{"product_id":"tender-morsels-isbn-9780375843051","title":"Tender Morsels","description":"\u003ci\u003eTender Morsels \u003c\/i\u003eis a dark and vivid story, set in two worlds and worrying at the border between them. Liga lives modestly in her own personal heaven, a world given to her in exchange for her earthly life. Her two daughters grow up in this soft place, protected from the violence that once harmed their mother. But the real world cannot be denied forever—magicked men and wild bears break down the borders of Liga’s refuge. Now, having known Heaven, how will these three women survive in a world where beauty and brutality lie side by side?\u003cb\u003eStarred Review, \u003cu\u003eBooklist\u003c\/u\u003e, August 1, 2008:\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e“A marvel to read and will only further solidify Lanagan’s place at the very razor’ s edge of YA speculative fiction.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eStarred Review, \u003cu\u003eThe Horn Book Magazine\u003c\/u\u003e, September\/October  2008:\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\"Lanagan's poetic style and her masterful employment of mythic imagery give  this story of transformation and healing extraordinary depth and beauty.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eStarred  Review, \u003cu\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/u\u003e, September 8, 2008:\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\"Lanagan explores the savage and the  gentlest sides of human nature, and how they coexist.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eStarred Review, \u003cu\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/u\u003e,  September 15, 2008:\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\"By turns horrifying and ribald, witty and wise, this tour de  force of a novel almost demands multiple readings to fully appreciate each of its  layers.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eStarred Review, \u003cu\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/u\u003e, November 2008:\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\"Beautifully written  and surprising, this is a novel not to be missed.\"Margo Lanagan’s story collection, \u003ci\u003eRed Spikes, \u003c\/i\u003ewas a \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003eBest Book and a \u003ci\u003eHorn Book \u003c\/i\u003eFanfare, and \u003ci\u003eBlack Juice \u003c\/i\u003ewas a Printz Honor Book. She lives in Sydney, Australia.Liga’s father fiddled with the fire, fiddled and fiddled. Then he stood up, very suddenly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I will fetch more wood.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat’s he angry about? Liga wondered. Or worried, or something. He is being very odd.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSnow-light rushed in, chilling the house. Then he clamped the door closed and it was cozy again, cozy and empty of him. Liga took a deep private breath then blew it out, slowly. Just these few moments would be her own.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut her next breath caught rough in her throat. She opened her eyes. Gray smoke was cauliflowering out of the fireplace, fogging the air. The smell! What unnamable rubbish had fallen in the fire?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe coughed so hard she must put aside the rush mat she was binding the edge of and give her whole body over to the coughing. Then pain caught her, low, and folded her just like a rush-stalk, it felt, in a line across her belly, crushing her innards. She could hardly get breath to cough. Sparks that were not from the fire jiggled and swam in her eyes—she could not see the fire for the smoke. She could not believe what she was feeling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe pain eased just as abruptly. It let her get up. It gave her a moment to stagger to the door and open it, her insides dangerous, liquid, hot with surprise and readying to spasm again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer father was halfway back from the woodpile, his arms full. He bared his teeth at her, no less. “What you doing out?” White puffs came with the words. “Get back inside. Who said you could come out?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I cannot breathe in there.” The cold air dived down her throat and she coughed again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Then go in and don’t breathe! Shut the door—you’re letting the smoke out. You’re letting the heat.” He dropped the wood in the snow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Has the chimney fallen in? Or what is it?” She wanted to step farther out and look.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut he sprang over the logs and ran at her. She was too surprised to fight him, and her insides were too delicate. The icicled edge of the thatch swept down across the heavy sky, and she was on the floor, the door slammed closed above her. It was dark after the snow-glare, the air thick with the billowing smoke. Outside, he shouted—she could not hear the words—and hurled his logs one by one at the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe pressed her nose and mouth into the crook of her elbow, but she had already gulped smoke. It sank through to her deepest insides, and there it clasped its thin black hands, all knuckles and nerves, and wrung them, and wrung them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTime stretched and shrank. She seemed to stretch and shrink. The pain pressed her flat, the crashing of the wood. Da muttered out there, muttered forever; his muttering had begun before her thirteen years had, and she would never hear the end of it; she must simply be here while it rose from blackness and sank again like a great fish into a lake, like a great water snake. Then Liga’s belly tightened again, and all was gone except the red fireworks inside her. The smoke boiled against her eyes and fought in her throat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe pains resolved themselves into a movement, of innards wanting to force out. When she next could, she crawled to the door and threw her fists, her shoulder, against it. Was he out there anymore? Had he run off and left her imprisoned? “Let me out or I will shit on the floor of your house!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was some activity out there, scraping of logs, thuds of them farther from the door. White light sliced into the smoke. Out Liga blazed, in a dirty smoke-cloud, clambering over the tumbled wood, pushing past him, pushing past his eager face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut it was too late for the cold, clean air to save her; her insides had already come loose. She could not run or she would shake them out. Already they were drooling down her legs. She must clamp her thighs together to hold them in, and yet walk, and yet hurry, to the part of the forest edge they used for their excrements.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe did not achieve it. She fell to her knees in the snow. Inside her skirt, so much of her boiling self fell away that she felt quite undone below the waist, quite shapeless. No, look: sturdy hips. Look: a leg on either side. A blue-gray foot there, the other there. Gingerly, Liga sat back in a crouch to lift her numbing knees off the snow. The black trees towered in front of her, and the snow dazzled all around. She heaved and brought up nothing but spittle, but more of her was pushed out below by the heaving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe crouched, panting. From her own noises she knew she had become some kind of animal; she had fallen as low as she could from the life she had had before Mam died. Everything had slid from there, out of prosperity, out of town, out of safety, when Mam went, and this was where of course it ended, with Liga an animal in the snow, tearing herself to pieces with the wrongness of everything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith one last heave, her remaining insides dropped out of her. She knelt over their warmth, folded herself down, and waited to die.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut she did not die there. The snow pained against her forehead and her knees, and the fallen mass of her innards began to lose its heat in the tent of her skirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe tried to lift herself off it. At first her knees would not unbend, so she tipped herself forward onto her front . . . paws, they felt like, her front claws. And hoisted her bottom up from there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, my Gracious Lady.” Her voice sounded drunken and flat. Between pink footprints, her innards lay glossy and dark red. Her feet were purple, blotched yellow, weak and wet with melting pink snow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe should go back to the house—that was all she knew. And so she labored towards it, top-heavy, slick-thighed, numb-footed, and hollow, glancing behind as if afraid the thing would follow her, along its own pink trail.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDa snatched the door open as soon as she touched it. He stood there, hands on hips. “What’s a-matter with you?” The air around him was clear and warm; in the crook of his arm, the fire flowed brightly up around the new logs. Would he even let her in?","brand":"Ember","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300546990309,"sku":"NP9780375843051","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780375843051.jpg?v=1767737902","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/tender-morsels-isbn-9780375843051","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}