Yellowcake

By Margo Lanagan

Yellowcake brings jointly ten brief tales from the terribly proficient Margo Lanagan--each of them fiercely unique and quietly heartbreaking.

The tales diversity from myth and fairy story to horror and stark truth, and but what pervades is the experience of humanity.  the folk of Lanagan's worlds face trials, temptations, and degradations. They swoon and undergo or even kill for romance. In a perilous global, they search the solace and power that comes from kinfolk and belonging. 

These are tales to be savored slowly and meditated deeply simply because they reduce to the very center of who we are.

“Haunting, lovely, and infrequently painful, Lanagan’s tales are in contrast to anything in fable literature.” --Publishers Weekly, starred review

"Lanagan unravels established myths and fairy stories, weaving them into certain, sharply resonant types during this commonly attractive collection." --Kirkus, starred review

From the Hardcover edition.

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He places his spongy hand on my shoulder. ‘But for now, I’m hoping on you, Sharon. You take care of her for me. ’ I nod and blink. ‘Now, fetch us our cups, daughter. those everyone is thirsty and weary of lifestyles. ’ I deliver the little black cups at the tray. ‘Here, you need to drink this,’ I say to the useless. ‘So that the fireplace won’t damage you. ’ My father, after all, doesn’t must be informed. He beverages the entire Lethe-water in one swallow, places down the cup and smacks his rainy chest as he used to after a swig of apple-brandy. Up comes a burp of flowery air, and the spark dies out of his eyes. I advisor the entire ready lifeless onto the punt. I flick the heavy mooring-rope off the bollard and we slide out into the present, over the natural transparent tears-water braided with wonderful flames. The pink sky is cavernous; the cable dips into the stream in the back of us and lifts out forward, dripping flame and water. I take in the pole and push it into the riverbed, pushing us alongside, me and my boatload of colors, me and what’s left of my pa. My sturdy palms paintings, my lungs seize the new air, my juicy middle pumps and pumps. I by no means realised, all of the years my father did this, what solitary paintings it truly is. { Heads Sheegeh pulled a flimsy factor out of the heap. ‘Ah, one in every of these,’ he acknowledged. Doppo appeared up. ‘Can you devour it? ’ That was once regularly his first query, so that they didn’t get loaded down with dead stuff. ‘It’s too little to burn. may use it as a starter, probably. ’ ‘No, it’s targeted, this one. ’ Sheegeh wiped clean the dirt-clots off the strip of paper with its published numbers. ‘It’s all there, see? the whole lot. now not even torn. ’ preserving the strip used to be like lifting a truly small, brightly lit field to his eye. His mom was once in that field in her pale-blue health facility uniform. She seemed drained. She reached her hand into her pocket for something—her handkerchief, might be, or an inventory she had written herself, of items to do—but a paper tape like this one got here out as a substitute, rolled up well. She used to be an excellent curler and folder and tucker-away of items. She positioned this at the desk distractedly. Father used to be calling information from one other room past this field. (And there have been additional rooms, for snoozing, one for bathing and toileting, and a hallway, and cabinets far and wide that have been pretty much as good as rooms in themselves; anyone of these cabinets will be a superb domestic, nowadays. It wasn’t just like the Duwazza residence, which was once like a cage choked with mice piled all on most sensible of each other. ) what's that? stated the little invisible Sheegeh on the desk, achieving for the rolled factor. ‘It’s for measuring the infants’ heads,’ he acknowledged to Doppo now. ‘At the sanatorium, whilst they’re born. ’ There being no infants convenient, he positioned it round his personal head and held it flat with a fingertip among his eyes. ‘What’s mine? ’ Doppo appeared blankly on the finger, then screwed up his brow to assert that Sheegeh used to be mad. ‘How important is that? ’ Sheegeh didn’t recognize. worthwhile? invaluable? The little field used to be so packed with colours—the shiny calendar-picture, the crimson doorways of the cabinets, that pearly-green desk.

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