There is the Villacres and the Bottom Of The Ninth from the WhiskeyPaper and we have read it and blurbed it and we are happy
to report that it changed our lives and we believe it may just change your
life as well, so please do hit it when it is available to be hit, well done, thank you.
“Like any Cubs fan Wyl Villacres knows that there is poetry in foolish
hope, we have to love hard if we are to love at all and that without a
healthy embrace of the surreal, we can’t hope to make it through another
season, much less find a reason to smile.”
And quite appreciative we are. So please do take a look and please don't hesitate to revel in the general awesomeness that is the WhiskeyPaper as well. Cool? Cool. Excerpt? Word.
"I awake to a shooting pain in my lower back, sharp and piercing, and
my immediate assumption is that my wife is trying to stab me again.
When I roll over to face her though, she is not there, and I recall
that I am not sure whether she is supposed to be there at all.
I climb out of bed slowly, the pain in my back now paralyzing, and I
squeeze my eyes shut as little dots of light bounce across my brain.
Stumbling down the hall, the air is moist, the carpet spongy to the
touch, and the stink of the flood is still lingering in the walls. I try
to focus on one breath, then the next, lips pursed, cheeks sinking in
and out, and in again.
My wife is sitting on the couch eating a bowl of cereal in the dark,
her long hair backlit and shimmering in the moonlight creeping through
the blinds, a small ethereal glow emanating from her flawless, nearly
translucent skin.
“Hey,” she says in her husky voice, the word disappearing in a puff of smoke even as it leaves her mouth.
“Hey,” I say, “problem sleeping?”
“Not really,” she says smiling.
“No, I suppose not,” I say, “now is that because you’re not really
supposed to be here, because I’m thinking that maybe that’s what it is.”
“Maybe,” she says, turning back to her cereal.
A slight clanking sound is emitted each time the spoon hits the side
of the bowl. She always hated that sound, but maybe that was before.
“Cool,” I say, “I mean not cool, not really, but fine. Anyway, did you try and stab me again?”
“No,” she says, “why would you ask that? It was just that one time, and that was like an accident.”
“As accidentally as stabbing someone in the back can be,” I say, not
angrily, though maybe a little nostalgic for what we once had."
There is the Russell and Don't Ask Me To Spell It Out from the WhiskeyPaper and we have read it and blurbed it and we are happy
to report that it changed our lives and we believe it may just change your
life as well, so please do hit it when it is available to be hit, well done, thank you.
“Don’t Ask Me To Spell It Out takes flight in the jagged chasm
between who we are and who we want to be, starkly illustrating how we
love, and lose, only to re-build ourselves again.”
