The Kappa Child
James Tiptree Jr. Memorial Award for Science Fiction and Commonwealth Writers' Prize Winner, 2001
Sunburst Award Nomination for Canadian Literature of the Fantastic, 2002
From the award-winning author of Chorus of Mushrooms, which won the Commonwealth Writers' Prize for Best First Book in the Caribbean and Canadian Region and was co-winner of the Canada Japan Book Award, The Kappa Child is the tale of four Japanese Canadian sisters struggling to escape the bonds of a family and landscape as inhospitable as the sweltering prairie heat.
In a family not at all reminiscent of Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House on the Prairie, four Japanese-Canadian sisters struggle to escape the bonds of a family and landscape as inhospitable as the sweltering prairie heat. Their father, moved by an incredible dream of optimism, decides to migrate from the lush green fields of British Columbia to Alberta. There, he is determined to deny the hard-pan limitations of the prairie and to grow rice. Despite a dearth of both water and love, the family discovers, through sorrow and fear, the green kiss of the Kappa Child, a mythical creature who blesses those who can imagine its magic...
Results 1-3 of 31
I slam on the brakes to avoid rear-ending it and a worn bungee cord snaps, my
shopping carts break free. Disengaging, they smack into the back of the cab
seats, ricochet the other way, burst through the rear doors to spill out onto the
pavement. "Holy shit!" I gasp, shoulder-check for accidents to ripple behind me.
The silver carts bounce, clang, tumble great acrobatics. Sparks fly and I pray.
Pray there are no pedestrians. "Holy shit!" I careen to the curb and slam to a stop.
Thank god for ...
Silk-covered buttons and satiny smooth, cool to the skin. Rich red and almost
black. I brushed my pumpkin teeth and brushed my ugly hair. Went out to cruise,
as well as anyone could on a Friday evening in a used dairy van. The vehicle
was a gift from my dad, a congratulations gift when I finally got a "steady" job
tracking down errant shopping carts. Until then, I'd worked part-time, a long list of
uninspiring jobs. Chicken-wing cutter, telephone directory delivery person,
furnace cleaner, ...
Spring so fine and green and the river babbling like it does this time of year. God,
what Dad wouldn't do for a river like this one! Too bad, so sad, as PG would say.
Too fucking bad. All of the trackers have their own methodology. Their own
special tricks to garner elusive carts. They can be found in the oddest of places.
Up a tree. On top of a roof. Dangling off a bridge. They're treated in the most
disrespectful ways, and we're the wardens to salvage them. Some of the trackers
drive their ...