Kurzbeschreibung

A debut anthology of short stories, set against the backdrop of the Florida Everglades, features original tales, including "Haunting Olivia," "Z. Z.'s Sleepaway Camp for Disordered Dreamers," "Out to Sea," and the title story, about fifteen young girls who had been raised by wolves and who are painstakingly re-educated by nuns.

Beschreibung

A San Francisco Chronicle, Los Angeles Times , and Chicago Tribune Best Book of the Year

In these ten glittering stories, debut author Karen Russell takes us to the ghostly and magical swamps of the Florida Everglades. Here wolf-like girls are reformed by nuns, a family makes their living wrestling alligators in a theme park, and little girls sail away on crab shells. Filled with stunning inventiveness and heart, St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves introduces a radiant new writer.

Rezension

"A master of tone and texture and an authority on the bizarre, Karen Russell writes with great flair and fearlessness." - Carlo Wolff, The Denver Post "How I wish these were my own words, instead of breakneck demon writer Karen Russell's, whose stories begin, in prose form, where the jabberwock left off. . . . Run for your life. This girl is on fire." - Susan Salter Reynolds, Los Angeles Times Book Review "Karen Russell is a storyteller with a voice like no other. . . . Laced with humor and compassion." - Lauren Gallo, People "One of the strangest, creepiest, most surreal collections of tales published in recent memory. . . . Her writing bristles with confidence." - June Sawyers, San Francisco Chronicle "Twent-five--year-old wunderkind Karen Russell . . . proves herself a mythologist of the darkest and most disturbing sort. . . . Ten unforgettable, gorgeously imaginative tales." - Jenny Feldman, Elle

Klappentext

Here is the debut short story collection from the author of the Pulitzer Prize finalist Swamplandia! and the New York Times bestselling Vampires in the Lemon Grove.

In these ten glittering stories, the award-winning, bestselling author Orange World and Other Stories takes us to the ghostly and magical swamps of the Florida Everglades. Here wolf-like girls are reformed by nuns, a family makes their living wrestling alligators in a theme park, and little girls sail away on crab shells.

Filled with inventiveness and heart, St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves is the dazzling debut of a blazingly original voice.

Auszüge aus dem Buch

Ava Wrestles the Alligator

My sister and I are staying in Grandpa Sawtooth's old house until our father, Chief Bigtree, gets back from the Mainland. It's our first summer alone in the swamp. "You girls will be fine," the Chief slurred. "Feed the gators, don't talk to strangers. Lock the door at night." The Chief must have forgotten that it's a screen door at Grandpa's - there is no key, no lock. The old house is a rust-checkered yellow bungalow at the edge of the wild bird estuary. It has a single, airless room; three crude, palmetto windows, with mosquito-blackened sills; a tin roof that hums with the memory of rain. I love it here. Whenever the wind gusts in off the river, the sky rains leaves and feathers. During mating season, the bedroom window rattles with the ardor of birds.

Now the thunder makes the thin window glass ripple like wax paper. Summer rain is still the most comforting sound that I know. I like to pretend that it's our dead mother's fingers, drumming on the ceiling above us. In the distance, an alligator bellows - not one of ours, I frown, a free agent. Our gators are hatched in incubators. If they make any noise at all, it's a perfunctory grunt, bored and sated. This wild gator has an inimitable cry, much louder, much closer. I smile and pull the blankets around my chin. If Osceola hears it, she's not letting on. My sister is lying on the cot opposite me. Her eyes are wide open, and she is smiling and smiling in the dark.

"Hey, Ossie? Is it just you in there?"

My older sister has entire kingdoms inside of her, and some of them are only accessible at certain seasons, in certain kinds of weather. One such melting occurs in summer rain, at midnight, during the vine-green breathing time right before sleep. You have to ask the right question, throw the right rope bridge, to get there - and then bolt across the chasm between you, before your bridge collapses.

"Ossie? Is it just us?" I peer into the grainy dark. There's the chair that looks like a horned devil's silhouette. There's the blind glint of the terrarium glass. But no Luscious. Ossie's evil boyfriend has yet to materialize.

"Yup," she whispers. "Just us." Ossie sounds wonderfully awake. She reaches over and pats my arm.

"Just us girls."

That does it. "Just us!" we scream. And I know that for once, Ossie and I are picturing the same thing. Miles and miles of swamp, and millions and millions of ghosts, and just us, girls, bungalowed in our silly pajamas.

We keep giggling, happy and nervous, tickled by an incomplete innocence. We both sense that some dark joke is being played on us, even if we can't quite grasp the punch line.

"What about Luscious?" I gasp. "You're not dating Luscious anymore?"

Uh-oh. There it is again, that private smile, the one that implies that Ossie is nostalgic for places I have never been, places I can't even begin to imagine.

Ossie shakes her head. "Something else, now."

"Somebody else? You're not still going to, um," I pause, trying to remember her word, "elope? Are you?"

Ossie doesn't answer. "Listen," she breathes, her eyes like blown embers. The thunder has gentled to a soft nicker. Outside, something is scratching at our dripping window. "He's here."

You know, Ossie's possessions are nothing like those twitch-fests you read about in the Bible, no netherworld voices or pigs on a hill. Her body doesn't smolder like a firecracker, or ululate in dead languages. Her boyfriends possess her in a different way. They steal over her, silking into her ears and mouth and lungs, s