Thirteen year old Karma grew up at her Dad’s Bird Education Center in Montana. She has been around birds of prey her wAn absolute delight to read!
Thirteen year old Karma grew up at her Dad’s Bird Education Center in Montana. She has been around birds of prey her whole life and wants badly to become a certified falconer.
Right on the heels of an unscripted event when flying her gyrfalcon ( a rescue bird) named Stark, that leaves Karma injured, her parents decide the time has come to return the rescued bird back to it's original owners in Canada.
Karma is heartbroken and feels responsible for Stark’s behaviour during the demonstration, because she was distracted by other young girls her age in attendance. She cannot believe her parents are making her return Stark who she promised to love always and never abandon.
But Karma and her family find themselves in trouble when a tire blows and their vehicle flips off the highway. Karma’s father is pinned behind the wheel and she must leave her little brother behind with her Dad, and set out to find the nearest highway and summon help. And now she realizes that Stark has escaped from his enclosure in the back of their flipped vehicle.
This, then is Karma’s gritty adventure in the back of nowhere Montana where she encounters a temperamental teenage boy, a little older than herself with whom she has had a previous short lived acquaintance, much to her Father’s chagrin. It is told from Karma’s perspective and along the way she imparts her knowledge, which is considerable, on the art of falconry and why she loves raptors and cannot imagine a life without them. She also faces life threatening challenges as her and Cooper get lost in the backwoods, both poorly equipped for such an adventure. I imagine, children and young adults would be drawn in by the chit-chat nature of much of the narrative. I know I was.
I gobbled it all up and could not wait to learn more. It was compelling, informative without being preachy and highly entertaining. Life lessons quietly, pervade the story and Karma’s incredible bond with her bird of prey is fascinating, irresistible and enchanting.
My ten year old self would have devoured this and went back for seconds. Probably considered to be in the middle grade level, I think this would be suitable for just about anyone over the age of ten.
I have two granddaughters at an appropriate age and cannot wait to introduce them.
Highly recommended. 4.5 of those thirst quenching stars.
My thanks to Charlesbridge Publishing Inc., Terry Lynn Johnson and NetGalley for an opportunity to read this book....more
Laini if you ever put in an appearance anywhere near me I can and do assure you There will be Cake.
If you have ever longed for something, whatever thaLaini if you ever put in an appearance anywhere near me I can and do assure you There will be Cake.
If you have ever longed for something, whatever that may be, you will understand. You long for it because you cannot have it. Not Yet! And so it was I waited and waited, for what to me, considering how strong my longing, was an indecent amount of time. All because, I would only allow myself to read this when I was commitment free, nothing tugging at my reader’s brain, no monkey on my back. Time for cake.
And never fear, Laini Taylor delivers! This woman is an absolute gift from the gods. She feeds a reader’s soul.
I know, I know, what does that even mean? What about the story?
Fair enough, without saying too much, cause seriously, Laini was born to tell this story.
First we meet Lazlo Strange. He is an orphan of unknown origin dropped at a monastery famous for its scriptorium. But one day due to an illness brought about by bad fish Lazlo is tasked with delivering manuscripts to the Great Library of Zosma. Entering the gates of the Great Library, Lazlo was soon awestruck. He would never again return to the monastery, for housed within these gates were: all the texts, all the scrolls and manuscripts, all the stories and books, on all manner of things, not the least of which was The Unseen City. This was an old mystery told to Lazlo by a senile monk named Brother Cyrus. Lazlo listened to Brother Cyrus’s stories the way a cactus drinks rain
There were two mysteries actually: one old, one new. The old one opened his mind, but it was the new one that climbed inside, turned several circles, and settled in with a grunt - like a satisfied dragon in a cozy new lair. And there it would remain - the mystery, in his mind - exhaling enigma for years to come. This was the old mystery.
At one time the city had a name and travellers from the continent of Namaa, far removed from northerly Zosma, brought marvels, that told the name and they told stories that made their way to distant lands. Stories that conjured visions and stirred imaginations. Stories about Gods & Goddesses, monsters and moths, dreams and nightmares, alchemy and blood candy. But one day the caravan of travellers from afar, stopped coming. All together and all at once. And on another day, just as with the travellers, The Unseen City’s name was snatched back from every mind that ever held it, it vanished from every script or book; everyplace it appeared, it was simply gone and in its place was the word Weep.
And then there was the new mystery.
Few will ever witness an act destined to become legend. How does it happen, that the events of a day, or a night - or a life - are translated into a story? There is a gap in between, where awe has carved a space that words have yet to fill. This was such a gap: the silence of aftermath, in the dark of the night on the second Sabbat of Twelfthmoon, at the melted north anchor of Weep.
Laini Taylor is special, a true artist, she paints with words, words that take you to magical places, steeped in myth and fantasy: places and characters so vividly rendered, so richly imagined and so powerfully seasoned, you can taste them on your lower lip. Yes her prose is luscious, but never cloying, not sweet and billowy. No, her words have weight and purpose. They tell a story. They enchant. Really, the prose: so full of beauty, it is like your breath gets caught between words, then traded for more, again, and again, until breathing is reading, and reading is breathing, and they become one: each word a glistening drop of dew, essential to the fragrance and supple of the petal.
It was bound to happen at some point. I have never before acquired one of these ½ books or companion books if you prefer. So why now? We are talking LIt was bound to happen at some point. I have never before acquired one of these ½ books or companion books if you prefer. So why now? We are talking Laini Taylor here, goddess of words, high priestess of literary magic. And I needed a fix. It has been a long time since I finished The Daughter of Smoke & Bone trilogy and I had a deep hankering for more of this woman’s magic pen.
So enter Night of Cake & Puppets, which is really just a little novella about the night that Zuzana and Mik got together. Here it is and it is delightful.
No need to worry about fallen angels or marauding chimaera. No Karou and Akiva around to steal the spotlight.
Better still, an elaborate, little treasure hunt of sorts is afoot; one that is set in winter and winds through the picturesque streets of Prague. Our violin boy, Mik, starts out with a clue left to him in secret by Zuz, who is determined to finally have a conversation with the musician she cannot seem to stop thinking about. If he interprets and follows her clue correctly he will surely find another. A little bit of magic may even unfold as Zuz has a small handful of scuppies left.
Mik is doing great and Zuz is preparing herself for the end game when she suddenly realizes that the tables have been turned and now she is the one following questionable directions.
There are puppets, sometimes they even embrace and there is most assuredly cake.
Who knows there may even be a kiss or two before Mik and Zuz part company for the night. You will just have to read it and enjoy a sip or two of Laini’s delectable words for yourself. Even if they are, oh so sadly, served in an all too small teacup.
Boy howdy! Where did this goddess of words with the pink hair come from? I am not usually a big fan of the short story, but I do declare, I will read Boy howdy! Where did this goddess of words with the pink hair come from? I am not usually a big fan of the short story, but I do declare, I will read anything this literary seductress writes, even her stroked out grocery list, so send them on down, and I will eat them up.
Why oh why, would I, with my meagre abilities, even try, to persuade you to read these stories, each of which involve a kiss, when Laini herself awards us a brief glimpse of what is to come.
Goblin Fruit (my favourite)
There is a certain kind of girl the goblins crave. You could walk across a high school campus and point them out: not her, not her, her. The pert, lovely ones with butterfly tattoos in secret places, sitting on their boyfriends’ laps? No, not them. The girls watching the lovely ones sitting on their boyfriends’ laps? Yes. Them.
The goblins want girls who dream so hard about being pretty their yearning leaves a palpable trail, a scent goblins can follow like sharks on a soft bloom of blood. The girls with hungry eyes who pray each night to wake up as someone else. Urgent, unkissed, wishful girls. Like Kizzy.
Kizzy wanted it all so bad her soul leaned half out of her body hungering after it, and that was what drove the goblins wild, her soul hanging out there like an untucked shirt.
Spicy Little Curses
Kissing can ruin lives. Lips touch, sometimes teeth clash. New hunger is born with a throb and caution falls away. A cursed girl with lips moist from her first kiss might feel suddenly wild, like a little monsoon. She might forget her curse just long enough to get careless and let it come true. She might kill every-one she loves.
She might and she might not.
A particular demon in India rather hoped she would.
This is the story of the curse and the kiss, the demon and the girl. It’s a love story with dancing and death in it, and singing and souls and shadows reeled out on kite strings. It begins underneath India, on the cusp of the last century when the British were still riding elephants with maharajas and skirmishing on the arid frontiers of the empire.
The story begins in Hell.
Hatchling
Six days before Esme’s fourteenth birthday, her left eye turned from brown to blue. It happened in the night. She went to sleep with brown eyes, and when she woke at dawn to the howling of wolves, her left eye was blue. She had just slipped out of bed when she noticed it. She was headed to the window to look for the wolves – wolves in London, of all impossible things! But she didn’t make it to the window. Her eye flashed at her in the mirror, pale as the wink of a ghost, and she forgot all about the wolves and stared at herself.
It was no trick of the light. Her eye was an eerie white-blue, the color of ancient ice in a place that never thaws, and as startling as it was, there was something profoundly familiar about it too. Esme’s blood quickened as a shock of memories pulsed through her: a world of snow and spires; a milky mirror framed in jewels; the touch of warm lips on hers.
Esme swayed on her feet. These weren’t her memories. This wasn’t her eye. She clamped a hand over it and ran to wake her mother.
As a prelude to each of these stories Jim Di Bartolo graces these pages with graphic illustrations, which in themselves are well worth the price of admission.
Gather round boys and girls and listen to these fairy tale type stories from a writer of unparalleled imagination and singular panache.
I picked this up, after much waiting and wanting, a little over two weeks ago and proceeded to devour it. No that will not do. That word, devour, mighI picked this up, after much waiting and wanting, a little over two weeks ago and proceeded to devour it. No that will not do. That word, devour, might also suggest: to drink or take in, absorb, appreciate, relish and feast on. And that, does not, in any way convey what happened. I inhaled it, gasping for air, nostrils flaring, sweeping aside each page, eyes burning through the words, flames licking, leaving no time to chew or swallow, and no taste to fill my mouth or feed my taste buds. It was all gorge and bolt, gulp and guzzle, gobble and cram. So great was my need to know.
Take note would be readers, this is not the way to read this book. And so it was, that having once satisfied my need to know, that I felt free then, to go back, free to savour, to relish and absorb , free to drink in, feast on, and free to allot each word the time and space to roam free, time to linger on my tongue and trickle slowly through my senses. Time for cake.
Once up a time, An angel and a devil pressed their hands to their hearts And started the apocalypse.
As I read this the second time, I marked passages, pages of them really, passages so beautiful and exquisite, so deep and dazzling like diamonds shining through the rough, but in the end I have chosen not to share them here. It would not serve to sever them from the rest. No steak without mushrooms or lobster sans butter, apple pie needs ice cream and like spaghetti needs sauce, Laini Taylor’s breathtaking words need all the rest, served only in the order given. An artist wants you to see the whole picture, finished and framed for viewing, not bits and pieces, stolen through a peek hole of my choosing. And this my friends is a brilliant work of art. It has weight! It is also the absolute best conclusion to any trilogy, no wait, strike that, this is hands down, the absolute best YA trilogy, I have ever encountered.
Once upon a time, There was only darkness. And there were monsters vast as worlds who swam in it.
I find myself unequal to the task of finding the right words to persuade you dear, fellow reader to pick this up, open the cover and drink it all in. But if you have not yet, start first with Daughter of Smoke & Bone. You can thank me later.
This is an alien invasion, right? And if you had any doubts after reading The 5th Wave just how far these beings out of time and space will go in searThis is an alien invasion, right? And if you had any doubts after reading The 5th Wave just how far these beings out of time and space will go in search of dominion over this planet and its indigenous occupants, the opening chapter of The Infinite Sea will erase blast those doubts into smithereens. It grabs you by the throat and whispers wetly in your ear…..”Listen Up Chump!”
We pick up with Cassie right where book one ended. She’s got Sams, with his bedraggled bear, as well as Zombie and the rest of Ben’s ragtag group, waiting with mounting impatience for Evan. Where in hell is he or as Ringer might say, “What to hell is he?”
The focus here is not so much on Ben and Cassie or even Evan for that matter. Instead we learn more about that ragtag squad of Ben’s, most notably Ringer. That is not to say the rest of them are ignored, in fact we do learn more about Evan’s earlier (pre invasion) days, which is how we meet Grace. This is Cassie’s first impression:
Dumbo was back in the doorway, slack-jawed, red-eared, and in the grasp of a tall girl with a cascade of honey-blonde hair and striking Norwegian-model-type features, piercing blue eyes, full, pouty, collagen-packed lips, and the willowy figure of a runway fashion princess. “Hello Evan” Cosmo Girl said. And of course her voice was deep and slightly scratchy like every seductive villainess ever conceived by Hollywood.
Yancey gets an A plus for this character. I loved her.
But back to Ringer, following her and learning more about this rigid, void of feeling, unsmiling girl will lead the reader to a better, okay I’m just going to say, understanding of what is really going down here.
Maybe, hard to know for sure, when you’re riding a paradigm shifting wave……..Woot!
To many, I was myth incarnate,the embodiment of a most superb legend, a fairy tale. Some considered me a monster, a mutation. To my great misfortuneTo many, I was myth incarnate,the embodiment of a most superb legend, a fairy tale. Some considered me a monster, a mutation. To my great misfortune, I was once mistaken for an angel. To my mother, I was everything. To my father, nothing at all. To my grandmother, I was a daily reminder of loves long lost. But I knew the truth - deep down, I always did. I was just a girl.
Magical realism and I do not always get along. More often than not it leaves me untouched or I shy away from it all together. But for every rule there is an exception and this book, like fresh baked bread, still warm from the oven, is impossible to resist.
It is so beautiful, soulful and tender, yet it is filled to the brim with death and sorrow. It is a story about people who cut out their hearts for love, a woman who becomes a canary and a handsome man with his face blown off. And it is a story about a girl who is born with wings. Her name is Ava and she has a twin brother, Henry, who never speaks, at least not for years and when he finally does it is with a mishmash of words and languages that do not make sense to anyone, except perhaps Henry.
Fate. As a child, that word was often my only companion. It whispered to me from dark corners during lonely nights. It was the song of birds in spring and the call of the wind through bare branches on a cold winter afternoon. Fate. Both my anguish and my solace. My escort and my cage.
In order to best understand the plight of Ava Lavender, we need to go back, way back, two or three generations, and meet the family Roux. The story centres on the lives of three women, Emilienne, Vivianne and Ava. They live in Seattle in a house that stands alone on a hill on Pinnacle Lane. It is the color of faded periwinkles, with a white wraparound porch and an onion-domed turret with a widow’s walk right up there on top.
It is not a happy go lucky story. It is at turns dark and violent, with murder and suicide, amid the wreckage of broken hearts. Readers should be warned that there is at least one scene in here that is so dark and violent, in such an unexpected way, that it fare caught my breath and held it hostage for a soul shaking moment or two. Still the prose is delicate and lustrous and lands feather light on all the right notes.
I need to thank karen brissette, who once again has lead me to an unexpected and wonderfully, delectable book. You should all read her review, it’s brilliant.
And remember: Just because love don’t look the way you think it should, don’t mean you don’t have it.
"Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s."
Brandon Sanderson has hit a home run here in this awesome world of
"Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s."
Brandon Sanderson has hit a home run here in this awesome world of chalk, just sick with possibility. He drops you into this world of chalk drawings that come to life, possess power and threaten the main protagonists, who also duel and defend in chalk.
These protagonists, the people of whom I speak, are interesting; possess a depth that contradicts Sanderson’s sparse prose. I found it easy to connect with and care about them.
But they are at risk, under attack from the wild chalkings.
The concept is so simple. The future is wide open and invites complexity.
Ben McSweeney’s illustrations are spot on, deftly portraying the rules of battle, bursting with Sanderson’s positively plump pace of potential.
The Rithmatist is sure to spark discussion, invite lively, animated debate, especially among those strategic thinkers, those denizens of debauchery.
I love that there are so many excellent options available to our young readers today. They own tomorrow.
You can too, just gather your knowledge; draw your lines of vigour and forbiddance. Get in your circle, imagine well, your chalkings, then plan and maintain your offense.
Arah-Lynda
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