I have three stories I wrote for reluctant readers… I used them for years when I was teaching. They are only quite short and intended to trigger an interest in reading rather than support poor readers. I once had a publisher interested, then she let me down and in the end went out of business. Now I am in touch with another publisher who sounds most interesting and helpful.
Honey Pot Press: http://hpp5.moonfruit.com/
I guess what I will be doing is what used to be called vanity publishing, now called indie publishing, as I’m paying for it, but my publisher (doesn’t that sound great?!!) offers much more than just getting the books printed. My target buyers would be schools, as well as the public.
You would think it would be difficult to concentrate on listening when someone is screaming their head off. It might be difficult to concentrate when that someone is lying on the floor holding their hand and screaming.
It was Mr King lying on the floor and the reason he was lying on the floor was because he had two broken legs. That was enough to make anyone scream. But Mr King was holding his hand because it had been shot clean through.
I’m not joking now. Mr King, head of English at St Finbarr’s High had been shot through the hand. This was after he’s had his legs broken.
But let me go back to the beginning. Let me tell you how it all started. Let me tell you about Mr King, King Billy as he was called. Everyone loved King Bill. Everyone except me.
His name was William King and when he first met a class he would say, “Hiya, I’m, William King your new English teacher. They call me Billy King, but you can call my King Billy,” then he would laugh. “Or your Majesty if you prefer.”
Everyone thought he was really great, all the girls fancied him, all the boys wanted to be him. He was a great teacher, but he was a real ‘I am’ and I couldn’t stand him. I thought he was OK at first but then something happened which changed that.
My mum and dad have a pub. It’s a good pub. There’s never any trouble. There’s never any trouble because my dad makes sure there isn’t any trouble. He’s very strict on who goes in, no-one under eighteen gets served no matter how old they might look, he can tell when they’re under age. Absolutely no drugs. And he gets no trouble. Also the pub is right next door to the police station and is always full of the Law.
King Billy came in one night, he’d never been in before.
“Lesley-Anne!” he says.
Well, that got right up my nose. No-one calls me that, not even my mum. Everyone calls me Jo-Jo – don’t ask why, it’s a long story. He wanted to sit down and chat but I was busy. I wait on, serving the meals, and I had a lot of work to do. I didn’t pay much attention to him, and later on, when it was quiet I noticed he’d gone.
“Someone’s been sick in the yard!” Dad called to me so I got a bucket and mop and went through.
I’d forgotten the rubber gloves so went back to get them. I went back to the yard, pushed the door open and I walked straight in on King Billy.
There was another man standing by the empty crates. The man had a great stack of money in his hand and King Billy had a package in brown paper which he was either taking or giving to the man. I walked straight back out.
But it was too late. King Billy had seen me.