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By Lisa Moore

Lisa Moore’s wickedly clean first novel—a Canadian top vendor, winner of the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize (Canadian and Caribbean region), and a </I>Globe and Mail</I> ebook of the Year—moves with the swiftness of an alligator in assault mode in the course of the lives of a gaggle of brilliantly rendered characters mingling in modern St. John’s, Newfoundland. St. John’s is a urban whose religious situation is someplace within the middle of Flannery O’Connor nation. Its denizens jostle each other in uneasy arabesques of wish, greed, and ambition, juxtaposed with a craving for purity, intensity, and redemption. Colleen is a seventeen-year-old would-be ecoterrorist, drawn inexorably to the areas the place alligators thrive. Her mom, Beverly, is cloaked in grief after the demise of her husband. Beverly’s sister, Madeleine, is a pushed, getting older filmmaker who obsesses over finishing her magnum opus earlier than she dies. And Frank, a tender guy whose existence is an odd anthology of unpredictable hazards, is wanting to guard his hot-dog stand from sociopathic Russian sailor Valentin, whose predatory developments threaten everybody he encounters. Alligator is a impressive e-book, a suspenseful, heartfelt, and horny tale that examines the ruthlessly reptilian and painfully human aspects of we all.

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Page 61 On the third day of summer in the late afternoon Grandfather reappeared from the front door to gaze serenely at the two empty eye rings in the ceiling of the porch. Moving to the geranium-pot-lined rail like Ahab surveying the mild mild day and mildlooking sky, he wet his finger to test the wind, and shucked his coat to see how shirt sleeves felt in the westering hours. He acknowledged the salutes of other captains on yet other flowered porches, out themselves to discern the gentle ground swell of weather, oblivious to their wives chirping or snapping like fuzzball hand dogs hidden behind black porch screens.

Breathing on my neck, almost! Don‟t look! Work. Just pick, fill up the pail. If you look you‟ll scare it off. Don‟t lose it this time! But how do you bring it around here where you can see it, stare it right in the eye? How? How? Page 29 “Got a snowflake in a matchbox,” said Tom, smiling at the wine-glove on his hand. Shut up! Douglas wanted to yell. But no, the yell would scare the echoes, and run the Thing away! , the more Tom talked, the closer the great Thing came, it wasn‟t scared of Tom, Tom drew it with his breath, Tom was part of it!

Dandelion wine. Page 41 You did not hear them coming. You hardly heard them go. The grass bent down, sprang up again. They passed like cloud shadows downhill ... the boys of summer, running. Douglas, left behind, was lost. Panting, he stopped by the rim of the ravine, at the edge of the softly blowing abyss. Here, ears pricked like a deer, he snuffed a danger that was old a billion years ago. Here the town, divided, fell away in halves. Here civilization ceased. Here was only growing earth and a million deaths and rebirths every hour.

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