Mister Pip–by Lloyd Jones

Jones, Lloyd.  Mister Pip.  New York: The Dial Press, 2007.

“Everyone called him Pop Eye.  Even in those days, when I was a skinny thirteen-year-old, I thought he probably knew about his nickname but didn’t care.  His eyes were too interested in what lay up ahead to notice us barefoot kids.  He looked like someone who had seen or known great suffering and hadn’t been able to forget it.  His large eyes in his large head stuck out further than anyone else’s–like they wanted to leave the surface of his face.  They made you think of someone who can’t get out of the house quickly enough.  Pop Eye wore the same white linen suit every day.  His trousers snagged on his bony knees in the sloppy heat.  Some days he wore a clown’s nose.  His nose was already big.  He didn’t need that red lightbulb.  But for reasons we couldn’t think of he wore the red nose on certain days–which may have meant something to him.  We never saw him smile.  And on those days he wore the clown’s nose you found yourself looking away because you never saw such sadness.” (p. 1)

When the village freak–the only white man left on the island–becomes the kids’ teacher, life turns upside down.  And when war and rebellion hit the island, it all goes downhill from there.  Who do you trust?

Red Spikes–by Margo Lanagan

Lanagan, Margo.  Red Spikes.  New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2007.

Do you have nightmares?

“It’s not possible, Tregowan had said.  I saw Ark.  No one the size and make of Thomas Chauncey could do such damage.  His ear was torn near right off.” (p. 79)

“And fluffther-fluffther over the rim they came like boiling, only the boilings ran away on little gray-and-pink legs, and pulled gray tails behind them.  They poured off the table edges and ran out the door and away to the west, to the town.” (p. 125)

“In the end I said to it, ‘I have already been eaten by one of you.’  It puffed up all fat and stiff-legged.  ‘Why don’t you go and find a real bird?’” (p. 61)

“‘Well, how about—these is good for a snack, after they’ve lain awhile.’  He looked doubtfully at the pile.  He had one in his hand, by its little blackened leg.  As Oll watched, the leg came out of its rotten hip socket, and the rest of the baby fell back onto the pile.” (p. 52)

“Yes, it was always a trudge here.  But what was the hurry when it came to eternity?  Might as well trudge as not.  Barto was new here; he didn’t realize.  He’d just arrived, and by car accident, so he was still in a kind of shock.” (p. 98)

“Underneath is other cloth, finer, paler, with a shape inside.  I don’t want to touch it.  And you don’t have to, says my hunter’s mind.  See?  You’ve got a second chance to walk away.  Take it, take it.  Go.  My breath, through my teeth, sounds like a straw broom sweeping a stone step.” (p. 37)

What if your nightmares were real?