Clemency Pogue: Fairy Killer
By JT Petty and Will Davis
4/5
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About this ebook
In his hilarious, action-packed debut novel, JT Petty does for burlap pants what holes have done for Swiss cheese.
JT Petty
JT Petty is the author of Clemency Pogue: Fairy Killer and The Squampkin Patch: A Nasselrogt Adventure. He is also a director and screenwriter for movies and video games. His film Soft for Digging was an Official Selection of the Sundance Film Festival. He received a Game Developers Choice Award for his work on the bestselling video game Splinter Cell. JT lives in Brooklyn, New York. Visit his Web site at www.pettyofficial.com.
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Reviews for Clemency Pogue
30 ratings3 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Original, insightful, thoughtful. I might just read the next, even though this does stand alone, because it's also a quick read.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I greatly enjoyed this book. Clemency Pogue becomes a "fairy killer" when she declares (to a fairy who has been stinging and attacking her) that she does not believe in fairies. When the fairy drops dead, Clemency is destined to repair the damage she has done. This lighthearted tale follows Clemency and a hobgoblin on a variety of adventures to make things right. Entertaining.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This is a very slim little book, but it’s a lot of fun! It tells the story of a girl who remembers the line from Peter Pan about how a fairy dies every time someone says “I don’t believe in fairies” as she is getting attacked by the Fairy of Frequent and Painful Pointless Antagonism. So she says it until the fairy falls dead (seven times), at which point a hobgoblin shows up and accuses her of murdering seven fairies, some of whom were actually good. So the girl travels around the world with the hobgoblin to fix the damage that she caused by killing the fairies (and yes, she could just clap her hands a lot and say “I do believe in fairies, I do, I do”, but then the Fairy of Frequent and Painful Pointless Antagonism would come back to life right in front of her and angry). The journey is very funny and the solutions that the girl comes up with are very entertaining.The writing is very good and incredibly funny. This writer has a wonderful style, which is very impressive since this is his first book. The book is peppered with great phrases like “dropped dead as a gossamer-winged doorknob” and the level of language craft is extremely high throughout the book. That said, there isn’t a whole lot of depth to the story, which is why the book is so short. I really didn’t think that hurt the book, though, since it was a blast to read. Not every book needs to be deep. The main character (Clemency Pogue) and the hobgoblin are wonderfully drawn. Besides, how can a book that advertises itself as doing “for burlap pants what holes have done for Swiss cheese” be anything but pure fun?The illustrations are perfect for the book. They are black and white, mostly full-page pictures of scenes from the book. The style is a believable cartoonishness that resembles the illustrations of Tony DiTerlizzi in the Spiderwick Chronicles. I loved the picture of the little boy pretending to be a dog, chewing on pillows and jumping on the bed. The scenes illustrated are well chosen and generally properly placed, which is much appreciated and not common enough in books.This book is great. It’s light reading and will take maybe an hour to read, but it’s well worth it! I very much look forward to more books from this author!
Book preview
Clemency Pogue - JT Petty
Prologue
OF EVERYTHING there is good and bad. This is just how things work.
Ideas, dogs, smells, behavior, songs, guys, machines, cheeses, rabbits, shoes, friends, enemies, days, dreams, fairies; of all of these things and others, there are good and bad.
But rules cannot be viewed except by exceptions, and the exceptions are these: newborn mammals and bees. Newborn mammals are invariably good. Bees, however, are all bad.
If you are a bee sympathizer and find yourself insulted by the above remark, you can petition for the refund of the cost of this book. If this book was a gift and cost you nothing, the author will gladly refund you the love of the giver. If you paid for this book yourself and would like a refund, you may mail the author a self-addressed stamped envelope and a brief note explaining your case.
The author will promptly throw away everything but your address, which will be passed on to the authorities, in the hopes that they will detain you as a bee sympathizer, obviously insane, and in need of either treatment or imprisonment before you can do yourself or others harm.
Chapter 1
CLEMENCY POGUE was a child who listened to the stories she was told. It was a quality that saved her life once, and started her on a great adventure.
These stories were spun for Clem by her parents, who were good, kind, and creative people. Unfortunately they worked far away in the mansion of a very rich, very fancy man on the other side of the forest. In the gray of every morning they would march off to work, leaving Clem to her own devices until twilight time, when they would rush back home, her father carrying the evening’s meal, her mother percolating with richly embellished stories distilled from the day’s events.
We met a polo player today with a face longer than his horse,
she would say, or, This afternoon the millionaire’s nephew was pushed into a river by the lady he was courting. The young man was kidnapped by beavers and ended up as part of a dam. The millionaire is waiting until tomorrow to pull the boy out because the fishing on the other side of the dam is so good.
As Clem’s mom unraveled these tales, her father would prepare the meal he had brought home, piling cornucopious gobs of savories and sweets onto the big wooden kitchen table. During dinner Clem would describe what discoveries and imaginations had occupied her day.
Today,
she would say, I made cold sassafras tea that was sweeter than makes sense. So sweet, so sweet that when I left it alone, it was overwhelmed by its own sweetness. It bubbled and fizzed and could very well change the world.
After supper, from huge earthen mugs, they would drink steaming hot cider or tea or chocolate, and Clem’s dad would sift through one of the many old and good stories he knew.
Her dad’s stories were far too fantastic and sensible to have taken place in the world we take for granted. He told the old stories like Peter Pan and Wendy . He told stories that he made up as he went along like The Epic of Gilbert and His Ambulatory Tub. He told stories that were combinations of the two, mongrel tales like The Tragi-Comic Blinding of Three Mice.
The steam from her hot chocolate rising to tickle the cuddle of her chin, Clem sat listening to her dad:
"…and as soon as Wendy had spoken, Tinkerbell dropped dead. Dead as a gossamer-winged doorknob.
"‘What have I done?’ cried Wendy.
"‘You’ve killed her, you brute!’ said Peter. His shadow covered its eyes in horror.
"‘But how?’ she asked.
‘Why, you disbelieved her to death.’ Peter explained, ‘Fairies are strong, but such delicate things. Not too much more than intentions with wings.’
Clemency listened, and a good thing, too.
Chapter 2
IN EARLY GRAY of the morning, Mr. and Mrs. Pogue marched off through the woods to work.
The sun crept upward sluggishly, fat and golden. As it just passed the horizon, setting aglow the tops of the trees but leaving the forest dark and secret below, Clemency walked out into the woods to begin the day’s distractions. There would be no school until the leaves began to turn brown and the days began to shorten. That season was not so very far off, and Clem intended to make the most of her remaining vacation.
She held in her left hand a walking stick that she slung over her shoulder, with a basket hanging from the back end like a hobo’s satchel. The basket was for the collection of sassafras roots; she intended to continue with her experiments in fizzing bubbly sweetness.
The walking stick was not for walking. Clem knew that there were places in the forest where danger lurked. And where it did not lurk, danger squatted, crouched, or lounged. There was one place where danger reclined, but Clemency usually avoided it. The walking stick she carried in case of danger, in case she came upon a wolf or a troll who needed to be shown what for.
Clem’s pants rasped softly, swst swst swst, as her knees brushed with every stride. The pants were made of burlap and were a point of pride for Clemency. She had sewn them herself, and they were quite