South Park Sunrise PH2019
The Tree Farm
scriptor
Paul Hathcoat
3-07-2022
Dear Reader,
You may think it strange that I, Paul Hathcoat would attempt to write a book when there are such great numbers of them in the world, most of them worthless, and the rest an outrage, and offense in the eyes of God, most notably the so-called “science fiction, romantic adventures.” These pornographic pamphlets fill the minds of silly girls with lustful imaginations, causing them to neglect household chores and even marital duties.
It was in that noble frame of mind, I undertook the creation of a new science fiction, romantic adventure, and titled it
The Tree Farm.
My untold story was to be more than a disposable drugstore drama printed on pulp pa-paper. It would be a masterpiece of literary art from the twenty-first century. It would be handed down and held up to future generations -- providing it was not biohazardous or radioactive -- and touted as a work of true genius.
A bold undertaking to be sure especially for one who lacks a basic education in language, and grammar.
I’d embarked upon the hero’s journey but the course made good was much too daring and ambitious for a young mariner without a solid understanding of fundamental navigation. I drifted and the tide of oblivion washed me out to sea. I found myself alone in deep, blue water. Who would hear my story if I disappeared into the unknown depths of time? Who would care?
I’d set sail seeking a brighter shore but was cast in the shadow of a storm. Lost far from land and without hope, I wrote the tragic tale of my life on a scrap of paper, signed it in tears, stuffed it in a brown bottle along with my broken dreams, and tossed it into the churning waves.
The message, should it ever find its way to shore was addressed to Pikes Peak Writers. Their divine home lies at the base of a majestic purple mountain in a land the ancient ones called Rio Colorado. It is said, in the dark hours of night the guild gathers in a sacred Garden of the Gods, where they light fires, dance naked, and sing their stories.
Obviously, a group of people like this would know exactly what to do. The guild was my last hope. My next best option was a forty-five-caliber bullet to the head.
I begged the Writers Guild:
“Dear Pikes Peak Writers,
“Please share your knowledge with me, I am lost. I have an epic science fiction, romance adventure I must share with the world and I do not know your art of written stories. Teach me your art and I promise you this: I will love and respect the art of the written word. I will revere the masters that gave us art. I will obey the rules of that art. And once your precious rules are known to me, I will break them, this I promise.
“Please take me as your student, accept my pledge of poverty. Please help me with a full or partial scholarship to your conference of masters.
“Sincerely yours,
“Paul Hathcoat”
I knew I wasn’t worthy, but still, I was willing to try. I had nothing left to lose except every last tattered shred of pride and dignity.
I don’t know who or why they chose me but they did, and the Pikes Peak Writers brought me into their conference of brilliant, gifted, master teachers on a full scholarship including many delicious, mouth-watering, low-calorie meals, but excluding airfare, hotel room, rental car, wine, women, and weed. Certain state and local restrictions may apply.
The Pikes Peak Writers Conference was truly a life-changing, mind-expanding experience. In three short days, I fell so deeply in love with the Muse of written word that my heart ached to be without her. I wanted nothing more than to practice and perfect that new art of love each and every remaining day of my life.
The Pikes Peak Writers Conference changed the way I structure thought, words, and language. They gave me beautiful new brushes, paint, canvas, and a thousand new words to paint a thousand new pictures. They gave me more than a scholarship. They gave me the courage to finish my masterpiece.
I give you, The Tree Farm.
PH2020
scriptor
Paul Hathcoat
3-07-2022
Dear Reader,
You may think it strange that I, Paul Hathcoat would attempt to write a book when there are such great numbers of them in the world, most of them worthless, and the rest an outrage, and offense in the eyes of God, most notably the so-called “science fiction, romantic adventures.” These pornographic pamphlets fill the minds of silly girls with lustful imaginations, causing them to neglect household chores and even marital duties.
It was in that noble frame of mind, I undertook the creation of a new science fiction, romantic adventure, and titled it
The Tree Farm.
My untold story was to be more than a disposable drugstore drama printed on pulp pa-paper. It would be a masterpiece of literary art from the twenty-first century. It would be handed down and held up to future generations -- providing it was not biohazardous or radioactive -- and touted as a work of true genius.
A bold undertaking to be sure especially for one who lacks a basic education in language, and grammar.
I’d embarked upon the hero’s journey but the course made good was much too daring and ambitious for a young mariner without a solid understanding of fundamental navigation. I drifted and the tide of oblivion washed me out to sea. I found myself alone in deep, blue water. Who would hear my story if I disappeared into the unknown depths of time? Who would care?
I’d set sail seeking a brighter shore but was cast in the shadow of a storm. Lost far from land and without hope, I wrote the tragic tale of my life on a scrap of paper, signed it in tears, stuffed it in a brown bottle along with my broken dreams, and tossed it into the churning waves.
The message, should it ever find its way to shore was addressed to Pikes Peak Writers. Their divine home lies at the base of a majestic purple mountain in a land the ancient ones called Rio Colorado. It is said, in the dark hours of night the guild gathers in a sacred Garden of the Gods, where they light fires, dance naked, and sing their stories.
Obviously, a group of people like this would know exactly what to do. The guild was my last hope. My next best option was a forty-five-caliber bullet to the head.
I begged the Writers Guild:
“Dear Pikes Peak Writers,
“Please share your knowledge with me, I am lost. I have an epic science fiction, romance adventure I must share with the world and I do not know your art of written stories. Teach me your art and I promise you this: I will love and respect the art of the written word. I will revere the masters that gave us art. I will obey the rules of that art. And once your precious rules are known to me, I will break them, this I promise.
“Please take me as your student, accept my pledge of poverty. Please help me with a full or partial scholarship to your conference of masters.
“Sincerely yours,
“Paul Hathcoat”
I knew I wasn’t worthy, but still, I was willing to try. I had nothing left to lose except every last tattered shred of pride and dignity.
I don’t know who or why they chose me but they did, and the Pikes Peak Writers brought me into their conference of brilliant, gifted, master teachers on a full scholarship including many delicious, mouth-watering, low-calorie meals, but excluding airfare, hotel room, rental car, wine, women, and weed. Certain state and local restrictions may apply.
The Pikes Peak Writers Conference was truly a life-changing, mind-expanding experience. In three short days, I fell so deeply in love with the Muse of written word that my heart ached to be without her. I wanted nothing more than to practice and perfect that new art of love each and every remaining day of my life.
The Pikes Peak Writers Conference changed the way I structure thought, words, and language. They gave me beautiful new brushes, paint, canvas, and a thousand new words to paint a thousand new pictures. They gave me more than a scholarship. They gave me the courage to finish my masterpiece.
I give you, The Tree Farm.
PH2020