U.R. Bowie on Russian Literature: "Own: the Sad and Like-Wike Weepy Tale of Wittle Elkie Selph"

BUY "OWN" HERE:

http://www.amazon.com/Own-Like-Wike-Weepy-Wittle-Collected-ebook/dp/B00Y9H7GU2/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

OGEE ZAKAMORA PUBLICATIONS

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

AUTHOR PENS BOOK ABOUT SCHOOL SHOOTING IN GEORGIA

OWN

(THE SAD AND LIKE-WIKE WEEPY TALE OF WITTLE ELKIE SELPH)

U.R. Bowie

Book available in paperback and e-book on Amazon.com and at selected bookstores. Audiobook is in production, soon available.

Elkin (Own) Selph is a normal fifteen-year-old boy living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, in a fictitious town called Tocotano, Georgia. His story is absolutely ordinary. He plays football on the high school team, jokes around with his friends, has a girl friend named Idie. Elkie is a happy kid, enjoying his life. Then one day, in October, 2014, things go horribly wrong. Own flees his life, sets off on an odyssey that takes him into nearby South Carolina (Westminster, Seneca), and eventually returns to Tocotano, where tragedy of his own making awaits him.

The story is told in a jazzed-up teen slang by Own himself. His favorite novel and book is the rather violent A Clockwork Orange, and Own mixes the exotic slang of that work with Georgia dialect and his own invented language to create a unique new way of storytelling. Here’s the beginning of the novella:

PART ONE

Ole Own Itties Off

Start off with the ole ultra-cinema cam on a close-up of me face, brothers. Like Little Alex in the first scene of A Clockwork Orange. There sits me, ole Own, putting him on a mean ole sod-off litso-ditso for the camera. Holding up the handgun in the air. The music in the soundtrack is dobby fine ole Ray Charles, a-crooning out his pnin-bang song called “Georgie.” Ah, listen to him a-swanging and dook-zvook grooving. Puts a tear in me eye, O my brothers and sisters. Mighty smooth and mighty blinn-ding COOL, ole Ray. YAAAAAS.

Let him go on a-sanging and grinning big, playing the ole pianner and shaking his bod side to side, magnifi-likewike-cent Ray, while y’all pulls back the camera, real slow like, medlenny-ho, back, back, back, to show the sad and bloody thang in the ole lunch room where sets the PERP—that is, ole Own. Pull it back back back while the song sangs on. Show the dits-blitz carnage that’s scattered about the room. The dead bodies and all. Who would have thought the lot of them to have had so much blood in them? Then, as the camera goes on pulling back—out to where all the poeleasers and gendarmes is a-crouched behind their poe-lease cars—ole Ray’s song fades out and you hear that-there wah-plach whiny voice of the PERP. Here’s what he says

U.R. Bowie, who holds a Ph.D. in Russian literature, has been writing fiction for forty years. This is his seventh published book. Among his most recent publications are Anyway, Anyways (a collection of short stories) and Disambiguations: Three Novellas on Russian Themes. Bowie has an author page on Amazon.com. His blog is “U.R. Bowie on Russian Literature.”

For more information, or to set up an interview with the author, contact Bowie at this e-mail address: bowierobert@bellsouth.net Or call (352) 225-3533.

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FOLLOW OWN SELPH ON TWITTER @ ownselph

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PART ONE

Ole Own Itties Off

So what’s it gots to be about, O me brothers? First-off of all, gentle reader and friend, let me introduce myself. I am Elkin Selph of Tocotano, Georgia. My friends call me Own. I even call my ownself Own. I am fifteen, and it’s not like-wike I don’t know what I’m doing. I know what I’m doing, or, better to say, just have did-done. Killing/killed people. The question is, blinn-ding, why? How come thou done didst did it, Own? Just BECUZ. It’s sad, doe, you know? Right dobby good dang-down sad. Enough to make a growing malchichiwick sit down and cry. Wah-wah-wah, goes the weepy-wike baby—oowhah, oowhah, oowhah.

So tell us about it, Own, for we, O little brother, are eager and willing to hear thy glooped-out soppy tale. Okay, since you is asting real nice-wise, I shalt blinn enlighten thee and thine. Let’s start off with the where and when. It’s Monday, October 27, 2014, and Own Selph sets in the cafeteria building of Tocotano High School—surrounded by what-oncet-was his best friends and droogies. It’s dark in here, but they don’t mind, them friends-oncest-was, for they, O my reader, are off in a new dimension—where it’s all dark-like-wike SMEERT and dread, dread dead.

Take Hubert Spurlin, ole Hubes, flat on his dingbat blinn back, with his red hair and gray eyes, open as they be, them glazzies, and staring off into nothing. NADA. Or take Winford (Butch) Moseley. My frenemy-enema, ole fatso Butch, he’s a-draped over a table, and his big loud mouth is all raskritted wide wide open. But he ain’t saying, for a change, not Jack squat zilch. NEE-CHEE-GO. Or take sweet little Idie, who in life loved, like-wike, best of all things that be, the songs of ole Milky Chance. Him being, ole Milky, this-cheer crooner of the popsie-type music. OOo-wha, OOo-wha-wha.

No, I can’t look at Idie, at whom I was like #P.Oed off at, but at whom I feel not never no more not pee-oh-ed now. No. For sweet Idie is no more, and that, in my cray-mad mind doth grieveth me O most mightily, brothers and friends. It’s crying time. Wazzums, wazzums, dere dere dere, weepy weepy now, for I hast supped full of horrors.

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM, still hear the bams in me ookas-ears as I sets here, friends, contemplating what hath I wrought. Need bad to cheest the blood off me rookers. A sorry, sorry sight. And to put the jive aside for one minoota and say it plain—what I done did earlier today was I walked into this here school cafeteria with a .40 caliber Glock. Shot lots of people. Haven’t done me a body count, but it’s about a dozen, maybe baker’s. Some of them my sworn enemies, or, rather, my frenemies-enemas, and the others? Well, the others, likey-wike, just got their teeny-bobber nod-soddy butts into the wrong-as-they-say place at the wrong nee-too-da time.

So what’s it gots to be about, friends and neighbors? Frash my Facebook page—you’ll find it all there. The clues as to the done went going tweet berserk of poor ole Own. As for right this present now, I don’t have time to think about the whys and wherefores of the blinn-ding past. For I have me dobby fine future to worry about. My going forward. And that future is such as to measure, dear brothers and sisters, as some piddling blinn matter of hours. After that cometh still more BAM-BAMS.

Out there in the dark, in the light of the ole Luna, there beest scads of moodges bearing, like-wike, a-salt rifles. I can see them fookwah folks in me mind’s glazzies: fat big old poeleasers, newking out sweat-stench from their unwashed bods and oversized backsides. Wearing belts a-hung with sticks and tear gassers and taze-guns. All looking for a chance at gassing or tazing or bam-bamming the PERP. Who is your humble teller of this tale, brothers. That is, domeless wonderboy Own Selph, who, as his momma used to say, was always a good little boy. Still is. Me, I ain’t no gangsta, nor even a wannabe gansta (a wangsta-dangsta). I just ain’t. For, as thee and thine may not twig on—but as Elkie now knoweth, O yea, verily—becoming a murderer doth not change your basic own self. Kk?

You’re still you. And beezoomnee as this may sound, you’re still like-blinn full of the milk of human kindness. And then again, you may, gentle reader, be a-denking that you could never do what ole Elkin Selph just done diddy-did done. You’re wrong. You could. Anybody could. It all depends on the like-wike circumstances. And that’s why I herewith sitteth and speweth out unto thee and thine the whole sad tale. Are you listening, lewdies? About how it all cameth about. On a fine fall day in the lovely mountains of North Georgie.

Denk about it. When this October 27, 2014 rolled over into being, I had little notion that today would be #THEday. The day of the AWESOMITY. Thang is, I gots to tell this bidness out fast, to y’all and yallses, reader, as I sets here on me lonesome, all left on me ownsome. What I’d really like to do, frankly, is just bawl out me kishkas and guttiwuts. Lay down and whimper out a big healthy BOO-HOO-HOO, but I don’t gots the time. Kk? Don’t know when they’ll be coming for the PERP. Soon, though/doe. I figure first of all them poeleasers out there in the dark, they’ll send in here a little robot. Like teetoncey R2-D2 in the old Star Wars. Robo-guy will come a-bleeping and goolieing in the door, GLEEK, GLOOK, GLEEK, take a right turn in the hallway, and make for ole Own—blithering out all the while his message: “I-am-your-friend.” Then, after he’s goolied his way right up upon unsuspecting PERP, he’ll smile him a big ear-to-ear gloopy blinn grin and pull out a tear-gas grenade and pop ole Own upside the bashka: ZAP. Then what?

Not to get none too #philo-shitebird-sophical on you, reader, but folkies and lewdies has been asting that question since the beginnings of time. Quid nunc? Then what? And not nobody nowhere hast ever come up with a blinn of a blinn answer. Another question like-wike that one is, How come? Don’t nobody nowhere know, bleeb, how come—for what, after all, is out there in life that makes any diddley dobby good sense, amigos? Nada, nada, and (all together now, one more time)—NADA. Take this: ole Own in the seventh grade was elected King of the Junior Prom. Amazing. Elkin (Own) Selph. A king. Let you in on a malenky wittle secret, lewdies: never since the beginning of me born days has old Elkie ever-never felt like a king. Never.

What happens to your Facebook page and all your Instagrams when you zdoak? Do they take it offline the next day? Erase all the blather you done-diddley posted, and retweet all your tweets off onto some place near Mars? Do they put up a necro page: “The former inhabitant of this, likey-wike, page is not never no more, that is, now DECEASED, and any further deermo-crap “Likes” of his #defunct-like person should be herethwith and from now on addressed to SOMEWHERE IN CYBERSPACE.”

Take that little blonde kissochka over there resting comfortably on the floor—gunshot wound to the head. Don’t know her name, don’t know like-wike jack squat zilch about that unfortunate missy. Except this. She’s prolly got fifteen hundred friends on her page, and scads of silly like-wike selfies, with followers, all of them kissochkas in the pictures a-goofing about and pulling gloopy-dumb faces. And in her dead head right this minoota there’s still a doofus pop song a-running, ding, dang di-di-di-di-diddley. Most likely it’s old sappy Sam Smith, crooning out “Stay With Me,” or “In the Lonely Hour.”

But then again, she’s got a fam out there in the dark somewhere: a sissie and a bro and a moom and a poop. I can imagine them IMAGINE, IMAGINE, IMAGINE right this very seecoondochka. They are gathered together along with all the fams of the missing, on the bleachers of the ole school gym. Waiting and waiting, a-waiting out the poeleaser-gendarme assault on the likey-wike PERP—and hoping against any sort of miserable dingblatt hope that their Sally is still drawing breath when the poeleasers get there. Except that she, by the looks of her shot-up pumpkin from where sets the PERP in this-cheer cafeteria—she ain’t never not ever to draw another like-wike breath going forward. You feel me? Kk.

I hate that blinn shitebird “going forward.” You know? How come it beeth that every lewdie and his like-wike nuncle has to say that all the time? Going forward this, and going forward that, and kiss my double-breasted going-forward backside. “Oh, I’m being eaten by a boa constrictor.” You remember that wikey-like poem, gentle reader? Ole Shel Silverstein. Me moom used to read it to me when I was a mere bootoozchik of a babe. “I’m being eaten by a boa constrictor, and I don’t like it—ONE BIT. Oh gee, he’s up to my knee. Oh my (quavering voice) he’s up to my THIGH.” Idie and I used to recite that-there poesy and diddle-biddle tickle each other and laugh like bejesus out loud: YO-HO-HO. Dead Idie. The former Idell Owen, human being. But I make no appy polly loggies for that to thee and thine, O me last and lovely friends. For the blame is not Own’s, but is of circumstances. Or, as they say in the song, “Blame it on the night, don’t blame it on me.”

I am, though-doe, worried about me moom and me poop as here I squats in the darkie-like gloom, awaiting the coming of the friendly robot. Still wearing me dobby good ole Georgie Tech black-and-gold capochka. Or the FBI guys. Or the SWAT team fellers. For what did the m and the p ever do to deserve such as this in their lives? Sad, sad, sad, sad, sad. Get a grip, Own, for thou hast work to do and no time for them blinn-ding regrets. As thou croucheth in the dark and being sore athirst. Need me a drink of water. But never mind that, hie thee back to the flapping of the ole yahzick in the mouth and the talkie-talk telling of this-cheer tale—for likey-wike posterity.

And what about me little sis, dear Sadie, being she of tenderest years age eight, what about dear NO NO NO NO NO. Must not let me mind go ittying off there, for that-there is a place that ole Own, while he still lives zheeznee and has like-wike breath MUST NOT GO. Being as he is prone, all too prone, to the boo, and the hoo, and the still more BOO-HOO-HOO.

We are now a-wrenching Own’s thoughts back away from that Sadie spot: wrinch, wrinch, wrinch. Ole Elkie Own hast been here in the like-wike limbo for hours now. Right-cheer in the ole cafeteria, in dear ole Toco Town High. Ever since he done did-diddy done IT. Two wittle clockoes and me Ides, in one fell swoop. Ole Own Selph can well imagine the scene outside, doe. Right after the EVENT, say. Fat poeleasers swarming, swarming, all toting big long pooshka-guns, talking Georgie poe-lease talk on twoway radios (“Over, over, that’s a big ole roger, a ten-four to that, droogies, over, over and out”), and the dear schoolniks of ole Toco Town High—swarms of them-there too—running full-tilt-wilt, hands held high over their gullivers, streaming out onto the green green grass of HOME—beneath the golds and reds and orangey leaves of the lovely wang-blang trees of October, in Tocotano, Georgie. Gem of the Georgie mountains. The All-American City. Can the PERP get a big OMG (on my grave) AMEN to that, lewdies?

I caint hear you, lewdies…

Still caint hear you…

Still…

AMEN.

Kk.

BUY OWN HERE:

http://www.amazon.com/Own-Like-Wike-Weepy-Wittle-Collected/dp/151188231X/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

U.R. Bowie on Russian Literature

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