Skin Folk

Skin Folk

4.5 2
by Nalo Hopkinson

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A new collection of short stories from Hopkinson, including "Greedy Choke Puppy," which called "a cleverly crafted West Indian story featuring the appearance of both the soucouyant (vampire) & lagahoo (werewolf)," "Ganger (Ball Lightning)," praised by the Washington Post Book World as written in "prose [that] is vivid & immediate," this collection reveals… See more details below


A new collection of short stories from Hopkinson, including "Greedy Choke Puppy," which called "a cleverly crafted West Indian story featuring the appearance of both the soucouyant (vampire) & lagahoo (werewolf)," "Ganger (Ball Lightning)," praised by the Washington Post Book World as written in "prose [that] is vivid & immediate," this collection reveals Hopkinson's breadth & accomplishments as a storyteller.

Editorial Reviews

Washington Post Book World
Vivid and immediate.
San Francisco Chronicle
Hopkinson's use of language is sometimes shocking and usually entrancing; she flinches from nothing.
Dallas Morning News
An important new writer.
Publishers Weekly
Caribbean folklore informs many of the 15 stories, ranging from fabulist to mainstream, in this literary first short-fiction collection from Nebula and Hugo awards-nominee Hopkinson (Brown Girl in a Ring; Midnight Robber). Notable in the folk-tale vein is "Riding the Red," about Red Riding Hood, now a grandma, and her primal relationship with the wolf. Unlikable protagonists feature in several remarkable stories. In "Greedy Choke Puppy" a bitter woman discards her skin at night and kills children for their life-force. In "Under Glass," set in a postapocalyptic Earth scoured by glass storms, a girl caught outside during a storm realizes what it means to be too hard-hearted. Other stories celebrate life as characters learn to come to terms with what and who they are. In "A Habit of Waste," Cynthia, formerly black but now in a new, white body, brings food to an indigent man, only to discover that he has unexpected resources. "Slow Cold Chick" follows Blaise, the terrified owner of a rapidly growing cockatrice, as she gains the courage to speak her mind. Hopkinson implies that the extraordinary is part of the fabric of day-to-day life. Her descriptions of ordinary people finding themselves in extraordinarily circumstances ring true, the result of her strong evocation of place and her ear for dialect. Some stories meander, but underneath them all is a sure grasp of humanity, good and bad, and the struggle to understand and to communicate. Agent, Don Maass. (Dec. 1) Forecast: Though marketed as science fiction, this collection should hand-sell to fans of multicultural fiction. Born in Jamaica, Hopkinson grew up in Guyana, Trinidad and Canada, her current home. Copyright 2001 Cahners BusinessInformation.
Both science fiction and realism make up the stories in this collection that will draw readers in fabulous directions. The award-winning author of Brown Girl in the Ring (Warner, 1998/VOYA August 1998) and Midnight Robber (Warner, 2000/VOYA June 2000), Hopkinson sets her stories in her native Toronto and the Caribbean, borrowing from European and Caribbean folklore, magical realism, and speculative fiction. Riding the Red, The Glass Bottle Trick, and Precious toy with the tales of Red Riding Hood, Bluebeard, and Diamonds and Toads. Under Glass borrows lightly from Andersen's The Snow Queen, but is a haunting and dystopic science-fiction story set in two worlds that come shatteringly close. Anansi, Dry Bone, the Lagahoo, and the Soucouyant are characters from Caribbean folklore that take their places in the stories as well. Ultimately Hopkinson's tales are rooted in real life, and her characters use whatever tools they have at hand—physical or spiritual—to find their way to self-realization and satisfaction. From the graphic designer, who touches up porn Web sites and has an eye for what is underneath the skin in Something to Hitch Meat To, and the lonely Blaise, who learns in Slow Cold Chick to eat what nourishes her, to KC, the Fisherman, who makes her first visit to a whorehouse in a powerfully erotic tale, these stories are arranged carefully, connected end-to-end with images or metaphors. Running through them all is a sense of touch that is evoked in the title. Although she seems to borrow liberally from various literary traditions, Hopkinson's voice is whole and unique. Readers of any genre undoubtedly will find a connection here. Fans of Francesca Lia Block, Annette CurtisKlause, or Robin McKinley who are ready for something new especially might appreciate this stunning and memorable collection. VOYA CODES: 5Q 4P S A/YA (Hard to imagine it being any better written; Broad general YA appeal; Senior High, defined as grades 10 to 12; Adult and Young Adult). 2001, Warner, 260p, $12.95 Trade pb. Ages 15 to Adult. Reviewer: Nina Lindsay SOURCE: VOYA, February 2002 (Vol. 24, No.6)
Library Journal
From a brief but compelling reenvisioning of a classic fairy tale ("Riding the Red") to a haunting tale of a young woman remembering who she really is ("And the Lilies Them A-Blow"), this collection of 15 stories, some of them previously published, demonstrates Hopkinson's lyrical prose and unabashed inventiveness. The author of Brown Girl in the Ring and Midnight Robber, she combines a richly textured multicultural background with incisive storytelling. For most libraries. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Fifteen Afro-Caribbean-flavored fables, some set in Toronto, by lauded Locus Award winner Hopkinson (Brown Girl in the Ring, 1998, etc.). "Riding the Red" varies Little Red Riding Hood tale by adopting the viewpoint of Grandma, whose hormones lust for Wolfie. "The Money Tree" entwines two or three familiar themes: piracy and greed, a mother who's a river nymph, and the fatal problems with water of her two grown children. "The Glass Bottle Trick," a tale to delight Angela Carter, mixes Beauty and the Beast and Persephone and Pluto, telling of young Beatrice, a top student set on medical school; instead, she's seduced into marriage with wealthy, twice-widowed Samuel, who thinks himself ugly, does not want children, and keeps his air-conditioned house sealed and so cold that insects refuse to enter. Much longer is "Fisherman," no fable but rather an erotic tale that goes on and on, about a fisherman losing his virginity in a whorehouse, a story that teases and teases because it has but one secret to reveal and whose highlight turns on a splendidly arresting physical act most readers would find improbable-until one thinks about it. And some may even have done it. "Precious" is a variation on the Midas theme: Isobel and her sister are both blessed and cursed when they give water to an old crone. The sister later spits out bats, spiders and lizards while Isobel, whose greedy husband calls her Precious, spits out diamonds, rubies, even bars of platinum, whenever she speaks. So she remains mute while her husband goads her to talk. The richly veined "Greedy Choke Puppy" makes clear how folklore feeds real magic into everyday Caribbean life. These wonderful duppy and jumby things leave you with abelly full of good feelings, like dumplings bobbing in you like you've never tasted before.

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Product Details

Grand Central Publishing
Publication date:
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8.00(w) x 5.00(h) x 0.62(d)

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Skin Folk

By Nalo Hopkinson

Warner Aspect

Copyright © 2001 Nalo Hopkinson
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-446-67803-1

Chapter One

In my anthology Whispers from the Cotton Tree Root: Caribbean Fabulist Fiction, I introduced the following story with these words: "Eggs are seeds, perfectly white on the outside. Who knows what complexions their insides might reveal when they crack open to germinate and bear fruit?"


The air was full of storms, but they refused to break. In the wicker rocking chair on the front verandah, Beatrice flexed her bare feet against the wooden slat floor, rocking slowly back and forth. Another sweltering rainy season afternoon. The arid heat felt as though all the oxygen had boiled out of the parched air to hang as looming rainclouds, waiting.

Oh, but she loved it like this. The hotter the day, the slower she would move, basking. She stretched her arms and legs out to better feel the luxuriant warmth, then guiltily sat up straight again. Samuel would scold if he ever saw her slouching like that. Stuffy Sammy. She smiled fondly, admiring the lacy patterns the sunlight threw on the floor as it filtered through the white gingerbread fretwork that trimmed the roof of their house.

"Anything more today, Mistress Powell? I finish doing the dishes." Gloria had come out of the house and was standing in front of her, wiping her chapped hands on her apron.

Beatrice felt the shyness come over her as it always did when she thought of giving the older woman orders. Gloria was older than Beatrice's mother. "Ah ... no, I think that's everything, Gloria ..."

Gloria quirked an eyebrow, crinkling her face like running a fork through molasses. "Then I go take the rest of the afternoon off. You and Mister Samuel should be alone tonight. Is time you tell him."

Beatrice gave an abortive, shamefaced "huh" of a laugh. Gloria had known from the start, she'd had so many babies of her own. She'd been mad to run to Samuel with the news from since. But yesterday, Beatrice had already decided to tell Samuel. Well, almost decided. She felt irritated, like a child whose tricks have been found out. She swallowed the feeling. "I think you right, Gloria," she said, fighting for some dignity before the older woman. "Maybe ... maybe I cook him a special meal, feed him up nice, then tell him."

"Well, I say is time and past time you make him know. A pickney is a blessing to a family."

"For true," Beatrice agreed, making her voice sound as certain as she could.

"Later, then, Mistress Powell." Giving herself the afternoon off, not even a by-your-leave, Gloria headed off to the maid's room at the back of the house to change into her street clothes. A few minutes later, she let herself out the garden gate.

"That seems like a tough book for a young lady of such tender years."

"Excuse me?" Beatrice threw a defensive cutting glare at the older man. He'd caught her off guard, though she'd seen his eyes following her ever since she entered the bookstore. "You have something to say to me?" She curled the Gray's Anatomy possessively into the crook of her arm, price sticker hidden against her body. Two more months of saving before she could afford it.

He looked shyly at her. "Sorry if I offended, Miss," he said. "My name is Samuel."

Would be handsome, if he'd chill out a bit. Beatrice's wariness thawed a little. Middle of the sun-hot day, and he wearing black wool jacket and pants. His crisp white cotton shirt was buttoned right up, held in place by a tasteful, unimaginative tie. So proper, Jesus. He wasn't that much older than she.

"Is just ... you're so pretty, and it's the only thing I could think of to say to get you to speak to me."

Beatrice softened more at that, smiled for him and played with the collar of her blouse. He didn't seem too bad, if you could look beyond the stocious, starchy behaviour.

Beatrice doubtfully patted the slight swelling of her belly. Four months. She was shy to give Samuel her news, but she was starting to show. Silly to put it off, yes? Today she was going to make her husband very happy; break that thin shell of mourning that still insulated him from her. He never said so, but Beatrice knew that he still thought of the wife he'd lost, and tragically, the one before that. She wished she could make him warm up to life again.

Sunlight was flickering through the leaves of the guava tree in the front yard. Beatrice inhaled the sweet smell of the sun-warmed fruit. The tree's branches hung heavy with the pale yellow globes, smooth and round as eggs. The sun reflected off the two blue bottles suspended in the tree, sending cobalt light dancing through the leaves.

When Beatrice first came to Sammy's house, she'd been puzzled by the two bottles that were jammed onto branches of the guava tree.

"Is just my superstitiousness, darling," he'd told her. "You never heard the old people say that if someone dies, you must put a bottle in a tree to hold their spirit, otherwise it will come back as a duppy and haunt you? A blue bottle. To keep the duppy cool, so it won't come at you in hot anger for being dead."

Beatrice had heard something of the sort, but it was strange to think of her Sammy as a superstitious man. He was too controlled and logical for that. Well, grief makes somebody act in strange ways. Maybe the bottles gave him some comfort, made him feel that he'd kept some essence of his poor wives near him.

"That Samuel is nice. Respectable, hard-working. Not like all them other ragamuffins you always going out with." Mummy picked up the butcher knife and began expertly slicing the goat meat into cubes for the curry.

Beatrice watched the red lumps of flesh part under the knife. Crimson liquid leaked onto the cutting board. She sighed, "But, Mummy, Samuel so boring! Michael and Clifton know how to have fun. All Samuel want to do is go for country drives. Always taking me away from other people."

"You should be studying your books, not having fun," her mother replied crossly.

Beatrice pleaded, "You well know I could do both, Mummy." Her mother just grunted.

Is only truth Beatrice was talking. Plenty men were always courting her, they flocked to her like birds, eager to take her dancing or out for a drink. But somehow she kept her marks up, even though it often meant studying right through the night, her head pounding and belly queasy from hangover while some man snored in the bed beside her. Mummy would kill her if she didn't get straight A's for medical school. "You going have to look after yourself, Beatrice. Man not going do it for you. Them get their little piece of sweetness and then them bruk away."

"Two patty and a King Cola, please." The guy who'd given the order had a broad chest that tapered to a slim waist. Good face to look at, too. Beatrice smiled sweetly at him, made shift to gently brush his palm with her fingertips as she handed him the change.

A bird screeched from the guava tree, a tiny kiskedee, crying angrily, "Dit, dit, qu'est-ce qu'il dit!" A small snake was coiled around one of the upper branches, just withdrawing its head from the bird's nest. Its jaws were distended with the egg it had stolen. It swallowed the egg whole, throat bulging hugely with its meal. The bird hovered around the snake's head, giving its pitiful wail of, "Say, say, what's he saying!"

"Get away!" Beatrice shouted at the snake. It looked in the direction of the sound, but didn't back off. The gulping motion of its body as it forced the egg farther down its own throat made Beatrice shudder. Then, oblivious to the fluttering of the parent bird, it arched its head over the nest again. Beatrice pushed herself to her feet and ran into the yard. "Hsst! Shoo! Come away from there!" But the snake took a second egg.

Sammy kept a long pole with a hook at one end leaned against the guava tree for pulling down the fruit. Beatrice grabbed up the pole, started jooking it at the branches as close to the bird and nest as she dared. "Leave them, you brute! Leave!" The pole connected with some of the boughs. The two bottles in the tree fell to the ground and shattered with a crash. A hot breeze sprang up. The snake slithered away quickly, two eggs bulging in its throat. The bird flew off, sobbing to itself.

Nothing she could do now. When Samuel came home, he would hunt the nasty snake down for her and kill it. She leaned the pole back against the tree.

The light breeze should have brought some coolness, but really it only made the day warmer. Two little dust devils danced briefly around Beatrice. They swirled across the yard, swung up into the air, and dashed themselves to powder against the shuttered window of the third bedroom.

Beatrice got her sandals from the verandah. Sammy wouldn't like it if she stepped on broken glass. She picked up the broom that was leaned against the house and began to sweep up the shards of bottle. She hoped Samuel wouldn't be too angry with her. He wasn't a man to cross, could be as stern as a father if he had a mind to.

That was mostly what she remembered about Daddy, his temper-quick to show and just as quick to go. So was he; had left his family before Beatrice turned five. The one cherished memory she had of him was of being swung back and forth through the air, her two small hands clasped in one big hand of his, her feet held tight in another. Safe. And as he swung her through the air, her daddy had been chanting words from an oldtime story:

Yung-Kyung-Pyung, what a pretty basket! Margaret Powell Alone, what a pretty basket! Eggie-law, what a pretty basket!

Then he had held her tight to his chest, forcing the air from her lungs in a breathless giggle. The dressing-down Mummy had given him for that game! "You want to drop the child and crack her head open on the hard ground? Ee? Why you can't be more responsible?"

"Responsible?" he'd snapped. "Is who working like dog sunup to sundown to put food in oonuh belly?" He'd set Beatrice down, her feet hitting the ground with a jar. She'd started to cry, but he'd just pushed her towards her mother and stormed out of the room. One more volley in the constant battle between them. After he'd left them Mummyhad opened the little food shop in town to make ends meet. In the evenings, Beatrice would rub lotion into her mother's chapped, work-wrinkled hands. "See how that man make us come down in the world?" Mummy would grumble. "Look at what I come to."

Privately, Beatrice thought that maybe all Daddy had needed was a little patience. Mummy was too harsh, much as Beatrice loved her. To please her, Beatrice had studied hard all through high school: physics, chemistry, biology, describing the results of her lab experiments in her copy book in her cramped, resigned handwriting. Her mother greeted every A with a noncommittal grunt and anything less with a lecture. Beatrice would smile airily, seal the hurt away, pretend the approval meant nothing to her. She still worked hard, but she kept some time for play of her own. Rounders, netball, and later, boys. All those boys, wanting a chance for a little sweetness with a light-skin browning like her. Beatrice had discovered her appeal quickly.

"Leggo beast ..." Loose woman. The hissed words came from a knot of girls that slouched past Beatrice as she sat on the library steps, waiting for Clifton to come and pick her up. She willed her ears shut, smothered the sting of the words. But she knew some of those girls. Marguerita, Deborah. They used to be friends of hers. Though she sat up proudly, she found her fingers tugging self-consciously at the hem of her short white skirt. She put the big physics textbook in her lap, where it gave her thighs a little more coverage.

The farting vroom of Clifton's motorcycle interrupted her thoughts. Grinning, he slewed the bike to a dramatic halt in front of her. "Study time done now, darling. Time to play."

He looked good this evening, as he always did. Tight white shirt, jeans that showed off the bulges of his thighs. The crinkle of the thin gold chain at his neck set off his dark brown skin. Beatrice stood, tucked the physics text under her arm, smoothed the skirt over her hips. Clifton's eyes followed the movement of her hands. See, it didn't take much to make people treat you nice. She smiled at him.

Samuel would still show up hopefully every so often to ask her to accompany him on a drive through the country. He was so much older than all her other suitors. And dry? Country drives, Lord! She went out with him a few times; he was so persistent and she couldn't figure out how to tell him no. He didn't seem to get her hints that really she should be studying. Truth to tell, though, she started to find his quiet, undemanding presence soothing. His eggshell-white BMW took the graveled country roads so quietly that she could hear the kiskedee birds in the mango trees, chanting their query: "Dit, dit, qu'est-ce qu'il dit?"

One day, Samuel brought her a gift.

"These are for you and your family," he said shyly, handing her a wrinkled paper bag. "I know your mother likes them." Inside were three plump eggplants from his kitchen garden, raised by his own hands. Beatrice took the humble gift out of the bag. The skins of the eggplants had a taut, blue sheen to them. Later she would realise that that was when she'd begun to love Samuel. He was stable, solid, responsible. He would make Mummy and her happy.

Beatrice gave in more to Samuel's diffident wooing. He was cultured and well spoken. He had been abroad, talked of exotic sports: ice hockey, downhill skiing. He took her to fancy restaurants she'd only heard of, that her other, young, unestablished boyfriends would never have been able to afford, and would probably only have embarrassed her if they had taken her. Samuel had polish. But he was humble, too, like the way he grew his own vegetables, or the self-deprecating tone in which he spoke of himself. He was always punctual, always courteous to her and her mother. Beatrice could count on him for little things, like picking her up after class, or driving her mother to the hairdresser's. With the other men, she always had to be on guard: pouting until they took her somewhere else for dinner, not another free meal in her mother's restaurant, wheedling them into using the condoms. She always had to hold something of herself shut away. With Samuel, Beatrice relaxed into trust.

"Beatrice, come! Come quick, nuh!"

Beatrice ran in from the backyard at the sound of her mother's voice. Had something happened to Mummy?

Her mother was sitting at the kitchen table, knife still poised to crack an egg into the bowl for the pound cake she was making to take to the shop. She was staring in open-mouthed delight at Samuel, who was fretfully twisting the long stems on a bouquet of blood-red roses. "Lord, Beatrice; Samuel say he want to marry you!"

Beatrice looked to Sammy for verification. "Samuel," she asked unbelievingly, "what you saying? Is true?"

He nodded yes. "True, Beatrice."


Excerpted from Skin Folk by Nalo Hopkinson Copyright © 2001 by Nalo Hopkinson. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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