as I’ve already said (see below for old notes) this is just a raw demo of a short book I’m working on for preparation reasons.
“Started to take mental notes for The Future Book Of War. I think ill have to write many short stories before i even get to the novel. one will focus on a major offensive in Rome and then what the vets do after the war is over. the year will be set in 2021 to 2027. The last book in the adventures of a dying young man series“
(working title for yet to be named short story collection based in the world of Henry Oldfield
Written and intellectual property of Andrew H. Kuharevicz
Unnumbered Time Lapsed Letter A
Henry sat like a Sunday school student with his hands folded at his desk and he was bored and like when he was a child there was nothing more and nothing less. He sunk into his subconscious and did not care about anything, and it wasn’t late but not like that mattered either. There was something though, and He couldn’t write another word. He felt ashamed for the amount of sound that he made when he wrote his dumb books. That’s what Pel called them, back…oh just back then. It was a joke now. It wasn’t then. Nothing was a joke even though many people laughed at the tragedy as it played out in real time, but now it didn’t matter because who cared where she was. Time moved. He grew. Henry was a man of repetition, of inspiration, of sunrises and sun sets, and he once knew how to write a chorus, and a powerful strong and pleasant chorus at that, but now he was all verse, one long verse without breaks, and this was like the day and the night. Life was a string of nothing more than a mess of particles that looked like the bread crumbs left behind in the strawberry jelly container. It was lazy but real, and the machines wore him down, and he smiled and looked out the window, and the windows were so clean. Henry missed the sun strains and soap stains, he missed something real now lost but yet undefined.
Again Henry watched the day, and the oaks and the pines were tall and about to die. Henry had another book due and for the longest time he used to grind his teeth and bite his nails, he would be nervous and the coffee would cause a goofy kind of manic vision to create itches that were not real, but now everything was fine, he was fine with everything, life was good, real good, life was as good as it should have been. Music didn’t get better or worse, it was held in time and he hadn’t heard anything new or bad or good that he really liked in a very long time. He didn’t know how long of time anything had been, it’s just been that time was moving, and of course it was, but the deadline wasn’t a screaming kind of red and it was now a soft circle on a nice calender that hung in the nice hallway that led into his office. He didn’t like to have calender anywhere near where he wrote, that was one of his rules that he swore by. No calenders by the typewriter.
And as it goes, there was a new deadline coming up, but now Henry wasn’t afraid of it, the deadline was a soft guillotine that couldn’t even cut through the first layer of skin. There was no fear. not like there used to be, and now the deadline, the guillotine didn’t matter. the story was fine and good and Henry wasn’t afraid any longer of the the last page. Because it was the same as the sheets on his bed and the suit coat that covered his arms, the words on the page were the same and everything was the way it was supposed to be. It was nice and normal now. Life was good.
After the writer, after Henry, after the character that he was got over love and excepted the business of business, he fell in line and kept track of the schedule on his calender, and he marked in line with his perfect handwriting that he spent weeks on retraining instead of actually writing, and he kept track of the information and the dates with the accuracy of statistician. The writer was prompt and pleasant and professional, and the new publishing house that purchased the rights to his science fiction pop up books, after the old school beast finally went out of business, well the new cat of media corps called, NovelDome, was the big surprise winner. After learning the tricks from the best of insurgent bankers after the great last depression, NovelDome had the game plan down before anybody else even had a chance. They waited in the shadows, and somewhere it reads in italics that they were based in Utah or Pittsburgh, the details are conflicting but true and upheld by the judges of the most respected sorts. The tenured journalists who reported this uprising weren’t sure how it happened and how NovelDome pulled of the kinds of money swings that would be necessary to overtake pretty much all of the publishing industry, and once again looking at a mismatch of web pages that are old and ugly and faded in contrast levels, it would seem they were very much a rags to riches kinda of story that good normal folks love to dream about while watching fireworks….
So the story about NovelDome is simple. They came out of nowhere and became the market, and before pretty much anybody knew who they were they were an upstart company…I think…at least if rules of deduction are still reasonable. Anyway and in reality, they were a half-assed indie publishing house that released a couple alt lit books and some traditional and fashionable photo books throughout the course of a twenty four month period. They had a budget that came from a one Mr. So and So, but nobody knew it was the same Mr. So and so who people believed had died in the Ozarks over twenty years ago but still somehow voted for the bomb to be dropped…
And it was, it was the same Mr. So and So. and it doesn’t matter anymore and NovelDome is now publishing the dumb science fiction pop up books, and Henry Oldfield does not care….
To Be Continued In September Draft Pages 2 of 2.