| Introducing Henry! | date 9/19/2007 / issue #2 | ||
|
Please accept our apologies... Enjoy this week's stories and poems! This week we introduce our 3 part series on "Henry." Please forward this newsletter to anyone you think might be interested in reading great stores and poems each week. We're also accepting short story and poem submissions from both published and non-published writers. See you in cyberspace... Allison Willows |
In this issue: |
||
|
Henry: The Promise I received a rather large and heavy post from the States. It was actually several large packets taped together and tied up with string. I was amazed they would allow something like that to go through the postal system. I was almost afraid to sign for it at first, but I did, and took it inside to the table. I cut the tape and untied the string. There was five brown envelopes stuffed full of paper. I selected one and opened it. Inside I found layers and layers of papers. Some were typed, but most were hand written and torn from a spiral binder or notebook. The content of the pages were a random assortment of notes, stories, and outlines of events and poems; mostly poems. I was confused. I opened the other packets. They all contained the same material. Ragged torn pages stuffed randomly into these envelopes. Most of the pages were dated, but there was no order to them at all. I read some. It was mostly crap: unfinished poorly written stories followed by names and places and dates, hundreds of one page poems, some scribbled hard into the paper and torn through at places. Everything seemed to begin with ‘I woke up and grabbed the nearest beer…’ and ended with ‘…then I passed out’. From the dates and some of the names, I slowly began to realize what all this was about… Henry. I had not thought about Henry in years. I had not heard about him in years. In fact nobody had. Then I remembered the promise. I made him a promise one drunken night. Like all drunken promises this one was sealed with a tearful embrace.... Read the Rest of "Henry: The Promise" It was midnight and Larry Henderson lay in bed, wondering if the two men outside his window would ever stop arguing. Every so often a harsh word woudl filter throught the coble panes, and the green and purple floral curtaines, not enough to understand what the discussion was about, but enough to make one wonder. In this neighborhood it could have been anything from what to watch on TV to a bungled drug deal. Without warning there was a deafening crash. The flowered curtains blew inward, and amidst the sound of falling glass Larry heard two pair of feet scuttling across the road. "Son of a bitch!" Larry started. He sat up, put one foot on the floor then quickly withdrew it at the sting of broken glass penetrating his right heel. "Son of a bitch!" His shoes were nowhere to be found, yet he had to turn on the light and see what had been hurled through the window. The light switch was across the room, across what Larry imagined to be a sea of broken glass, so, in a move that brought back memories of childhood, when beds and trampolines served the same purpose, he stood up on the unstable mattress and leapt in the direction of the doorway. However, darkness makes it difficult to judge the amount of space one has above him, and jumping too hight, Larry's head struck the light shade, cutting his forehead. Another crash followed as the glass light shade hit the floor scattering new shards on the carpet. Dazed his head and foot bleeding profusely, Larry felt his way to the door fram and then six inches to the left where he found the light switch.... |
We sent Rowan of the Wood galleys out to all major reviewers last week, and we sent the proofs to the printer yesterday. We're very excited about our mini-release in Austin beginning October 15th. Remember you can reserve your author-signed preview copy today by visiting the website www.rowanofthewood.com We're only printing 100, and they're going to go fast! OUR LINKS
FREE DOWNLOADS Walden
by Ethan Rose
Oh Walden, What has become of thee? These men of quiet desperation Stood aside unknowing, As men marching to the beat Of progress’ drum Siphoned off, Perverted, The clear springs of your sources With their greed And their blindness to the Relationship That all things share With all things. You have become a muddy mire, A source of sadness And lost hope For those hopeful pilgrims Who seek your shores.
|
||
|
COMPANY INFORMATION & PRIVACY POLICY In each email you receive, there will be a link to unsubscribe or change your areas of interest. Your privacy is important to us! We have created this email privacy policy to demonstrate our firm commitment to your privacy and the protection of your information. |
|||
| Copyright © Blue Moose Press Designed by Templatesbox.com | |||
| If you wish to cancel your subscription to this newsletter click here | |||
Blue Moose Press Weekly Newsletter
