HORSEFEATHERS
Stories From Room 241
edited by Scotty Adkins & Ed McClanahan



Horsefeathers is available from your local bookstore, or from on-line vendors such as Amazon or Barnes & Noble.


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Wind Publications
600 Overbrook Drive
Nicholasville KY 40356






 

 










  Introduction, by Ed McClanahan 
  Wherever Particular People Congregate, by Kevin Burke 
  The Moon and Page Cut-Off, by Scotty Adkins 
  Single Mother’s Lament, by Julia Sumrok 
  The Blank Slate, by Ajay Mehra 
  Frank Tolliver, by Ann Watson 
  Cooking Stories, by Janice Geurin-Leslie 
  By Any Other Name, by Daniel Kelley 
  The Cruiser, by Tim Riley 
  Waiting for the Dawn, by Megan Fairchild 
  Life with Father, by W. Austin Hill 
  Alien Christmas, by Zeph Bostow 

From the Introduction -----

Woody Allen and the Marx Brothers won’t mind, let’s just call [the book] … Horsefeathers. And if anybody wants to know why we called it that, just remind them of the ancient joke about Col. Parker, the marketing genius who, long before he gave us Elvis, gave us the patent medicine Hadacol: “Why’d he call it Hadacol? Well, he hadda call it something, so … ”
   
Of course, the iron logic of my argument carried the day. (After all, that’s why they call me … the Big Cheese!) But the real point here was that, for a gathering of the work of thirteen utterly various writers—ranging in age from about 22 to 65, five women and eight men who are, by some happy accident of natural selection, about as diverse, ethnically and experientially, as any random group of thirteen students on this campus could possibly be—the only title that made any sense was one that made no sense at all. Thus, by some mysterious biological process that I won’t even pretend to understand, did Horsepuckies metamorphose into Horsefeathers. In short, we hadda call it something, so …
   
Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking about the lessons I’d like these lovely folks to have learned by the time it’s all over. There are only two, and actually they’re one and the same: Care and Attention. What you write—your language—is like a garden; whether your garden is a thousand-acre spread (War and Peace, anyone?) or a tiny nosegay of poems in a window-box, the more care and attention you lavish on it, the more grandly it will flourish, and the greater will be the reward for your labors.
  
And—to stretch my metaphor to the breaking point—this language garden, in order to thrive, requires fertilizer, lots of fertilizer—which is to say it requires horsepuckies and plenty of ’em, in their purest and most unadulterated form. Which is to say … stories, stories, stories!