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- KurzbeschreibungIn The Flame Alphabet , the most maniacally gifted writer of our generation delivers a novel about how far we will go in order to protect our loved ones.<br>The sound of children's speech has become lethal. In the park, adults wither beneath the powerful screams of their offspring. For young parents Sam and Claire, it seems their only means of survival is to flee from their daughter, Esther. But they find it isn't so easy to leave someone you love, even as they waste away from her malevolent speech. On the eve of their departure, Claire mysteriously disappears, and Sam, determined to find a cure for this new toxic language, presses on alone into a foreign world to try to save his family.
- AutorBen Marcus
- VerlagRandom House LCC US
- Seiten304 Seiten
- Gewicht230 g
- LeseprobeBy early December we huddled at home, speechless. If we spoke it was through faces gripped in early rigor mortis. Our neighborhood had gone blank, killed down by winter. It was too cold even for the remaining children to do much hunting.<br>I don't know how else to refer to their work, but sometimes they swarmed the block, flooding houses with speech until the adults were repulsed to the woods.<br>You'd see a neighbor with a rifle and you'd hear that rifle go off. The trees stood bloodless, barely holding on in the wind. We sat against the window and waited, spying out at the children when they roved through. The children- they should have been called something else-barking toxic vocals through megaphones as they held hands in the street.<br>I hoped they wouldn't turn and see us in the window, come to the door. I hoped they wouldn't walk up the lawn and push their megaphones against the glass. And always I hoped not to see our Esther in these crowds, but too often there she was in the pack, one of the tallest, bouncing in the winter nighttime fog, breathing into her hands to keep warm. She'd finally found a group of kids to run off with.<br>If there was an escape to engineer we failed to do so, even while some neighbors loaded cars, smuggling from town when they'd had enough. The quarantine hadn't been declared, but in our area they weren't letting children through checkpoints, except by bus. Basic containment. If you wanted to leave, you left alone.<br>Even so, bulky rugs were thrust into trunks. Items that required two people to carry. Usually wrapped in cloth, sometimes squirming of their own accord, a child's foot poking out. A clumsy game of hide-and-seek, children sprawled out in cargo carriers, children disguised as something else, so parents could spend a few more minutes with what ailed them.<br>Claire retired as my test subject. She stopped appearing in the kitchen for night treatments, declined the new smoke. When I served infused milk she fastened her mouth shut. If she accepted medicine from me she did so unwittingly, asleep, whimpering when the needle went in.<br>I couldn't blame her, falling away like that, embracing the shroud of illness. But I did. I conducted nightly campaigns of blame and accusation, silently, in the monstrous internal speech that is only half sounded out, a kind of cave speech one reserves for private airing. In these broadsides Claire spun on a low podium and absorbed every accusation.<br>If I prepared a bowl of steamed grain and left it on the table for her, salted as she liked it, pooling in the black syrup, she passed her spoon through it, held up a specimen for study, and could not, just never could, finally slide it in her mouth
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