Read Online Prairie Ostrich by Tamai Kobayashi - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tamai Kobayashi
Tags: Lesbian, Canadian Fiction, Coming of Age Story, Canadian Prairies, Ostrich Farming, Japanese Canadian, Cultural isolation
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pen.
Damn, she swears in a grown-up way. Damn.
Her father is still raking the outside pens. If she cranes her neck far enough, she can see him through the grill.
Plan A, Egg thinks. She grabs a handful of feed pellets.
She slides to the door of the chick pen, making herself as small as possible. She opens the latch and squeezes herself inside. Quiet, quiet, she tells herself but it is too late â the chicks run towards her, cheeping, flapping, their excitement mounting. Egg will be overrun soon so she flings the feed pellets to the back of the pen and laughs as the chicks dart madly after the bait. She picks up Albertâs silver dollar and pockets it.
Pluck. She feels a pluck at her elbow. A chick, smaller than the rest of the brood, no more than a ball of fuzz and a twitchy head, topples at her side. Its feet scrabble against the jute. The head, held up by a noodle neck, bobs, insistent. Its beak opens with a squawk, calling the other fledglings who rush over, trampling it.
Egg reaches out for the fallen chick and remembers her fatherâs instruction â scoop from below, her arm to cradle, not to crush, her hand to support. The chick is the smallest, the slowest one, the one whose pipping had not broken through. A runt, like Wilbur in Charlotteâs Web , an underdog. Egg holds it loose yet not too loose. Like the Goldilocks story, she does it just right. She runs her fingers through the soft brown feathers, over its downy fuzz-covered head. Its eyes are luminous, magically liquid, magically light. Egg shivers at the chickâs fragility. Holding its skittery body, wiggling head, and jutting legs dangling ridiculously, she can feel its beating heart, right in the palm of her hand.
This one she will call Esmeralda.
â¦
Today is a D day. D days start off wrong â like donât and dumb and doorknob. D days and Mama canât get up from bed and Kathy is a grouch. D is dead and damn and dump and ditch.
D day and Egg must be careful. She rubs the outline of Albertâs silver dollar stashed safely in her pocket. At least she has a plan.
In the science room, the glass display holds the skeletons of prairie dogs and field mice. A stuffed fox, with a red-devil grin, stands above the chemistry cabinets with the sign: âDanger. Mixing Explosives May Be Harmful To Your Health.â In the science room, the granite floor is a cold, speckled grey. On the long side-counter there are lines and lines of Bunsen burners and test tubes. Jars and jars of impaled and drowning potatoes clutter the shelf by the window. It hurts Eggâs eyes just to look at them. Potatoes have eyes. She tries not to think of this.
This is the most dangerous time for Egg, the second half of lunch break. Martin Fisken, along with the rest of the townies, is back from his house, after The Buck Shot Show . With the rain, all the students are corralled in the halls and the common rooms. Students sit at the tables, textbooks open.
Today, Egg will try the science room. Martin has spotted her in the library too many times before.
The science room sparkles with a crisp, clean glamour. Itâs all falling stars and comet tails, prism rainbows with a Reach for the Future poster that reminds her of the Jetsons. A model of the Solar System dangles from the ceiling with icy Pluto banished to the corner. Jupiter is the Roman name for Zeus, the Greek God of Thunder. Jupiter has a spot. At the centre of the science room, the Earth spins. A segment slides out to reveal a pie-cut of crust, mantle, and core.
Science is the very big and the very small. The glass cases of butterflies pinned to the whiteboard. The jewel eyes of dragonflies. The gossamer wings of cicadas.
Egg bows her head over these tiny crucifixions. They are the Jesuses of the insect world, a sacrifice for science. Troubled, she turns away.
Egg wants something solid, not this crash and bang of plates and shifts and continental drifts. In the science room, a model
Damn, she swears in a grown-up way. Damn.
Her father is still raking the outside pens. If she cranes her neck far enough, she can see him through the grill.
Plan A, Egg thinks. She grabs a handful of feed pellets.
She slides to the door of the chick pen, making herself as small as possible. She opens the latch and squeezes herself inside. Quiet, quiet, she tells herself but it is too late â the chicks run towards her, cheeping, flapping, their excitement mounting. Egg will be overrun soon so she flings the feed pellets to the back of the pen and laughs as the chicks dart madly after the bait. She picks up Albertâs silver dollar and pockets it.
Pluck. She feels a pluck at her elbow. A chick, smaller than the rest of the brood, no more than a ball of fuzz and a twitchy head, topples at her side. Its feet scrabble against the jute. The head, held up by a noodle neck, bobs, insistent. Its beak opens with a squawk, calling the other fledglings who rush over, trampling it.
Egg reaches out for the fallen chick and remembers her fatherâs instruction â scoop from below, her arm to cradle, not to crush, her hand to support. The chick is the smallest, the slowest one, the one whose pipping had not broken through. A runt, like Wilbur in Charlotteâs Web , an underdog. Egg holds it loose yet not too loose. Like the Goldilocks story, she does it just right. She runs her fingers through the soft brown feathers, over its downy fuzz-covered head. Its eyes are luminous, magically liquid, magically light. Egg shivers at the chickâs fragility. Holding its skittery body, wiggling head, and jutting legs dangling ridiculously, she can feel its beating heart, right in the palm of her hand.
This one she will call Esmeralda.
â¦
Today is a D day. D days start off wrong â like donât and dumb and doorknob. D days and Mama canât get up from bed and Kathy is a grouch. D is dead and damn and dump and ditch.
D day and Egg must be careful. She rubs the outline of Albertâs silver dollar stashed safely in her pocket. At least she has a plan.
In the science room, the glass display holds the skeletons of prairie dogs and field mice. A stuffed fox, with a red-devil grin, stands above the chemistry cabinets with the sign: âDanger. Mixing Explosives May Be Harmful To Your Health.â In the science room, the granite floor is a cold, speckled grey. On the long side-counter there are lines and lines of Bunsen burners and test tubes. Jars and jars of impaled and drowning potatoes clutter the shelf by the window. It hurts Eggâs eyes just to look at them. Potatoes have eyes. She tries not to think of this.
This is the most dangerous time for Egg, the second half of lunch break. Martin Fisken, along with the rest of the townies, is back from his house, after The Buck Shot Show . With the rain, all the students are corralled in the halls and the common rooms. Students sit at the tables, textbooks open.
Today, Egg will try the science room. Martin has spotted her in the library too many times before.
The science room sparkles with a crisp, clean glamour. Itâs all falling stars and comet tails, prism rainbows with a Reach for the Future poster that reminds her of the Jetsons. A model of the Solar System dangles from the ceiling with icy Pluto banished to the corner. Jupiter is the Roman name for Zeus, the Greek God of Thunder. Jupiter has a spot. At the centre of the science room, the Earth spins. A segment slides out to reveal a pie-cut of crust, mantle, and core.
Science is the very big and the very small. The glass cases of butterflies pinned to the whiteboard. The jewel eyes of dragonflies. The gossamer wings of cicadas.
Egg bows her head over these tiny crucifixions. They are the Jesuses of the insect world, a sacrifice for science. Troubled, she turns away.
Egg wants something solid, not this crash and bang of plates and shifts and continental drifts. In the science room, a model
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