Prairie Ostrich

Prairie Ostrich

Language: English

Pages: 200

ISBN: 0864926804

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Not every story has a happy ending.

Since her brother's death, eight-year-old Egg Murakami has been living day-to-day on the family ostrich farm near Bittercreek, discovering life to be an ever-perplexing condition. Mama Murakami has curled up inside a bottle, and Papa has exiled himself to the barn with the birds. Big sister Kathy tells stories to Egg so that the world might not seem so awful.

The Murakami family is not happy. But in the hands of Tamai Kobayashi, their story becomes a drama of rare insight and virtuosity. Weighing physical, cultural, and emotional isolation against the backdrop of schoolyard battles and adult mysteries, Kobayashi paints a compelling portrait of a feisty and endearing outsider.

As Kathy's final year in high school counts down to an uncertain future, the indomitable Egg sits quiet witness to her unravelling family as she tries to find her place in a bewildering world.

Une jeune femme en guerre, Tome 1: Été 1943 - printemps 1944

Gaby Bernier, Tome 2: 1927-1940

Nous mentons tous

Le chant des nuits heureuses

Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town (Penguin Classics)



















lighter, cupped in her hands as she shields the flame. It isn’t fair, Egg thinks, and she wants her sister to know, but as she opens her mouth, a rumble from the trail ricochets down the coulee. She can make out the dancing headlights that have veered off the trail. A powder-blue Chevy pulls up beside their truck. Egg squints. The bright beams flash off and Kathy is already at the door, leaning into the open window. Egg would know that car anywhere. “Stacey!” she calls out. She sees a pale arm

Mama in a door frame. “Egg!” Albert called. In the meadow, Albert had found a rise and took Egg to the pitcher’s mound. In this mountain hollow, with a stick for his bat, and an old bird’s nest for his ball, he gave Egg pointers on the perfect pitch, the wind up, the hinge, the last-minute release. “Make every pitch count,” he said. “Make it like you’re in the last inning, two strikes, three down, and the bases are loaded.” She watched him, his elegant toss, how he took the ball, forwards,

Let’s go upstairs.” They stagger to the doorway, in the darkness of the alcove. Mama’s hip hits the china bureau and Egg can hear the tinkling. Twilight scattered by crystal, the glass surfaces glinting darkly. Mama staggers. Egg feels like she is slipping through her fingers. She tries, she does, but Mama’s too heavy. They slide to the floor. The train whistle calls from a thousand miles away. “Osamu,” Mama slurs, “the sirens . . .” Egg is scared that Mama doesn’t know her. “Go to sleep,

through! Egg stares at the photograph. She can see Mama’s dust trail on the picture frame, her fingertips against the glass. In Lethbridge they had stopped at Nakashima’s Japanese Food and Sundries. At least once a year, Papa would stop by Nakashima’s but this was the first time that Egg had gone along. She wandered the aisles — all the names she could not understand. Lethbridge, with so many Japanese-Canadian beet farmers, because of the war. The ghost war, the one you don’t read in history

library, Egg wants the books to swallow her. “Perfect,” she says. As Evangeline turns to her stacks, Egg realizes that no one must know, of Mama’s whiskey, of Papa’s cot, of Martin chasing her, taunting jap jap jap. Egg thinks of Pandora, of all the evils in the world contained in one box. A secret. She will not be like Pandora. She will bury it. Evangeline Granger looks so much like a storybook heroine, like Laura Ingalls in Little House on the Prairie. Her family has been in Bittercreek

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