Press Release a new and different kind of book

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Dear Editor;

Below is a Press Release for a new collection of short stories Tales from the Smoke House. The Red and Black, the University of Georgia and the Plainsman of Auburn University will be running this Press Release plus reviewing this collection. If you want to review this collection again, please email me with this request.

After you read the ‘release’ you will probably say to yourself “I have heard all this before.” I will agree that you have probably have heard this statement. However, feedback from newspapers reviewing this collection have emailed and told that I do hit the mark. I am sure that you have heard the old saying ‘My mother has eyes in back of her head’. Well, now there is the story. This story has been on Berkeley Radio and several radio stations. This story is in the collection.

I do have a web site ‘ where you can judge yourself is you have read anything like this before. On my website there is the story “My Little Red Wagon”. This is one of the stories in this collection but it has been doctored since putting it in “Tales from the Smoke House”.

My work should speak for itself. There is nothing like this material in the literary market place at present. A few people have exclaimed to me that I mess with peoples’ minds. However, this is what a ‘true’ writer is supposed to do. I do seem to hit those cords that move people’s emotions. There is that magical in something that I write. In the About War story, people have told that I have captured the essence of telling a child about what they saw on the Television. This story is in Tales from the Smoke House.

At present I am sending my material to over 2,000 radio stations. This past Christmas season several of the Christian Radio Network stations broadcast my Christmas stories worldwide. XM Satellite and a Public Radio Station will develop the radio series ‘Tales from the Smoke House’ and be doing the Stories from the The Smoke House Christmas Book on the Sonic Theater during the Christmas season..

Below is a story About War that I wrote in November about September 11th. You may use this story in your paper if you wish. If the money has to pass hands, please donate the money to the families of the victims of September 11th. This will be added into this collection in the second edition.

The book -Tales from the Smoke House is in the hands of Amazon and several major distributors.

I would appreciate you running an article about Tales from the Smoke House when you have the space where your readers will know about this collection of short stories. If you want to review this collection, please email with your wishes.

If there are any questions, please email me at [email protected]

With Respect

Franklin P. Smith

PS I would appreciate a better email to send other Press Releases to you newspaper.


1976 Oakwood Dr.

Stockbridge, Ga. 30281

Press Release Tales from the Smoke House

Tales from the Smoke House has just been released. Tales from the Smoke House is a collection of short stories from a new but not so young writer named ‘Franklin P. Smith’.

The setting for this collection of stories is simple set – an old Smoke House in a small Southern town, however, the stories cross all cultural spectrums of society. The reader must beware because these stories deal with real issues, values, and poke fun at life that the average person walks. The story “My Mother has Eyes in Back of Head” is a prime example. Most mothers’ do have this gift with their children for some reason. However, Mr. Smith deals with issue in telling a young girl about the term ‘WAR’ which all of us have to deal with in every day life. Yet, this author reaches and touches the readers heart with the story about the loss of a love one, going to see an old friend who will not know him, and deals why the ‘Nail Cross’ was sent to all the men who went to war for their country.

People have said Mr. Smith is seventy years old after reading his material. He is not this old. Others have stated that he has captured the struggle and plight in his stories of the average person in today’s society that cross ethnic and cultural boundaries. A Chairman of the Theological department of a prominent Seminary exclaimed – “He captures the essence of human behavior.” Mr. Smith replies to these comments – “I just write.” “I don’t write great literature but about ‘human behavior’.

Alabama Public Radio and XM Satellite have agree to assist Franklin P. Smith in producing the series Tales from the Smoke House plus Holiday specials for Sonic Theater.

If the reader would like to sample Mr. Smiths’ work – especially ‘My Little Red Wagon’ they may do so in going to A note to the searcher – tripod is noted to be up and down at times.

You may request or find Tales from the Smoke House at any major bookstores or you may order from the Internet on The price of this accumulation of short stories is $14.00.

About War


Franklin P. Smith

“You busy?” Pat said, looking at Harry, who was sitting next to the potbelly stove in the rear portion of the Smoke House. He took a sip of coffee before he answered.

“No.” Harry said. “Traffic has been down during the day since the 11th.” He paused briefly. “I’ve sold a pile of newspapers and news magazines but this only happens early in the morning and when the evening paper comes in around three.”

“You look beat.” Harry said looking directly into Pat’s eyes.

“I’ve had some sleepless nights since the planes hit the tower,” Pat said, sitting down across from Harry.

“Most people don’t know the consequences of what happened on the 11th.” Pat said quietly, and looked at Harry. Harry nodded.

“You want a cup of coffee Pat?” Harry asked, and Pat shook his head in a negative manner. There was an eerie silence between the two men.

“How do you tell a young child about war?” Pat asked and looked directly into Harry’s eyes. Harry didn’t reply to his question.

“Nancy’s grandchild was over at the house looking at cartoons when it came on the television.” Pat took a deep breath. “Little Sally just stood in front of the television set just looking, not moving a muscle.” Pat stopped speaking.

“She’s only six,” Pat said, looking at the floor, “but she knew what was happening.”

“She knew real people were being killed in front of her eyes.” Pat said while he raised his head to look at Harry. Harry could see in the man’s eyes that Pat was looking for answers and for confirmation that he had done the right thing with this child.

“Nancy came into the room and started to take Sally out but I motioned her to leave her alone.” Pat took another breath.

“The damage had been done.” Pat said in a low voice stopping again.

“Her innocence was lost. She’ll never be the same. She’s been exposed to the horrors that people can do to each other.” Pat stopped again and relaxed his body backward into the bamboo rocker and started to rock it backward and forward.

“In a couple of minutes I took her out to the front porch and down to the barn to show her the new calf that had been born the week before.

“I talked about how happy we were about the new calf while we walked. She was quiet during our walk. I got her to laugh when I told her about my milking a cow when I was a teenager. The cow would hit me with her tail and every minute try to step on my feet. But even laughing, Sally had a somber look about her. Her look was kind of eerie. I knew she was still thinking about what she had seen just the hour before.” Pat said, looking at Harry.

“I spent the rest of the morning with her, taking down to see the ducks at the pond and feeding them before I headed back to the house. I hoped Nancy had turned off all the televisions. She had, and it was time for lunch when we got back to the house. During lunch Nancy did most of the talking about her daughter and Sally’s brother, Eddie. I didn’t want to say anything. I had run out of things to talk about to a six year old.” Pat took a deep breath.

“Nancy took Sally and made her take a nap.

“I was on the front porch in my rocker when she woke up and came out to the porch. She broke me out of my thinking about the devastation and about what would occur in the years ahead.”

“‘Papa! Papa!'” Sally said. “‘What’s war?'” she asked in her innocent voice.

“I looked at her. She was looking directly into my eyes. I asked myself how could I explain what war was about and why it had to occur in this world. I could see that her perfect and undisturbed world was about to end.

“I took her on my lap and started to rock.

“I didn’t want to answer her question. She was the one that broke the silence. ‘Why did all those people have to die?'” she asked in her little voice.

“I still didn’t answer her. I didn’t know how to explain war. I didn’t want to open her blameless world anymore. I thought of Pandora’s box. Once it was open there was no holding back of the evil but in the end there was hope. The dye had been cast when she had seen this tragic event.

“I told her this: ‘War is not nice. It is the worst kind of human behavior. People get hurt who didn’t do anything to deserve it,’ I said. ‘It’s like you and your brother when you don’t like him. I know that he picks on you at times for no reason. Well, when people get very powerful they try to pick on other people. I know that you don’t like him picking on you. I’ve seen you get real mad at him and you want to hurt him. Well, this is sort of what war is about.'”

“Oh,” she said quickly, getting off my lap. “Granny says were going to town to get some ice cream.”

“My rocker stood motionless as this little girl ran inside the house to get Nancy, so we could go to town.” Pat stopped and grinned a little.

“You know ice cream heals a lot of wounds in a child.” Pat paused briefly.

“But her perfect world has ended forever, and no amount of ice cream will heal the knowledge of seeing those people being killed.” Pat stopped talking while the rocker became still. Harry nodded.

“You did the best you could.” Harry said. “Sally has started on the road to becoming an adult.” Harry said, looking directly at Pat.

“War is where we become like our ancestors in the cave.” Harry said shaking his head.

“I wish old men would find another way to settle their differences by sending people to kill each other, but this is man’s way, not God’s—not anyone’s God.

“Clang! Clang!” The noise came from the old cowbell on top of the door frame. Harry got up. Pat looked at his watch.

“I have to go anyway.” Pat said. “Nancy’s at the dress shop buying Sally a new outfit. She says this will make her forget.” The men looked at each other and shook their heads.

Oh,” Pat said. “I won’t be around for a couple of weeks. You know what the old guys will be talking about.” Pat was silent.

“You know how I am about war and killing.” He said with a somber expression. Pat thought about the hate that would arise in the coming months and years.

Pat wondered where the line would be drawn between justice and vengeance.