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Henry’s Walk Announcement

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There was nothing now but Henry, and the sky, and the sun. He flew straight at the great burning star. The air grew warmer and warmer until it started to hamper his speed. But Henry was no Icarus, his flight was not made from the crafting of feathers and wax.

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We are excited to announce that Kane Simpson’s new novel Henry’s Walk has been released! Head over to the book’s page to read the blurb, sample from a few select excerpts, and buy your paperback or eBook copy today.

Book Page

What we Know

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The water of the creek moves in its slow but deliberate way. But we know this, we know how water works. The gentle ripples fuse and travel together a short distance before disjoining and flowing away. There is no noise from the water but the slowly circling wind brushes the leaves of the surrounding trees together in gentle waves that coincide with the ripples of the water. But we know this, we know how wind works. A small bird sits on one of the lightly swaying branches, calling out to some unseen partner. The little wings spread out and in an instant she swoops towards the creek, her calling intensifies. The noise is curtailed by the small splash that she makes as she plunges purposefully into the rippled water. This we don’t know. Still, the trees go on swaying and the creek goes on rippling—the only thing missing is one small bird. Who can say she was ever really there? Nothing is left but a spot on a gently swaying branch that is the right size for a small bird.

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Happily Hungover

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From the languor of a hangover comes the creativity of the perpetual drifter. The world is slowed by marred paths travelling to the brain from the outside reality. Perception is broken up into fragments and each piece can be acknowledged and ruminated upon all at once. Anger and fear become so diluted that they are no longer controlling forces but tinctures of colour that add beauty to unfolding situations. Pain is dulled and entwined with the warmth of sensation. The world is no longer a place to take with a clenched fist but is instead to be gradually drifted through.

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The Last Word of the Living

Whispered into existence,
Each syllable carved from life force,
A departing word before a world of sleep,
Spoken with the last breath of consciousness,
Concluded with a full stop made from an escaped soul.

Twisting and writhing like a dangerous snake,
Threatening to bite if forgotten for too long,
A permanent venomous reminder dwells,
Manifesting and echoing in a skull,
Laying eggs of mistrust and paranoia.

The last word of the living,
Dying and being reborn,
Growing and shrinking,
Until it’s truly learned,
Last word of the dying,

Forgiveness.

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And what he called love was the sheer overwhelming intoxication he felt when his gaze fell upon her, or her scent lingered somewhere nearby, or even, and so constantly, any thought merely tinged with a slight ghost of her shadow. When pressed to explain what he felt, even how he felt, he faltered. Expressing such an elusive and interconnected feeling in words, through mere meagre concepts, was pointless. What could he say but that he loved her, in all its undefined and blurry meaning.

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A Note From The Back Pages

Absurdity in a Park

There’s a certain absurdity when sitting in a park with your family, everyone gravitating around small talk as if it is important; as if their not situated in some arbitrary position. We’re all planted down here with no idea why or even what we’re doing. The question arises, why aren’t we talking about this? Instead of what’s been happening on the news, or the changing weather that made a fool of anyone who wore jeans.

None of us have any idea what we’re doing, so we preoccupy ourselves with what other people are doing and how they’ve been treating others, i.e. gossip.

There is something overwhelmingly ridiculous and hilarious about us, a bunch of humans plonked down on seats and blankets with plates of cooled meat that we’ll cook up for lunch later. Creatures of convenience and community, always connected but eternally confused.

There’s faith of course, but even that has become more of a source of gossip rather than the pin that holds a cloth over existential dread. Even though there are more similarities than differences between, say, Islam and Christianity, the conversation stagnates around what they wear and the cosmetic differences between the two. It has largely become a background murmur of nonsense.

Why should we worry about those large, seemingly unanswerable questions when there is someone over there slightly different to us? It’s blind and it’s petty, but greater than that it’s comforting. Like everything else in our lives, it’s convenient.

It’s easy to laugh and push it from yourself, but it’s much more beneficial to embrace these open ended challenges. When you take on-board the unchanging uncertainness that exists inside all people, whether it’s on the surface or buried under a layer of distraction, you begin to see a great uniting bond. We are all confused and seeking convenience, except, perhaps, the ascetics.

 

*I found this in the back of an old workbook from 2013