Vocabulary Study Short Story Example 10 Honors

A short story example I wrote for a tenth grade honors class. Words are from A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini. 

        Satchel had been fishing all day and caught nothing but an old Saucony running shoe. The lack of action was due in part to the listless fish that spent the day alleviating themselves from the mid-July heat by hiding in the shade of an oak tree. The remainder of the cause of his going home empty-handed was the blithe manner in which he approached the task. As always, his motivation for spending the day wetting a line was more about enjoying nature’s ubiquitous gifts and wonders than filling his cooler with bass and bluegill.
The young angler perfunctorily tidies up his tackle box, whistles for his Brittany spaniel, Coltrane, and saunters to his pickup truck. He sets his rod and reel, tackle box, and garish orange and blue fishing vest in the bed of the truck, then lifts the tailgate to allow Coltrane to jump in. He accidentally closes the gate on Coltrane’s tail. The canine yelps and pulls his tail free. Satchel apologizes with a rueful frown, and Coltrane assuages his master’s guilt with a magnanimous wag of his tail. Like most good dogs, Coltrane’s grudges are often fleeting.
Satchel hoists himself into the driver’s seat and keys the ignition. The engine whinnies and cuts out. A second attempt yields the same outcome. Satchel sighs. The specter of a battered ignition system may have reached a critical juncture. Coltrane groans and scratches at the rear window.
“It’s okay, buddy, we’ll be out of here in a minute,” Satchel replies. He disguises his despondency with a toothless grin.
After rubbing the wooden Buddha hanging from his rearview mirror and kissing the steering wheel, he takes a deep breath and turns the key a third time. Something under the hood clatters and wisps of smoke rise from the grille. Another loud noise multiplies the fumes and the churning mass suffuses the blue sky with a gray-black tint. A summer breeze sweeps the smoke away, and it disappears as quickly as it came, like an apparition.
“Son of a gun,” Satchel mumbles. 
He hops out of the cab, slams the door, kicks the front-left quarter panel, and throws his keys in the grass, an exorbitant disavowal of his blameless vehicle. While the old Chevy had beleaguered Satchel with repair jobs since the day he inherited it from his grandfather, it had served the family well for nearly thirty years. It was a steadfast companion, a resilient piece of machinery that Satchel’s grandfather had regarded with a reverence that bordered on fanatical. In a matter of minutes, Satchel violated the impunity the truck had earned over its three decades of service. He opens the hood and a wave of heat emanates from the engine block. Satchel curses.
“You’re awfully volatile for a dude with the Buddha hanging from his rearview mirror,” someone interjects.
Satchel turns to find a middle-aged man in a raggedy poncho approaching from the rear of the truck. The stranger pats Coltrane on the head as he passes. This friendly gesture provides the impetus for Coltrane to exit the bed of the truck. He otherwise would have stayed awhile to allow his cantankerous master to settle down.
“Name’s Zen,” the man says. He extends his hand and they exchange a hearty shake. “Old girl won’t start, eh? Let me help you out.”
Zen leans over the engine and adjusts the bandanna that encases his long, unkempt hair. Satchel is taken aback by the man’s odor. Smells like Woodstock ‘69, he thinks. Zen examines the radiator and begins humming a tune. He rubs his hands together, removes a small leather sack from his poncho, and sprinkles its contents, a purple residue, on the radiator, battery, and alternator. This overture, an important ritual in Zen’s approach to automobile maintenance, seems more a farce to Satchel.
“Hey man, what’s up with the fairy dust?” Zen disregards the question. His hands go to work. “I said what’s up with the fairy dust? That serve a purpose? They sell that at Auto Zone?” Zen continues his tinkering, unmoved by Satchel’s inquiries. Satchel moves closer and peers under the hood. “Have you identified the problem?”
“Hmm,” Zen replies. 
The hippie’s aloofness peeves Satchel. “Right, well, if you’re not going to tell me what’s going on, I’m not sure I want you toying around with my truck.”
“Don’t worry, young fella, I’ll have old girl running in fifteen minutes. Twenty tops.” Satchel responds with an incredulous grunt and knitting of the eyebrows. “Guaranteed. And my services are free of charge. Go relax, Satchel. Take your dog down to the creek for a swim. Looks like the heat is wearing him out.” Satchel looks over at Coltrane, who is lying in the grass with his tongue hanging out.
“Okay, if you say so.”
“I prefer working in solitude, anyhow. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Satchel calls Coltrane to his side and they walk to the creek. Zen smiles as they disappear over the embankment, swipes his hair out of his eyes, and turns his attention to the battered truck.

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