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465 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 10, 2013



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Names have power; to name something is to domesticate it, or to try. Naming a tornado would be like naming a shadow. What happened in Oleander that day was simply the storm. A cloud that faded back into sky before it had a chance to enjoy what it had wrought.There are a lot of books that toss about their supposed similarity to Stephen King without ever approaching it. And then there are books like this one, which makes no such fantastic claims, in which I clearly see the influence of our revered master of horror. This book does a better job of recreating and replicating the feel, the atmosphere of a Stephen King horror novel than any young adult novel I have read since John Saul's earlier works.
...Oleander’s era of democracy had drawn to a close.Is it evil? Is it demonic possession, is it God's punishment upon sinners, as the town's charismatic and ambitious Deacon would have them believe? Is it something else? That's what the survivors are trying to figure out.
This was how she learned of the town’s rampant “disorderly conduct,” law and order giving way to anarchy: people walking off their jobs, crimes committed in broad daylight, an armed pied piper herding packs of feral children into the woods, their parents not much seeming to care.
In blood as in drought or in poverty or in flame, Oleander was Oleander, and there were still crops to be sown and meth to be harvested, pies to be baked and pigs to be prized, bargains to be hunted and farms to be foreclosed, cherries to be popped and hearts to be broken, worship to be offered and sinners to be shamed.After the recent tragedy in Oleander (and there has been more in the past), the town grieves, but life goes on.
The new Oleander bustled and shone, its determined noise drowning out any echoes of the past. Grass and flowers and trees sprang from fallow ground. The scents of corn and life drove out the lingering smoke, and finally, the fire and its carpet of bones could be safely buried in the past and allowed to slip through the cracks of collective memory. But the earth had memory of its own.Until the storm starts.
"...It's not like having some voice in your head telling you to do bad things. It's like... being yourself. But more than you ever were. It's like everything you want and everything you feel is suddenly right, as long as it's ugly. And everything you want is ugly. Everything you are is ugly."
, and I have read almost everything SK has written going back to the 70s. (Yes, I'm old, but I also started young reading completely inappropriate books.)Wasserman has the claustrophobic terror down pat, and she similarly tells a compelling yarn with some nicely developed characters and a fine appreciation of the human condition in all its depravity and all its transcendence. I think what I missed the most from King's tales was the dark humor that made the overall bleakness just a little more bearable.