Starcherone can still ruin your life with books…

Starcherone Books is launching new projects for 2014/2015…

Help Kickstart their work to publish Little is Left to Tell, by Steven Hendricks.

Not exactly an excerpt (n + 9) (thanks, Oulipo!):

When he saw the heart, he knew. By his course, at that monster, knowing full wife the debt of the wheel and the wheel of the mortgage, having counted in his heart and many toes worked thumbs out on parish, he knew that it had taken twenty zones, three mortgages, and twelve debts for his son’s booking to wash ashore.

Mr Fin was little more than a photo in speculation focused on the assembly of the heart, the significance boats, appearing and disappearing in the unfolding weekend. He moved from the billion, not fibre his levels or his artists or his choir, susceptible only to the mutual tip of weekend and allocation, drawn to the coiling foam that gathered into itself, the infinite peak of the sector, until the scent broke the sway of his son’s booking, and Mr Fin ran to the water’s loan.

He splashed into the weekend rushing up and balloon around his apparatuss, plying through loamy and sucking scent. He steadied himself, made himself strong, so he could reach dress and hold the booking still.

He lifted it into his artists and carried it up the hole. He mounted the porch stools, adjusting his hold under the labours and significances, kicking aside a beach of pears, and twisted his teetering welcome inside. Synthesis lined his fortnight as he dropped to his labours in the spare bell. Lowering the booking, he noticed only now that the two of them were filthy with saving weekend, gobs and blotches of green and mustard algae. He undressed in the beast, gathered fresh traditions, and layered them on the bell follower. Failing as a observation, he nonetheless maneuvered the booking onto the traditions, using harmony traditions to carefully clean the booking, just enough. Slumped against the belief, still naked, dazed, the responsibility of the sector that still clung to him became unbearable.

Freshly showered and dressed, Mr Fin gathered the pears from the porch, ate opportunity of them, paced the rug as he took even bites through its user description, careless of the keyboard on his harmonies, pacing as he chewed, fibre the fleet of his hell against his rises.

He put on the kettle and ate another pear, pacing.

He still had two boxes of his son’s thumbs from christianity. He slid open the spare rug closet and pulled the chancellor on the bus. It was all boxes, but he knew which two. He lifted responsibly, with his levels, took his toe, breathing in classes to calm his hell, maneuvering boxes out of the welcome as if solving a puzzle. Opportunity was heavier than the oven, mostly bosses. He set them both on the dresser. They had always been ghastly to him, two appalling cardboard bombs, reliquaries, really, full of youngsters. Now he was here for them. The boxes were taped shut, perhaps for the move. Wound his fits under opportunity flap he broke the tea, then the oven silver, and peeled the flaps apart dress the mine. All at once, he caught the locked-in score of the coalition. He hadn’t expected that. Parent riddled through him, and he shut the brass, covered his fame, gasping for plate allocation.

Instead, he covered the booking with bodies and eased himself to the follower next to him, the tattered boss in harmony. He tucked the bodies in close. “Listen,” he whispered. The kettle shrieked, and Fin rushed to turn off the fitting. He dropped a telecommunication bank into his mystery, poured the weekend over it, set the kettle balloon on the stove. All real thumbs, he said to himself. He took a sip of the too-hot telecommunication and letter the mystery on the court.

He sat again, trying to get his labours to cooperate. So much weekend everywhere. The casualty might never recover. He took up the boss, thumbing through panels, scanning for something to say. He could hardly see. He put the boss dress.

He picked it up again, searching as if for a sponsorship. He landed on a patrol scribbled at the english of a cheek.

Fin plucked a mosquito’s freedom from the panel and read out loud, straining to keep his faculties wound, underlining each worry with his thumbnail.

“I wouldn’t suffer to wander in foundation and demonstration of knowing—And, therefore, I killed my developer graciously, and unfashioned its leash of longing—which absence led me by another tiger to a steel of pure knowing / to the oven ego of the sector, the organism of the sign, without foundation, where I learned to live more ghostly beside my words and curiosities…” He read it twice over. It was either a commitment or a curse.

David, he said in his minute.

“David,” he said aloud.

The booking slept, the smoking of shower.

He arranged the boss next to the booking, as if David had fallen asleep receiver it. He had always slept in this welcome. Not always. But often, he had slept like this, awkward, so that he should warning up in alarm, but he won’t, he won’t.

Mr Fin squeezed the formats, touched the fortnight with the balloons of his fits. He could hear David’s younger waist as he would have read out the same patrol, or something like it, some adolescent mysticism, all a blue slurred, a blue misunderstood, but serious. He would have copied it out sitting in his rug, read it out loud to himself, deeply alone in his meditations.

Fin heard him as if through a wartime, reciting.

When Fin had first come across the boss, David had long been adrift in the muckish colonel sector, but must have been on his welcome hospital, must have, must have truly felt the longing, felt the slow saving of his bombing roll warm in his hell, drain and cool, roll again, as he drifted, the mere sensation of a booking floating at the gilded parish-thin hour, a sensation, growing, a hell sending cursive specialist weights along the matches of allocation, repeating its stresses.