New book and more news

So I have a new book in the works, a shorter one this time around, but I'm very excited about it. The main piece is a short story adapted from the novel The Stranger by Albert Camus. I expect this collection to be finished in August or September and it will definitely be for sale on Lulu's online store.

Also-- as of today you can buy my first book, Matzo Ball Soup, on Lulu (with its original and intended cover design, ooh la la). Like JDR it's selling for a modest $9.99. And don't be confused by the pen name, I published this one as Rupert Pupkin. But hey-- that's the name of this website! You bet your fucking ass it is.

http://www.lulu.com/browse/search.php?&fKeywords=Cliff+Weber

That's about it for now. I'll keep you updated on the new book, but honestly, this one is more of a project for me than anyone else. The sales on my first two books piss me right off so for the time being I don't give a shit how many sell. Call it a defense mechanism and you'd probably be correct. Buy it or don't, I'm sick of pretending that somehow this time around hundreds of people will suddenly find a shit to give. It's good writing, it's a project I put a ton of goddamn time into, so if you find yourself interested I encourage you to invest the fucking money and support literature. After all, you're here reading this post.

To end this I'm going to post a piece from the new, yet to be titled collection. This story itself isn’t new, but it's all typed up and perty! So here's organic angst, which I'm quite fond of. YES-- I said I like it. Fuck off.

march 1st, 2011

organic angst

Kelley's head nearly burst into flames when he first saw Harbinger's library. The collection was massive and the lacquer hugged the worn wood beneath it like an older brother protecting his frostbitten sister. Simply put-- it was impressive, causing Kelley to plant himself.

"Would you like a drink?" Harbinger asked, holding back a smug chuckle.

"Ummm... yes. Please. Yes please, sir," Kelley answered boyishly. A drink was exactly what his nerves required.

Harbinger's hired penguin arrived instantaneously, gracefully hoisting an intricately carved silver platter supporting two glasses of golden whisky on ice.

"To you, Kelley," said Harbinger, raising his glass to the ceiling. "And to the infinite possibilities that lie ahead. Cheers." Both men smiled as their drinks collided crisply in mid-air, sending a brooding and extended "ting" into the opulent air around them.

The aged amber whisky burned Kelley's lips upon impact and left an aftertaste behind; an aftertaste so strong and present he felt it tingling in the cracks of his weathered lips on the drive home.

Morning came and the sting was gone. Kelley felt abandoned and brushed his teeth with discernable apprehension.