By Alice Petersen
WINNER OF THE QWF FIRST ebook PRIZE
“Alice Petersen writes as eloquently concerning the wildlife as she does concerning the international of human emotion and hope. it is a clever and bold selection of stories.”—David Bezmozgis, writer of The loose World
Alice Petersen's All the Voices Cry is masterful and potent—incredibly gratifying for a reader.
— Kathleen wintry weather, writer of Annabel
An academic’s spouse, suffering to maintain together with her husband’s quest to discover a long-dead author’s Tahitian love-garden, realizes that her personal inspiration of paradise not contains her husband. An architect goals of narrow redheads, Champlain’s astrolabe, and a broom with mortality—and reveals a minimum of the latter at Danseuses 7 Jours. An aged guy forums a trans-Pacific flight in an try and elude the prediction of a psychic, simply to appreciate too past due how the prophecy has formed his actions.
In All the Voices Cry, smooth lifestyles collides with all of the previous pushes and pulls: urban and nation, the worldwide and the neighborhood, the perfect and the genuine. Petersen’s characters chase the mirage of break out, and are stated not easy by means of fact. this can be a booklet rooted in panorama, tangled within the brambles of non-public heritage, and it introduces in Alice Petersen a wondrous new voice that's yours to discover.
Alice Petersen is a author and critic whose paintings has been shortlisted for various Canadian prizes and awards. She was once born in New Zealand and now lives and works in Montreal, Quebec.
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Additional info for All the Voices Cry
Inside, they are more confusing still, with long, winding halls and small flights of stairs. The foyer of the Light House leads to a maze of corridors that snake through the building and eventually to a hall on the second floor that looks down on the courtyard through a window. At the end of the hall, there is a trapdoor in the floor with a heavy iron handle. The door makes a dry creak when it's lifted. We would fasten it to a hook on the ceiling before going down the steep flight of stairs to the dining room and the kitchen.
Next to the gate is a glass-covered notice board with a neon light, and on it is posted the Thought for the Week: WHO IS MORE PRECIOUS? YOU OR YOUR BROTHER? WE ARE ALL CHILDREN OF GOD, AND YOU MUST NEVER TREAT YOUR BROTHER AS A STRANGER. Every Saturday afternoon, my father spends a long time looking through the Bible before carefully grinding ink on his stone and writing out this Thought. The smell of the ink permeates the old box where he keeps his brushes and grinding stone. He pours a few drops from the tiny water pot into the well of the stone, and then, holding the ink stick very straight, he grinds the stick into a dark liquid.
I asked, but the wind drowned out the question. I put the uneaten half of the cream puff back in the box and took it down to the garbage pail in the kitchen. The wind continued to blow as the night wore on. The heat and humidity made sleep difficult. Every time I started to doze off, the sweltering air would drag me back from my dreams. Reiko had returned from visiting her parents, eaten a few pieces of chocolate, and gone to sleep without even brushing her teeth. As I listened to her sugary breathing, I could feel any chance of sleep slipping away.
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