Atlantic Books Today AFTERWORD
Teasers T
hey were borne away by the mindless wind. Great swells were brewing. The sloop coasted down their sides, dived into their troughs, and struggled out of canyons of water onto cresting waves. Water shipped over the gunnels. Jake bailed when he could. He was having a hard go of it. He had never been tasked with such responsibility before. When fishing far from land, Guy, friend and skipper of their crew, was the one who handled their boat when caught in sudden gales. With Guy at the tiller, under bare poles or full sail, the run home seemed easy. Jake was finding now that it was far from easy, and he was worried for his family. Then, as sure as the looming islands had appeared before the storm hit, Guy’s rugged face, chiselled by the bite of a thousand winds and wrinkled by a thousand willing smiles, appeared before him. Find ’er sweet spot, Jake! Every punt’s got one! A place among the lops, no matter the size, where only she will fit. ’Tis a wondrous, never-failing thing. The tiller has been polished by my hand, Jake. I give you my strength. The pulse of the sea through wood will guide you. You must find the punt’s sweet spot. Never fear. It will carry you home safe. My God, thought Jake, what is happening? Am I losing my mind? —Excerpted from Redjack by Gary Collins. Published by Flanker Press. flankerpress.com
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hen I got home, I took the ribbon from my pocket and wrapped it around my fingers. It was soft and pretty. I owned nothing like it. Mother was busy baking in the kitchen. I quietly went to her room and propped the mirror up on her dresser. I tied the ribbon around my hair as I had seen Madge do. It wouldn’t stay in place and slid beneath my wiry curls. “You’ll never be like her.” My mother stood behind me in the doorway. I could see her in the mirror. “You’ll never be good enough for them,” she said. “She’s in God’s pocket, that Madge. And you and I, well, we’ll never be there. Everything will always go her way, you just wait and see.” Our eyes met in the round glass and we held each other’s stare. “ “Get to the laundry.” She turned and went back down the stairs. I looked at myself as Madge had earlier that morning, searching for something but unsure what that something was. I took the ribbon from my hair and put it back in my pocket. I thought of the mean old battleaxe from the mill, looking me over like I was trash, and Madge’s mother saying they were visiting friends. I felt the satin ribbon in my pocket and I hated my mother for saying such things. Maybe Boston will be better, I thought with a sudden longing for my father. —Excerpted from Birth Road by Michelle Wamboldt. Published by Nimbus Publishing and Vagrant Press. nimbus.ca
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