Here are some things that Sacred Chickens wants you to check out this week!
Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell- by Susanna Clarke-
What is it? An epic story centered around to powerful magicians in England during the 19th century. The novel is hard to describe due to scope, but it centers around the two men and how their lives intersect, mostly through their competitiveness. It's very long but worth every second.
The Night Strangers
By Chris Bohjalian
Review by Jarad Johnson
Small towns can often seem picturesque, quiet and overall just a peaceful place to live. But, as this book shows, that’s not always the case. Usually, it’s the people who don’t live there that have this rosy picture. Small town life can sometimes be much more complicated than living in a city. Particularly if there’s an evil group of people intent on killing your children. I’m sure that doesn’t happen in all small towns, just the interesting ones.
Hello! Here's a few blogs that Sacred Chickens thinks you should be reading! All of them are great and worth your time! Happy reading!
Offering a wide variety of articles on book related news, as well as social and political commentary.
If you cant seem to find a book you want to read, the variety of reviews offered at Brain pickings will surely have something to your taste, as well as being thought provoking and insightful.
The books section of the Bustle website is the place to go if you're looking for current, up to date information about the book world. There's also posts that cover a wide variety of topics, including fanfiction, Harry Potter fan theories, and more.
The Last Encore- Voodoo Rumors Book Two
Written by D. Alan Lewis
Review by Jarad Johnson
Many people know Nashville as the City of Music, but author D. Alan Lewis has written a much darker narrative for the capitol of Tennessee. That may actually be fitting for the city because a study ranked Nashville sixth in the list of Americas most sinful cities. I’d put that on a plaque or something. Anyway, in his novel, the Last Encore, Nashville is the unwitting host to all manner of supernatural activities. We’re talking ghosts, vampires, demons, the works, and of course the man who hunts them, Thomas Dietrich, a sort of modern Van Helsing. When you read that description, you might assume that the book will just be a rehashing of old tropes and things that have been seen before, you would be incorrect. Yes, the idea of a monster hunter is not exactly new, but I found the book to be captivating, well written, and not at all stereotypical.
Now that we're moving to Atlanta, Essie is away at school, and Lady Gwen is in that great chicken house in the sky, this piece, first published in 2013, fills me with nostalgia.
Perhaps you are wondering what it is like to be me? How glamorous it must be to sit around in the early morning and write a blog and some really weird stories that no one wants to even pay you for or possibly even read. Well...you are in luck because today I am going to let you know what a typical day in the world of Julie is like. I am sure you will come away thinking....I should write a blog myself or some silly stories or....not.
5:55 AM: I am awake. The alarm is set for 6:15. Why am I not asleep? I want to be asleep. I should be asleep. I close my eyes. I am not asleep. I open my eyes. I am tired. Who gets up at this unearthly hour? Why am I here? What is the answer to life the universe and everything? Why does it have anything to do with getting up before 6 AM? I hear the dog at the door. She somehow knows I am awake. If I don't get up now she will go and poop on the porch. I get up.
On the Other Side of the Window
Written by Marianne Szlyk
Review by Jessica Purdy
“On the Other Side of the Window” begins at the end and ends where the speaker began. Through the beginning section thoughtfully named “Looking Out at Eaarth”, the reader wanders with the poet over the dystopian Eaarth, (another name for Earth as it undergoes climate change, coined by Bill McKibben, an environmental activist and writer), and imagines with great anxiety and accuracy where we are headed. From the creep of vegetation towards our warming north: “These trees never grew this far north before”, to the juxtaposition of pollution and natural settings “the torn,/black bag/blossoming/in the water” the speaker of these poems walks through the world seeing things the way they are and the way they will end, naming all of us complicit in our environment’s demise: “We wait, take small sips/of bottled water, then wait/some more. We tourists//fly from disaster/to disaster, our quick flights/adding fuel to the flames.”
by Lane Mochow
When I met the Jesus
He took my hand, kissed it.
He told me He was Jesus
Born with black skin.
He didn't tell me to follow Him,
To fall before his feet, to kneel low.
He told me my name
Meant "Heaven on Earth".
He didn't tell me I was hell bound,
Destined for smokey flames and torment.
He told me my nose hairs
Helped me smell the supernatural.
He told me I would be His
Sixteenth consort and bear His first child.
He told me He never truly died,
Just fell into an unconscious dreamscape.
Today Sacred Chickens is publishing the third and final winner of our writing contest. Be sure to check this and the other posts out! Happy reading!
Third Place: "Master of the Marshes" by Danny Cove
We are still newcomers to this swamp, but I would venture to call it home. Little has been built, of course, but that is owing to our very rocky start. But soon that will change, as this particular clearing will become the homestead. Each family will build their house from whatever they can find – most likely mud, clay and driftwood which hasn’t yet rotted – and once they finish they’ll help out those who are still building. I began construction of my own house yesterday, drawing out its foundations and laying a floor of red clay that I’d dug from one of the banks that vanished into a mire. It should be dry by tomorrow morning, and then I’ll start work on the walls. All-in-all, there are seven families and eleven singles to form our community. It’s very small, and our original numbers – twelve families with twenty-three singles – were not so much greater. But this clearing gets enough sunlight that it should make for a good homestead, with some gardens between the houses and an adjacent clearing for more diligent farming.
Here at Sacred Chickens, we are going to be publishing the stories that won our writing contest over the next couple of days, and today we have our second place winner. Be sure to check them all out and happy reading!
Second Place: "Jolene" by Ethan Willis
(Please be advised that this story contains graphic language and sexual situations)
We thought a weekend at Hilton Head would be good for our marriage. We made the four hour drive for the most part in the cold silence we were accustomed to. He drove while I looked out the window or checked my phone, occasionally telling him to slow the hell down. He would say I was a nag. I would tell him he would get us both killed. Not that a small part of me wouldn’t have minded that.
Here at Sacred Chickens, we are going to be publishing the stories that won our writing contest over the next couple of days, with the first going up today in this very post! Be sure to check them all out and happy reading!
FIRST PLACE: Coping Mechanism by Adam Padgett
Entry one, May 3, 2007
So the people in the white coats insist that I start writing down my personal experiences, thoughts, and feelings. I feel like it's stupid, but they'll probably take something away from me if I don't do this. I guess, since this is my first entry in this journal, I'll write a summary of things so far.
I think my name is Max. It's what the doctors call me. I wish I could remember my last name, but I've been in this place so long now that I forgot. I guess I'm about sixteen. All of the “experiences” they want me to write down are boring. All I do is stay in this white room and follow a schedule. I wake up when the lights come on; I bathe and take my meds. Someone comes in and teaches me about math and English and crap like that until time to eat. After I eat, the therapist comes in and we talk about junk. She's probably the one who suggested this stupid journal. After that, I just do whatever I can in this room until dinner and lights out.
That's my life as far as I remember. Same things happen every week. Nothing changes. As far as “thoughts and feelings” go, I've got nothing to write down that I haven't already told the therapist. There. I started the journal. Maybe this will be enough.