The plant - By Stephen King Page 0,46

Stamos (the Good Young Mother), suspects how evil Tracy Nordstrom really is. Eventually Nordstrom realizes she's onto him, and sets out to silence her. Will Sally be able to convince the others what's happening? Will she ever get back to her kids?

Saltworthy builds suspense like an old pro, and I simply couldn't put the book down... or turn the pages fast enough. The novel climaxes with a huge storm that accomplishes what until then has just been a cynical TV illusion: the contestants are cut off from everything, real castaways instead of pretend ones. What we've got here is a high concept hybrid between And Then There Were None and Lord of the Flies. I don't want to put the conclusion in this summary; it needs to be read and savored in the author's own vivid prose. Let me just say that it is so shocking that all the editors who have read it so far have dropped the book like a hot potato. But it works, and I think an American reading public that could accept the supernatural horrors of Rosemary's Baby and the criminous ones of The Godfather will embrace it, recommend it to their friends, and talk about it for years.

EDITORIAL RECOMMENDATION: We've got to publish this. It's the best and most commercial unpublished novel it has ever been my pleasure to read. If ever there was a book that could put a publisher on the map, this is the one.

John Kenton

from THE SAKRED BOOK OF CARLOS

SAKRED MONTH OFAPRA (Entry #77)

Time has almost come. Stars and planets almost right, praise Demeter. GOOD, as my own time is short. The traitor bitch Barfield disposed of, spell worked and plane went down. No problem there, praise Abbalah, but in the end she double-crossed me just the same. Thieving bitch took my Talisman (it was an Owl's Beak actually). I have looked everywhere but my Beak is gone. I bet she had it in her pocket when the plane went down. Burned! Nothing but ASHES!! With my Protection gone, my Time is short. Never mind, am tired of being Carlos anyway. Time for next stage but first will rid myself of Poop-Shit Kenton. I'll teach you what rejection REALLY MEANS, you Judas! Let plant take care of rest of them when the Innocent Blood comes.

I have been all around the neighborhood where Kenton works. All office buildings except for small market across the street. Crazy old Bum outside. Woman with a Guitar. Plays almost as bad as Poop-Shit Kenton edits books. Ha! Thought of using her, Innocent Blood, but also Crazy, so no good. "You can't work wood if the wood won't work" as Mr. Keen used to tell me. Wise Man in his way.

A few other "regulars" on the street it looks like. One fellow selling watches and etc. at a folding table. No problem but weekend would be best. I'll find a way to get inside, best would be to follow someone who's "pulling a little overtime." I'll sneak upstairs to their offices and just "lie low" as they say until Monday morning. Plan to cut Poop-Shit Kenton's throat myself with Sakred Sacrifice Knife. Take his heart if poss. When his blood flows down my hands I can die happy, praise Abbalah, praise Demeter. Only no death! Only move on to next level of existence.

COME DEMETER!

COME GREEN!

SAKRED MONTH OF APRA (Entry #78)

Must beware of one thing. I am still having dreams of "The General." Who is "The General." Why does he think about suppositories. Why does he think of Designated Juice. What is Designated Juice. Perhaps a holy drink like gooseberry bane or nutmeg milk. I don't know. Sense danger. Meantime have found a cheap hotel about 3 blocks from Z. H. Cannot hang around any longer. 1. Might attract wrong attention. 2. Can no longer stand Guitar-playing Woman Bum. Someone ought to wrap her guitar around her neck. Boy she plays like Shit. Maybe it's John Kenton in disguise! Haaaa haaaaa haaaa.

Weekend almost here. Trials & tribs almost over. Kenton you will pay for rejecting my book and then sikking the Police on me you Crap-Head.

Who is "The General." Who can he be.

Never mind. Weekend almost here.

COME GREEN!

From Sandra Jackson's Journal

April 3 1981 I haven't kept a journal since I was an eleven-year-old girl with mosquito-bumps for breasts and a love-life that consisted of moaning over Paul Newman and Robert Redford with my friends Elaine and Phyllis, but here goes. I'm going to skip writing about the