A Monster Calls: Inspired by an Idea from Siobhan Dowd by Patrick Ness
By Patrick Ness
A #1 ny Times bestseller
An unflinching, darkly humorous, and deeply relocating tale of a boy, his heavily sick mom, and an unforeseen significant visitor.
At seven mins previous middle of the night, thirteen-year-old Conor wakes to discover a monster open air his bed room window. however it is not the monster Conor's been expecting-- he is been anticipating the single from his nightmare, the nightmare he is had approximately each evening when you consider that his mom all started her remedies. The monster in his yard is diversified. it really is historic. And wild. And it wishes anything from Conor. whatever poor and hazardous. It wishes the reality. From the ultimate suggestion of award-winning writer Siobhan Dowd-- whose untimely loss of life from melanoma avoided her from writing it herself-- Patrick Ness has spun a haunting and darkly humorous novel of mischief, loss, and monsters either actual and imagined.
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Extra info for A Monster Calls: Inspired by an Idea from Siobhan Dowd
When the final bell went, Conor had rushed out fast, feeling the burden of school and of Harry and of Lily drop from his shoulders as he put one street and then another between himself and all of that. Stories, he thought again. “Your stories,” Mrs Marl had said in their English lesson. ” Life writing, she’d called it, an assignment for them to write about themselves. Their family tree, where they’d lived, holiday trips and happy memories. Important things that had happened. Conor shifted his rucksack on his shoulder.
His bed. He was back in his bed. Of course it was a dream. Of course it was. Again. He sighed angrily and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. How was he ever going to get any rest if his dreams were going to be this tiring? He’d get himself a drink of water, he thought as he threw back the covers. He’d get up and he’d start this night over again, forgetting all this stupid dream business that made no sense whatso– Something squished under his foot. He switched on his lamp. His floor was covered in poisonous red yew tree berries.
The monster shook its head, but not in answer to Conor’s question. It is most unusual, it said. Nothing I do seems to make you frightened of me. “You’re just a tree,” Conor said, and there was no other way he could think about it. Even though it walked and talked, even though it was bigger than his house and could swallow him in one bite, the monster was still, at the end of the day, just a yew tree. Conor could even see more berries growing from the branches at its elbows. And you have worse things to be frightened of, said the monster, but not as a question.