The Girl Who Ate Kalamazoo by Darrin Doyle

By Darrin Doyle

In this charming novel, Darrin Doyle paints a charming portrait of the all-American family—if the all-American family’s youngest baby ate a complete urban in Michigan with a grin, that is.  Doyle has a flare for writing approximately relatives disorder with a twist. With a distinct combination of realism and fable, the lady Who Ate Kalamazoo is the relocating tale of the hauntingly appealing Audrey Mapes, who started her illustrious “career” by means of downing crayons by means of the carton merely to graduate to consuming a complete urban one chunk at a time. With brilliant, acerbic wit, Doyle information the lifetime of the world’s such a lot talented “eatist” in the course of the eyes of Audrey’s sister, McKenna. via her eyes, we see the true tragedy of the Mapes tale isn't the destruction of a urban, yet particularly, the quiet disintegration of a family members who simply did not rather know the way to like.

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In this charming novel, Darrin Doyle paints an enthralling portrait of the all-American family—if the all-American family’s youngest baby ate a complete urban in Michigan with a grin, that is.  Doyle has a flare for writing approximately kin disorder with a twist. With a distinct combination of realism and fable, the woman Who Ate Kalamazoo is the relocating tale of the hauntingly attractive Audrey Mapes, who begun her illustrious “career” via downing crayons by way of the carton in simple terms to graduate to consuming a whole urban one chew at a time.

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Additional resources for The Girl Who Ate Kalamazoo

Example text

And then, when she was especially ornery—when not only were Toby and McKenna hurdling her legs in a mockery of the slaughter of the Native Americans, but their father was also filling the house with a blinding turpentine reek—at times like these, Grandma Pencil pulled out the heavy artillery. She would cry. Softly at first. A whimpered coo, a morning dove. When the twins didn’t notice, or when their notice consisted only of timid glances in her direction, Grandma’s volume and urgency increased until they approached, heads down, index fingers idly exploring nostrils.

Or better yet, fisherman and bass.  . but the metaphor stops there because what Murray did was far worse than inviting her into an argument. He threatened her core, her spiritual foundation, that bubble of peace into which she’d climbed decades ago—since the Philippines—and risen to a place of calm high above the nightmare of her father’s brutal murder. In April of 1977, on a day when the rain rattled the windows as if the Almighty Himself was getting impatient, Grandma Pencil strolled unannounced through the front door.

Following her father’s instructions (pinned by magnet to the refrigerator, “just in case” McKenna’s memory faltered [it never did]), McKenna climbed the stepladder. She unfolded the towel across the countertop. She filled the sink with two inches of “tepid” water. She submerged the washcloth, swished it, let it drink. She pulled open a drawer and withdrew the silver bell, which was smaller than her five-year-old fist. Using three overhead arm motions, as deliberate as a lion tamer cracking a whip, she rang it.

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