GIVEAWAY: WE DON’T KNOW WHY BY NANCY SPRINGER EBOOK EDITION
Who: Untreed Reads
What: OBS and Untreed Reads are teaming up once again for the Holidays to give one lucky reader the opportunity to win an eBook copy of We Don’t Know Why by Nancy Springer!! All you have to do is click on one of the options or on everyone of them for more possibilities to win!!
When: This giveaway will be running between December 27th through January 5th. Giveaway ends at at midnight eastern time.
About We Don’t Know Why:
To a future girl, Mishell, who flies with the aid of anti-gravity wings, the death in a freak accident of a beloved older brother, Mykel, is hard to accept. Why had it happened? To Mykel, of all people? Why ?
Rebelliously going AWOL from her home spacecraft, cruising the sky of an earth-like planet, Mishell is worshipped by primitive people who believe she is an angel. After she rescues one of them, their faith in her is boundless, and she begins to understand the weight of the question, “Why?”
A short story. (Goodreads)
About Nancy Springer:
As a child, I lived in Eden. I explored every inch of the fascinating brook that meandered crystalline amid wildflowers and willows to the swamp along the Passaic river where I discovered herons, hawks, muskrats, snapping turtles.
Coming home from school feeling bruised, I turned to the brook, the swamp, the fields of farmland and the deep forest on Riker’s Hill to comfort me. Until I was thirteen I ran like a freckled fawn where the owls lived, where the wild phlox grew, where sometimes frogs could be caught.
Then my family moved away. The place we left must have been the last remaining rural spot in Livingston, New Jersey. A year later we came back and I saw the trees bulldozed, the wetlands drained and the brook banished to a culvert, all for the sake of a housing development. I have grieved for Eden lost ever since.
Writing this, I realize for the first it might seem odd that, bullied in school, I turned to Mother Nature instead of my mother. I can say only that Mom and Dad were good people, but theirs was the old-fashioned farmhouse style of parenting. Dad worked to “bring home the bacon”; Mom painted pet portraits. They fed me, clothed me, and let me grow. Daily I did my chores, which included collecting warm brown eggs. Whenever a broody hen pecked my hand, I told my father, pointed out the culprit, then held her down while he chopped her head off. I watched her flap around, helped to pluck her feathers, and then my mother, gutting her in order to cook her, would show me the sand in her gizzard and the transparent egg she had not yet laid. We were matter-of-fact. No one cared about feelings, Education, yes.
