considered asking Quinn for clarification, but then Albert appeared, formally dressed, like he thought it was graduation or something. He actually had on a dark sports coat and slacks in a lighter shade. His shirt was pale blue, collared, and ironed. Spotting Sam, he extended his hand. Sam ignored the hand. “Albert, what is going on here?” “Dancing, mostly,” Albert said. “Excuse me?” “Kids are dancing.” Quinn caught up then and stepped in front of Sam to shake Albert’s still-extended hand. “Hey, dude. I have batteries.” “Good to see you, Quinn. The price is four D cells, or eight double As, or ten triple As, or a dozen Cs. If you have a mix, I can work it out.” Quinn dug in his pocket and produced four triple A batteries and three D cells. He handed them to Albert, who agreed to the price and dropped the batteries into a plastic bag at his feet. “Okay, the rules are no food, no alcohol, no attitude, no fights, and when I call ‘time,’ there’s no arguing about it. Do you agree to these rules?” “Dude, if I had any food, would I be here? I’d be home eating it.” Quinn put his hand over his heart like he was pledging allegiance to the flag and said, “I do.” He jerked a thumb back at Sam. “Don’t bother with him: Sam doesn’t dance.” “Have a good time, Quinn.”

Quote by Michael Grant

Book:Hunger

Work

Hunger

In this gripping narrative, the protagonist navigates a harsh, unforgiving world where scarcity and desperation are the norm. The story delves into the psychological and physical toll of enduring extreme hunger, offering a poignant look at the human spirit under duress. more

Author

Michael Grant
Michael Grant

Michael Grant is an American young adult author known for his distinctive narrative style and profound insights into social issues. His works often focus on the growth of teenagers and complex social topics, enjoying great popularity among readers. more

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“Where are you going, Albert?” Albert said nothing. How rare, Quinn thought: Albert speechless. “Not really your concern, Quinn,” Albert said finally. “You’re running out.” Albert sighed. To his three companions he said, “Go ahead and get in the boat. The Boston Whaler. Yes, that one.” Turning back to Quinn he said, “It’s been good doing business with you. If you want, you can come with us. We have room for one more. You’re a good guy.” “And my crews?” “Limited resources, Quinn.” Quinn laughed a little. “You’re a piece of work, aren’t you, Albert?” Albert didn’t seem bothered. “I’m a businessman. It’s about making a profit and surviving. It so happens that I’ve kept everyone alive for months. So I guess I’m sorry if you don’t like me, Quinn, but what’s coming next isn’t about business. What’s coming next is craziness. We’re going back to the days of starvation. But in the dark this time. Craziness. Madness.” His eyes glinted when he said that last word. Quinn saw the fear there. Madness. Yes, that would terrify the eternally rational businessman. “All that happens if I stay,” Albert continued, “is that someone decides to kill me. I’ve already come too close to being dead once.” “Albert, you’re a leader. You’re an organizer. We’re going to need that.” Albert waved an impatient hand and glanced over to see that the Boston Whaler was ready. “Caine’s a leader. Sam’s a leader. Me?” Albert considered it for a second and shook the idea off. “No. I’m important, but I’m not a leader. Tell you what, though, Quinn: in my absence you speak for me. If that helps, good for you.” Albert climbed down into the Boston Whaler. Pug started the engine and Leslie-Ann cast off the ropes. Some of the last gasoline in Perdido Beach sent the boat chugging out of the marina. “Hey, Quinn!” Albert shouted back. “Don’t come to the island without showing a white flag. I don’t want to blow you up!”

“He showed, in a few words, that it is not sufficient to throw together a few incidents that are to be met with in every romance, and that to dazzle the spectator the thought should be new, without being farfetched; frequently sublime, but always natural; the author should have a thorough knowledge of the human heart and make it speak properly; he should be a complete poet, without showing an affectation of it in any of the characters of his piece; he should be a perfect master of his language, speak it with all its pruity and with the utmost harmony, and yet so as not to make the sense a slave to the rhyme. Whoever, added he, neglects any one of these rules, though he may write two or three tragedies with tolerable success, will never be reckoned in the number of good authors.”

“When girls like us fall, there’s no one to catch us. Least of all that boy for whom we’ve taken the fall. We’re the girls with secrets and witchy hearts. We’re the girls who listen to sad songs. Who slow dance to them with tears streaming down our faces, even as a smile lingers on our lips. Who cry in our pillows at night and who ride our sunshine-yellow bicycle along the empty, desolate, miserable places, where no one goes.”