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    By Anonymous
    By Anonymous
    By Anonymous
    Ebook33 pages22 minutes

    By Anonymous

    By Isaac Dubois

    ()

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    About this ebook

    I woke up with blood on my hands in a bright orange field. I think they were flowers. The smell of iron and platelets overtook what should have been the smell of a fresh landscape, the pollen, the cool breeze. These flowers have so many friends, so many close counterparts. All I wanted was one. One that could share my burden. One that could share a cry. One, that wouldn't betray me.

    There's no point in weeping if there's no one around to share the tears with. Follow HER psychedelic and heart wrenching adventures in the first book in a long line of sad memories scribbled on bloody napkins.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherIsaac Dubois
    Release dateJul 30, 2014
    ISBN9781311560124
    By Anonymous
    Author

    Isaac Dubois

    Isaac M. Dubois (1966) was born in Marseille, France. Little is known about his childhood except that in 1975, he fled to America to escape an abusive home life. He self-educated himself as he roamed New York State, finally settling down around the Fruit Belt where he currently writes. If you look hard enough, you may see him wandering up and down Jefferson Avenue trying to pick up a Wifi signal for his tablet (mobile typewriter).

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      Book preview

      By Anonymous - Isaac Dubois

      By Anonymous

      by Isaac M. Dubois

      Copyright 2014 Isaac M. Dubois

      Smashwords Edition

      Table of Contents

      PREFACE

      ACT I

      ACT II

      ACT III

      ACT IV

      ACT V

      ACT VI

      ACT VII

      ACT VIII

      ACT IX

      ACT X

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      PREFACE

      I feel it is important to illustrate as best I can, using words, how the below text came to be. The story about the origins of the text could possibly be a book on its own, but I am only the passeroner in this instance. Maybe one day it will be, but now is the time for a different string of characters.

      You see, the following text was giving to me in such a frenzied manner. I am not going to pretend to be an editor. My goal was to preserve the authenticity and scope of the message. The entries, which can be interpreted in multiple ways from various perspectives was intense enough for me to transcribe. It is up to the reader to take the words at face value or over analyze them, ultimately creating some ridiculous conspiracy theory where a homeless man makes up a bunch of literary garbage and tries to pass it off as someone else’s crap for a few bucks.

      The sun was asleep and the air was cool. As I waltzed along the shoreline of Red Jacket River Front Park, a tattered woman appeared from the dark waters. Her clothes were torn; her skin blue, and her eyes were glazed over. I ran to her and tried to assist but she pushed me away. Our eyes locked, and I could see the icy tears plastered to her rosy cheeks. She handed me a plastic bag, the zipper kind, full of pieces of paper, some stained with what looked like

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