Newsgroup: it.fan.stephen-king
Titolo: KING NEWS (English)

Attention Stephen King Fan:
He's done it again.
The master of thrills returns with a new short story best described by King
himself as "a ghost story in the grand manner."  Written shortly after
King's near-fatal accident in June 1999, RIDING THE BULLET follows the
journey of a young man who hitches a ride with a driver from the other side.
It's classic King with an unbeatable mix of suspense, danger and fear.
And this time, King is bringing readers to the other side by offering RIDING
THE BULLET exclusively as an eBook.  eBooks allow you to purchase, download,
and read books through a specialized eBook device or from your desktop,
laptop, or handheld PDA.  Learn more about eBooks and how you can purchase
RIDING THE BULLET at 
http://www.simonsays.com/ebooks/
.
But first, scroll down below for an excerpt from the story.  Then, go to
http://www.simonsays.com/subs/book.cfm?areaid=21&isbn=0743204670
 for more
details.
RIDING THE BULLET will hit virtual shelves on March 14th at 12:01 AM EST.
Spread the word to other King fans by sending them our official RIDING THE
BULLET postcard attached to this email.
 
And don't forget to check out our Stephen King bulletin board at
http://bbs.simonsays.com/king1bbs/secure/bbs.cgi
 where fans are already
talking about this exciting King adventure!
 
Stay tuned for more details...
 
SimonSays
*  *  *
I've never told anyone this story, and never thought I would -- not because
I was afraid of being disbelieved, exactly, but because I was ashamed...and
because it was mine. I've always felt that telling it would cheapen both me
and the story itself, make it smaller and more mundane, no more than a camp
counselor's ghost story told before lights-out. I think I was also afraid
that if I told it, heard it with my own ears, I might start to disbelieve it
myself. But since my mother died I haven't been able to sleep very well. I
doze off and then snap back again, wide awake and shivering. Leaving the
lamp on helps, but not as much as you might think. There are so many more
shadows at night, have you ever noticed that? Even with a light on there are
so many shadows. The long ones could be the shadows of anything, you think.
Anything at all.
I was a junior at the University of Maine when Mrs. McCurdy called about ma.
My father died when I was too young to remember him and I was an only child,
so it was just Alan and Jean Parker against the world. Mrs. McCurdy, who
lived just up the road, called at the apartment I shared with three other
guys. She had gotten the number off the magnetic minder-board ma kept on her
fridge.
"'Twas a stroke," she said in that long and drawling Yankee accent of hers.
"Happened at the restaurant. But don't you go flyin off all half-cocked.
Doctor says it wa'ant too bad. She's awake and she's talkin."
"Yeah, but is she making sense?" I asked. I was trying to sound calm, even
amused, but my heart was beating fast and the living room suddenly felt too
warm. I had the apartment all to myself; it was Wednesday, and both my
roomies had classes all day.
"Oh, ayuh. First thing she said was for me to call you but not to scare you.
That's pretty sensible, wouldn't you say?"
"Yeah." But of course I was scared. When someone calls and tells you your
mother's been taken from work to the hospital in an ambulance, how else are
you supposed to feel?
"She said for you to stay right there and mind your schoolin until the
weekend. She said you could come then, if you didn't have too much studyin
t'do."
Sure, I thought. Fat chance. I'd just stay here in this ratty, beer-smelling
apartment while my mother lay in a hospital bed a hundred miles south, maybe
dying.
"She's still a young woman, your ma," Mrs. McCurdy said. "It's just that
she's let herself get awful heavy these last few years, and she's got the
hypertension. Plus the cigarettes. She's goin to have to give up the
smokes."
I doubted if she would, though, stroke or no stroke, and about that I was
right -- my mother loved her smokes. I thanked Mrs. McCurdy for calling.
"First thing I did when I got home," she said. "So when are you coming,
Alan? Sad'dy?" There was a sly note in her voice that suggested she knew
better.
I looked out the window at a perfect afternoon in October: bright blue New
England sky over trees that were shaking down their yellow leaves onto Mill
Street. Then I glanced at my watch. Twenty past three. I'd just been on my
way out to my four o'clock philosophy seminar when the phone rang.
"You kidding?" I asked. "I'll be there tonight."
Her laughter was dry and a little cracked around the edges -- Mrs. McCurdy
was a great one to talk about giving up the cigarettes, her and her
Winstons. "Good boy! You'll go straight to the hospital, won't you, then
drive out to the house?"
"I guess so, yeah," I said. I saw no sense in telling Mrs. McCurdy that
there was something wrong with the transmission of my old car, and it wasn't
going anywhere but the driveway for the foreseeable future. I'd hitchhike
down to Lewiston, then out to our little house in Harlow if it wasn't too
late. If it was, I'd snooze in one of the hospital lounges. It wouldn't be
the first time I'd ridden my thumb home from school. Or slept sitting up
with my head leaning against a Coke machine, for that matter.
"I'll make sure the key's under the red wheelbarrow," she said. "You know
where I mean, don't you?"
"Sure." My mother kept an old red wheelbarrow by the door to the back shed;
in the summer it foamed with flowers. Thinking of it for some reason brought
Mrs. McCurdy's news home to me as a true fact: my mother was in the
hospital, the little house in Harlow where I'd grown up was going to be dark
tonight -- there was no one there to turn on the lights after the sun went
down. Mrs. McCurdy could say she was young, but when you're just twenty-one
yourself, forty-eight seems ancient.
"Be careful, Alan. Don't speed."
My speed, of course, would be up to whoever I hooked a ride with, and I
personally hoped that whoever it was would go like hell. As far as I was
concerned, I couldn't get to Central Maine Medical Center fast enough.
Still, there was no sense worrying Mrs. McCurdy.
"I won't. Thanks."
"Welcome," she said. "Your ma's going to be just fine. And won't she be some
happy to see you."
I hung up, then scribbled a note saying what had happened and where I was
going. I asked Hector Passmore, the more responsible of my roommates, to
call my adviser and ask him to tell my instructors what was up so I wouldn't
get whacked for cutting -- two or three of my teachers were real bears about
that. Then I stuffed a change of clothes into my backpack, added my
dog-eared copy of Introduction to Philosophy, and headed out. I dropped the
course the following week, although I had been doing quite well in it. The
way I looked at the world changed that night, changed quite a lot, and
nothing in my philosophy textbook seemed to fit the changes. I came to
understand that there are things underneath, you see -- underneath -- and no
book can explain what they are. I think that sometimes it's best to just
forget those things are there. If you can, that is.
Copyright (c) 2000 by Stephen King
For more on RIDING THE BULLET click here
http://www.simonsays.com/subs/book.cfm?areaid=21&isbn=0743204670
RIDING THE BULLET
Scribner 
eBook, $2.50 
ISBN: 0-743-20467-0
Available for sale March 14th (12:01 AM EST)
Gordie
---------------------------------
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----------------------------------

 so many shadows. The long ones could be the shadows of anything, you
think.
Fantastico...non vedo l'ora che sia il 14 ! ;D
Scusate se non ho cuttato queste righe...non potevo...l'incipit di RIDING
THE BULLET mi piace troppo , e' lui , e' il RE ! Grande Stevie , grazie
Walter ! ;)
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