Gary's Mostly Pointless Blog

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Oct

Give a Hoot, Read a Book

Categories: Rants

In the past six months or so, I’ve taken a far more active interest in the written word. This is partly because of my ambitions to become a successful writer and partly because of the long-buried and all too common non-reader’s guilt. For whatever reason, your average person simply doesn’t read too often. A 2007 AP report reported that 1 in 4 adults failed to read a single book in the previous year. No one likes to feel unintelligent and no one likes to be excluded from something, this includes the literary world. Lack of reading does both and did both to me.

You see, I was not a very good English student. In fact, I came very close to not graduating High School due to a near failing English grade. I just found it all so utterly and completely boring. Besides, Keenland race track was nearby and how cool is it to skip school to go bet on a few horses? But it wasn’t only that I found English class and reading books to be boring, it also seemed irrelevant and arbitrary to boot. “I mean seriously!” says a version of me that is ten years younger than the current model. “What the hell do I care about a participle or stuff that was written hundreds of years ago?! I mean, stories are cool but if it’s really good, they’ll make it into a movie. Besides, reading is boring.”

Yes, I know what you devoted bibliophiles are thinking: “Kill the non-believer!”

Before you go for your torches and pitchforks, please know that I’ve changed. Television and film just aren’t as magical to me as they once were and I now take most of my entertainment in word form. Actually, I feel a little bit like a double agent or live a kind of double life. I currently work on a military base and live around soldiers and vets. While military folks are good people, there isn’t exactly a desperate outcry for book clubs and library funding. My handful of local friends are all tank mechanics and the like, so literature isn’t exactly a popular interest. Despite this, we get along fine; they suffer through my diatribes about books and I suffer through theirs about motorcycles. What’s odd to me is that they tend to think of me as a “reader” (stick two fingers in the air and make them go up and down…yeah, I’m that guy) and they have this kind of wariness about me. It’s like I have some disease or that I have some troubling past.

I usually have at least one book with me and I read when I get a spare moment. I especially like taking a book with me to a restaurant. While I’m waiting for the food to come and after I finish, I take my time and read till I have to move along. More than a little often, I’ll catch these odd glances from strangers. They’ll look at me a little longer than maybe they had planned and when I look up, they look away. A lot of times, people will see me reading and give me a look that seems to say, “Oh, he’s one of those types.”

I think that the common belief among non-readers is that people read in public (or at all) simply to show off, as ridiculous as this may seem. I know this to be somewhat true because I used to think it once upon a time. I think this stems from a fear of feeling less intelligent and simple non-interest in reading. I wouldn’t call it ignorance, except when expressed as ignobly as Kanye West did in a Rolling Stone interview:

“Sometimes people write novels and they just be so wordy and so self-absorbed…I am not a fan of books. I would never want a book’s autograph. I am a proud non-reader of books.”

Never mind the fact that making fun of Kanye West is as easy as finding a Jonas Brothers fan in an all-girl school. Never mind the fact that his mother was actually a College Professor of English with a PHD. Never mind the fact that HE ACTUALLY WROTE A BOOK (one that is 52 pages long, and was co-authored with someone else…and, good lord, read those reviews). The fact that someone actually thought this, then said it to a reporter for a nationally published magazine is astounding. Then again, Kanye isn’t known for his quiet reserve. The man is either the greatest satirist in human history or the biggest celebrity dumbass we have at our disposal.

One of my favorite comedians, Bill Hicks, told a story about reading a book. The short, clean version is this:

“I was sitting in a Waffle House restaurant, reading a book and this waitress asked me ‘Whatcha readin’ for?’ Isn’t that the weirdest question you’ve ever heard? Not ‘what am I reading?’ but ‘what am I reading for?’ What am I reading for? I guess so I don’t have to work as a waitress at the Waffle House.”

That’s a bit harsher than I’d go with it, but the concept is the same. So, if you’re reading this and you’re not exactly an avid reader, ask yourself this: do you really want to be on the same side as Kanye West…about anything?

I mean, when it comes down to it, don’t you–

kanye1 kanye2 kanye3

Oct

Balatrophobia

By Gary Harmon 18 Comments

Categories: #Flash Friday

STOP! I know what you’re thinking and I know what you want to do. You’re saying to yourself, “Hey, I like knowing about phobias. Here’s one I’ve never heard of before. Why don’t I go Google this real quick.” Don’t you dare! You don’t read the last page of a book first, do you? It’s only a thousand words, you can wait Mr./Ms./Mrs. Impatient.

It occurred to me a while ago that so many flash writers specialize in horror. This was reinforced by a quick Duotrope search for flash markets (there are many, many horror markets). I’m just not a horror guy and I consider that to be a weakness as a writer. This week I thought I would give it a pseudo-stab.

One last note before we get to it. Last week, J. M. Strother commented on the fact that I include the caption “Powered by: J. M. Strother!” below my #FridayFlash badge. He said that it embarrassed him that he almost choked when he saw it. Well, I’ll make you a deal Jon, when you decide to stop being awesome by compiling a list of the #FridayFlash stories every week, then I’ll consider taking it down. *wink*

This week’s #FridayFlash, “Balatrophobia”.

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BALATROPHOBIA

“Please, just one more night,” Jeffery said, sitting up in bed and pulling his blankets up to his chest.

“Now Jeffery, we agreed on this. No more nightlights. You’re eight years old, that’s far too old to be afraid of the dark,” his mother told him.

“Please mom, please! One more night, that’s all. Just one more night!”

His mother smiled that indulging smile that only mothers are capable of making. “You said that last night, didn’t you?”

“Yeah but–”

“No but’s,” she said lovingly. “You have to be a big boy now. Don’t you want to be a big boy?” He nodded timidly. “Well big boys don’t have night lights. Big boys aren’t afraid of the dark.” She tucked him in which, as any child knows, is the official end of any conversation.

“Now, who’s my big boy?”

“Me,” he said, feeling childish and scared.

“Good,” she kissed him on the forehead and walked toward the door. “Sweet dreams, sweetie.”

He said nothing because there was nothing to say. How could he tell her what goes on in his room at night? How could he explain just how horrible it was? How could she ever understand? His mother flipped off the light switch and started closing the door. As the last sliver of light shrank on the bed before him, he knew the horrors that were coming. He knew that Carl was on his way.

***

His room was dark and deathly quiet. He had seen Scooby Doo cartoons where Shaggy and Scooby would be in some spooky house and an owl would hoot in the distance, causing Scooby to jump in to Shaggy’s trembling arms. There was no owl and this was no spooky house. He tried to tell himself that this was his room and it was exactly the same with the lights off. His Legos were still in the shoe box on his dresser, his Dino Rider and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toys were still in their place and his “Empire Strikes Back” poster was still tacked to his closet door.

The closet. That’s where Carl was. Carl always came once it was dark enough and when Jeffery wouldn’t expect it. Jeffery tried not to think about it and be a big boy like mommy wanted him to be. He thought about He-Man and what he would do about this situation. “He-Man would beat him up!” He thought about being He-Man, or at least He-Boy, and he felt a little stronger and a little braver. That’s when he heard his closet door handle start to turn.

There was no rattling or unsure turning. The door handle turned slowly and deliberately. Jeffery heard the door unlatch and swing open slowly, creaking only a little just before it was fully open. He stared into that dark void that seemed to be trying to pull him in. He made out an empty, inky shape moving slowly toward the center of the room. It was Carl and he could see that he had his weapon in his hand. Jeffery mouthed a soundless “No!” but it was too late. Carl was about to start.

There was an odd stillness in the room, until…”Ladies and Gentlemen,” an amplified voice said from nowhere, “please welcome back to Jeffery’s room, the one, the only, Carl!” A spot light focused on Carl who was adorned in a suit loud enough to make Jeffery’s ears bleed. A roar of applause came from the same place that the spotlight and amplified voice came from and Carl waved to no one.

“Thank you, thank you. What a crowd!” Carl said, speaking into his weapon. “You know folks, it’s always a pleasure to play this room. I just flew in and boy are my arms tired!” As the audience laughed hysterically, Jeffery recoiled in the horror of such a bad and boring joke.

“No, but seriously folks, this airplane food, have you had this stuff? Have you tried it? Geez, this stuff is terrible! I wouldn’t feed this stuff to my dog. My wife, maybe, but not my dog.” The audience laughed and Jeffery jumped under the covers, thinking that if Carl couldn’t see him, he’d go away. He didn’t.

“No, but seriously, I saw a dyslexic man the other day and I asked him where he was going. He said he was going down to the bra for a tin and gonic.” The audience hooted laughter. “So, two fish were in a tank. One says to the other, “I’ll man the guns, you drive”.” Carl paused for the invisible crowd. “My dog, he’s got no nose and people always ask me how he smells. I’ll tell ya, he smells terrible.” Jeffery repeated, “You’re not funny!” over and over while rocking back and forth.

“What’s this? We have Jeffery here in the crowd tonight. Let’s give a big hand to Jeffery, ladies and gentlemen!” The crowd obliged. “Wow, Jeffery is in here every night, folks. It’s almost like he lives here or something.” The crowd roared again.

“So anyway, I went to my proctoligist the other day. No, no, it’s true, and I told the nurse that I needed to see a proctologist right away. She says, “Yes sir. Walk this way,” and I said, “If I could walk that way, I wouldn’t need a proctologist!”" The crowd laughed and Jeffery screamed out in horror. Carl immediately bolted for the closet as the spotlight extinguished itself and the drone of the crowd died down to nothing.

His mother burst in to his room to find a howling and bawling Jeffery.

***

Psychologists would tell him later on in his life how irrational his fear of comedians was. His daily medication and regular therapy was the only way he could function normally. But in the back of his mind, he knew that in some dark closet, Carl was busy writing new material and would one day be back to finish the job.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

NOTE: “Balatro” is a latin word meaning “jester” or “fool”, aka comedian. “Balatrophobia” is a word I made up on my own, so if this turns out to be a real thing one day, keep in mind that you heard it here first.

Oct

Friends Like These

By Gary Harmon 14 Comments

Categories: #Flash Friday and Brad & Joe

club They say you should write what you know and if I know anything, it’s awkward situations and being a bumbling doofus around women.

This week’s #fridayflash continues the epic saga of my two favorite idiots, Brad & Joe.

Speaking of that, I love Brad & Joe and I think you should too. I write about these guys almost every week. I plan on incorporating elements from the previous stories into each new one but I’ll try to make every story as “stand-alone” as possible. If you’d like to catch up on who these idiots are, you can read the preceding stories here:

The Vicious Cycle

Power Words

So here it is, “Friends Like These”, my #fridayflash for the week.

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FRIENDS LIKE THESE

He wished for death. He breathed in the air redolent with smoke and something else that made him want to vomit. The lights were disorienting so he turned away from them as best he could. But there was nothing he could do to get away from that awful sound; it was everywhere. This was torture beyond anything that he had ever imagined.

How had it come to this? How had he been so easily duped? He knew the answer because it was the same way he was always duped. One simple song. “Goddamn you, Bay City Rollers. I’ll never forgive you for that.” He forced himself to simply accept his fate. “Might as well try to enjoy it.” But still he wondered just how Joe had convinced him to go clubbing while he was dealing with his stupid cold.

His whole body ached and he seemed to creak with every thundering bass note that filled the club like the heartbeat of a mighty dying god. His eyes matched the eyes of a drunk, but the no nonsense look on his face told the story: he didn’t want to go out tonight but one of his friends convinced him. He was the DD.

He sat at the bar, tepidly drinking his orange juice (no vodka) and occasionally blew his nose into a cocktail napkin. Fortunately, people came and went regularly, so stuffing his used napkins into an empty glass saved him nasty looks from bartenders handling his snot rags. He wasn’t a doctor, but he was pretty sure that a night club was the polar opposite of a place for the sick to get better. Still he tried to make the best of it despite the inverted cauldron of snot forming in his nose. “…and I swear to God,” he said through a stuffy nose, “if I hear Lil’ Jon say ‘yeah’ one more time—“

“Brad?” It was the voice of an angel coming out clear and sweet through the cacophony of brainless dance music. It was Courtney’s voice. Courtney, the woman that he had embarrassed himself in front of more times than he could count…or remember due to the fact that he was usually drunk. He composed himself as best he could.

”Oh, hey Courtney,” Brad said as suave and perfectly healthy as he could. “How you doin?”

“Fine! You look great!” She said this with no detectable sarcasm.

“Well, you look…”

For a moment, the passage of time stopped for Brad. Courtney was wearing a red dress that seemed to love her openly as much as Brad did secretly. It seemed to Brad that there was nothing about this woman he didn’t completely adore. She was beautiful, but any fool knew that. Her personality was so uncanny, so completely her own, that her stunning looks almost paled in comparison. He looked at her smile. It always made him smile. His eyes dropped down to her plunging neckline and he thought again about her red silken lover. Her dress seemed to caress her in way that Brad had always wanted to. Wait, he thought, I want to be a dress? This brought time back to its normal pace.

“…great!” he said.

“Thank you!” she said, and smiled in a way that melted the ice cubes in his orange juice.

“So…who are you here with?” he said, with “What’s his name?” on the tip of his tongue. Jealously and adrenaline rose up at the thought.

“Just a bunch of work friends,” she said rolling her eyes. “Let me pull up a chair.”

She turned to get the nearest chair and that’s when Brad saw it. Her dress had no back and the phrase NO BRA! repeated over and over in his head. The jealousy was long gone but the adrenaline had shifted into second gear. She sat down next to him a little closer than he was expecting and started twirling a bit of hair that had escaped when she put it up. He looked at the two sticks that seemed to hold it all together in wonder. My God, how do those sticks work? That’s amazing!

“So, who are you here with?”

His ill-advised line of stick-related questions left his mind as he noticed in her what he thought was…fear? Fearful anticipation maybe? This was a good sign. This was a very good sign. This was one of those things that experts in men’s magazines tell you to look for. Oh, she’s interested, Bradley my boy, he thought. Take the upper hand. Be cool, be yourself and she’ll dig it. Time to relax.

“Oh…just Joe.”

“Oh,” she said slightly exasperated.

“Come on, what’s wrong with Joe?” he said playfully.

“Well…I don’t really know him that well and I don’t want to judge but…he seems like a douche-bag.”

Brad snorted laughter and all of the cool confidence he had moments earlier was gone. The inverted cauldron of snot in his nose was gone too, all the way down to his chin. In a flash he brought a hand up to his face and quickly wiped it away, hoping she hadn’t seen. Without thinking, he placed his soiled hand on his jeans.

Her look was utter horror. She had seen everything.

Brad saw her staring at his hand and he looked as well. Again, without thinking, he brought his hand off a few inches and the club’s lights made his mucus sparkle and shimmer.

She looked at his hand and then at him. Lil’ Jon said “Yeah!” in the background. She slowly backed her chair away and stood up. She walked away.

Brad sat motionless for a while until a drunken Joe came up next to him.

“Hey dude, what are you doing moping over here?! I think I saw Courtney, go find her! I think she has the hots for you!” and Joe was off again.

As Brad was thinking of places to hide Joe’s body, he rested his head on his hand. The snotty one.

He recoiled. “OH, COME ON!”

Oct

The Force is Strong With This One…

By Gary Harmon 1 Comment

Categories: Rants

694px-star_wars_logosvg This past weekend, I had one of the most incredibly enthralling conversations that I’ve ever had. Namely: Who was the better Jedi, Luke or Obi-won? Scott Fuzion asked me this and said that our friendship depended on my answer. After thinking about it for a second, I told him Obi-won was definitely the better Jedi. Apparently, we’re not friends anymore.

But you know what, to Hell with Scott.

If he is going to be so blind to truth and facts then maybe I’m just better off.

But still..how can someone be so incredibly wrong about something and still manage to sleep at night (maybe it’s due to Scott’s steady diet of eating babies for every meal?)? I didn’t have access to the internet at the time and the only thing I was busy downloading was Cranberry & Vodka’s into my mouf. Now that I have the one and not the other, allow me to school you, Scott, in the ways of the Force…you bandwagon, Skywalker loving, pansy…

A-hem.

WHAT IS A JEDI?

The original question the odious Mr. Fuzion asked me was “Who was the better Jedi?” For the purposes of this discussion, I think this term needs to be defined. The following is taken from WOOKIEPEDIA, the Star Wars version of Wikipedia.

THE JEDI CODE
There is no emotion; there is peace.
There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.
There is no passion; there is serenity.
There is no chaos; there is harmony.
There is no death; there is the Force.

Also from Wookiepedia, the first few lines from the article on Jedi from the section entitled “Way of Life”:

“In following the Code, Jedi behavior was rigidly structured to uphold self-discipline, responsibility, and public service. The Jedi conquered emotions and materialism. They honored life, the law, the order itself and the master-student relationship. Jedi rendered aid to support and defend the weak; compassion was “encouraged.” Rules of engagement included such notions as understanding the dark and light in all things, learning to see accurately, opening their eyes to what was not evident and exercising caution, even in trivial matters. Above all, Jedi upheld their duty to the Republic and embraced the Force.”

Now that we all know the parameters for this discussion, I’ll continue. Since age comes before Farrah Fawcett-like fanned blond mops, we’ll start with my man, Obi-wan.

OBI-WAN KENOBI

One Baaad Mutha!

Look at him. That’s one bad dude. There’s a character so hardcore and totally badass that they had to get an actual knight to play him–that’s SIR Alec Guinness to you, pal. In Espisodes I-III, who did they get to play him? Ewan McGregor, who played an heroine addict in “Trainspotting” (badass) and played a US Army Ranger in “Blackhawk Down”(also badass). Now, I know that this doesn’t count toward who’s a better Jedi, but you can’t have some schlub playing a truly amazing character and Hollywood knows how to cast appropriately (as well knowing how to let Michael Bay destroy everything I loved as a child through his bullshit, pointless and plotless movies…but I digress).

Who was Obi-wan? A loyal servant of the Republic. A selfless diplomat seeking justice and doing what he can to protect civilization from the Dark Side. A Jedi Master answering the call of the Jedi council in whatever way was asked of him; from quelling a rebellion, to serving as a distant watcher.

Oh…did I mention professional bad-ass? Sorry, I thought I mentioned that. In Episodes I-IV, he acts as a efficient, well oiled, highly refined ass-kicking machine! From Darth Maul to General Grevis to wanted men with the death sentence on twelve different systems, Kenobi brings a case of Jedi flavored Whoop-ass wherever he goes. Oh and he did managed to beat the snot out of Luke’s dad pretty well too, Mr. HAAA-PAAA…HAAA-PAAA. It’s like, geez dude, do something about that wheezing already, it’s creepy.

But here’s the thing, being a Jedi is about doing whatever you have to do to ensure peace. Sometimes that means whipping out a lightsaber and rearranging the furniture; but most times it means acting as a compassionate civil servant trying to calm hostilities. Even when Kenobi faced off against Darth Vader in Ep. IV, he sacrifices himself to let the whiny son of and even whinier Emo-douche escape. Throughout his entire fictional life, in the films and in the books and comics considered canonical, he goes astray only a few times but never fully to the Dark Side. According to the Jedi Code and what it means to actually be a Jedi, Obi-wan was that in spades. Period.

LUKE SKYWALKER

Aww...don't cry, emo-kid...

Alright, let’s start with the actor. Mark Hamil. Wait, Mark Hamil?

“Mr. Hamil, since you starred in one of the highest grossing and highly successful movies of all time, how has that boosted your acting career?” “I…uhh…am a voice actor for cartoons now…” “Really?” “Yep.” (fictional quotes made up by me.)

Don’t get me wrong, I like Mark Hamil and he really does some amazing voices, but come on. If all that’s required of the character of Luke Skywalker is a future voice actor, how well does that bode for the character himself. I’m just sayin’…

Now to how he fares as a Jedi. Let’s see…in every single movie he is seen disobeying his masters and instructors. In every single movie he loses self-control and does things that nearly get himself killed . And, in every single movie he gets his ass kicked. In fact, if it weren’t for Han Solo, he would have eaten it more than a few times. A Jedi? More like a Jedon’t.

Let’s not forget that all this guy does is whinge. Whinge, whinge, whinge, whinge. *in a high whiny pitch*”But I was going into Tosche Station to pick up some power converters!“ Shut up, you stupid kid. *in same whiny voice* “No! That’s not true! That’s impossible!“ God. Shut up already. Oh, and who can forget the whinging on the floor of the Emperor’s throne room? “Father! Pleeeeeease!“ No way, Palpatine. Crank up the juice and put this whiny little emo-girl out of his misery. I’m sorry, comparing Skywalker to a whiny little emo-girl is offensive to actual whiny little emo-girls. My apologies, ladies.

Now here’s Scott’s big arguments for this pansy:

1.) He founded the New Jedi Order.

Well guess what? If you’re the only member of a club, obviously you’re going to be the best one.

2.) He was the only Jedi to go all the way to the Dark Side and back.

So…not only was he a whiny little girl with a penchant for catching an ass-whopping and constantly not listening to his masters, but he also succumbed to the Dark Side. That’s not impressive at all. Yeah he came back, but he should have never gone over in the first place.

In closing, I’d just like to say…well…Star Wars is kind of lame Sci-Fi anyway. Us big boys read Frank Herbert, Aurthur C. Clarke and Asimov.

But still…Obi-wan was waaaaaay better.

Don’t agree? Then vote.

PS: Lots of love Scott.

Oct

Fictional Character

By Gary Harmon 21 Comments

Categories: #Flash Friday
Tags: #fridayflash, Plagiarism, Richard Ridyard

plagiarism When I say that this blog is “Mostly Pointless”, it’s posts like these that go to show it’s not entirely frivolous. Brad and Joe will be back next week, I promise.

Recently, a writer named Angel Zapata found that some (insert insulting adjective) (insert insulting noun) named Richard Ridyard had been plagiarizing his work. Come to find out, it wasn’t just Angel this (adjective) (noun) was ripping off but also several other writers with an online presence to include some obscure writer living in the wilderness of Maine named Stephen King (don’t worry, you’ve probably never heard of him any way). For those of you that don’t know, plagiarism is the equivalent of performing a sexual act with your own mother–and yes, the label is apt here. In other words, this Ridyard guy is a thief, plain and simple.

You can read about it here: I’ve Been Plagiarized…and I’m Not Alone and Grand Theft Boogeyman

This begs the question, why would you want to do something like this? The story that follows is the only logical motivation for plagiarizing I can think of. Big thanks to Angel for not only exposing this bumbag but also for agreeing to let me include him by name in my yarn. At the last second, I decided against it.

My story here may not be very good, it may not win any awards and I probably won’t earn a dime from it. But hey, at least it’s original.

__________________________________________________________________________________

FICTIONAL CHARACTER

“Your novel…it rings of something,” Mr. Scarborough said.

“Cash registers, you mean?” Frank asked, chuckling to himself. Frank felt pretty happy with himself, but why shouldn’t he? He had just spent the past decade perfecting his novel. He had rewritten it numerous times, forcing his mind’s eye to be as subjective as possible. With each subsequent rewrite, he eliminated the boring, the tedious and the unnecessary. His characters were rich, his prose was lush and most importantly, his novel was wholly original.

Scarborough laughed superficially. “Not exactly, Mr. Reynolds.” Frank’s smile faded. “This novel is very good. The characters are startlingly real, the dialog is fantastic, the action is suspenseful without over doing it, but more than anything…it’s very original.” Scarborough folded his hands on top of Frank’s manuscript.

“Well, I agree Mr. Scarborough. May I call you Tom?”

“No,” Scarborough said flatly. “Mr. Reynolds, I take every manuscript that comes across my desk very seriously. But a publishing history can be just as important as a manuscript.”

Frank felt a wave of anxiety wash over him but his smile hid it well. “Then you’ve seen mine? Very impressive, isn’t it?”

“Quite,” Scarborough said, narrowing his eyes slightly. “You seem to be a very prolific writer. In the past two years you’ve published six short stories, two dozen flash fiction pieces and all to paying markets.” Frank began to speak but was cut off. “What is most impressive, Mr. Reynolds, is your range: Horror, Science Fiction, Romance, Historical Fiction, Creative Non-fiction. You seem to run the whole gambit.”

“What can I say? I suppose I’m a pretty creative guy,” Frank said, maintaining his Cheshire grin. Silence fell between them and Frank felt the worry within him refresh. He doesn’t know, Frank thought, he can’t know. There’s no reason to think he knows so just keep smiling and be cool. Mr. Scarborough opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of papers.

“Mr. Reynolds, are you familiar with a man named Jonathan Saint?” Scarborough said, reading from his papers.

“No, I can’t say that I am,” Frank said. The name rang a bell with him but he couldn’t immediately place it.

“Mr. Saint is a writer living in Alabama. He has been published on several online literary websites and—”

“Let me stop you right there, Tom, I—”

“Mr. Scarborough,” Scarborough said.

“Oh, my apologies, Mr. Scarborough,” Frank said. The worry that had started as a pebble falling off of a cliff was quickly becoming an avalanche of foreboding. “I haven’t exactly made many friends in the online writing community. What can I say? When you have as many published stories as me, people start to get jealous. If this Mr. Saint has contacted you or one of your colleagues about me, I’m sure it stems from some sort of—”

“This writer, Mr. Saint, has been published with several online venues as well. Of course, not with the same fecundity as you.”

“Well, I’m sure he—”

“One of his stories that piqued my interest is entitled, “The Marsh”. It’s a very good flash fiction piece about a monster that lives in a swamp and kills the nearby villagers with every new moon. Does this sound familiar to you, Mr. Reynolds?”

Frank stopped smiling.

“I found it interesting not only because it is well written, but mostly because of its striking similarity to your published story entitled “The Swamp”. Your story is very good too; your story being about a monster that kills the nearby villagers with every new moon. It’s also interesting because of the fact that you published “The Swamp” a year after “The Marsh” was published. More interesting still is fact that your story follows Mr. Saint’s almost word for word.”

Frank stared at Scarborough with absolute disbelief.

“This led me to review the rest of your published work to find that not a single one of the stories that you published was in any way original. In most cases it appears that you didn’t bother with changing a single word when you passed it off as your own. Everything published under your name was written by someone else. In fact, here’s one that—”

“OK! OK! Hold on! Look,” Frank said losing all and the arrogant composure he had thirty seconds ago. “Alright…alright…fine. Yeah, so I plagiarized, so I tried to pass someone else’s work off as my own. But those were just short stories written by nobodies. I needed to establish some sort of publishing history, didn’t I? I mean, if it weren’t for that, you wouldn’t be here talking to me about publishing my book—which is totally original.”

“Yes,” Scarborough said complacently. “We searched using every available resource at our disposal and we couldn’t find a single unoriginal line. It would appear that you did, in fact write this on your own.” Scarborough handed Frank’s manuscript back to him. “We cannot and will not do business with a man like you.”

“Wait! Wait! Hold on! You read it. It’s good. It’s really fucking good, isn’t it?! Look, here’s what we can do, publish it under a pen name. Ok, yeah, I fucked up and ripped off a bunch of nobodies but I did it to publish this. Who cares how it got to your desk?! It’s here now! What does it matter if I plagiarized a bunch of small time writers?!”

Scarborough leaned over his desk. “It matters, Mr. Reynolds because I, and my company, have integrity; something that you are sorely lacking.” Frank stood with his mouth open, clenching his fists tightly, crumpling his life’s work. After a time, Frank slowly started walking out of his office.

“Oh and Mr. Reynolds, I wouldn’t bother submitting that to anyone. I have notified several publishing companies and a few major online publications. No one will be interested in your work.”

Frank Reynolds was escorted out of the building by security and handed over to the police for assault charges.

Sep

Power Words

By Gary Harmon 16 Comments

Categories: #Flash Friday and Brad & Joe

Papers please. Are you carrying any liquids over 4 ounces? Currency over $100,000 USD? Soil or livestock samples? Do you have anything to declare? Only your genius? Who do you think you are, Oscar Wilde? Never mind. Yes, this all looks in order. May I be the first to welcome you to my #fridayflash piece for this week.

This might just be one of the most purposely pointless pieces I’ve ever written, which may explain why I love it so much. It’s based partly off of a game that my friend Justin Brown and I used to play and also on an old Monty Python sketch.

Brace yourself. This one’s a doosy…

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POWER WORDS

Brad and Joe stared intently and silently at the space that Brad’s plasma TV used to occupy. Brad moved his hand up to his face and rubbed the stubble that formed during the week. His hand made a rough, sand-papery grinding sound which startled Joe.

“AH! Jesus, don’t do that!” Joe said.

“Sorry, sorry,” Brad said, startled by Joe’s startled reaction.

The excitement of the moment quickly faded back into silence and they continued to visually bore into the drywall behind the entertainment center. Brad clicked his tongue which echoed slightly throughout his apartment. Joe looked at him and returned to the work of boring into the wall with his eyes. Brad clicked his tongue again. Joe clicked his tongue in response a tone or two lower. Brad clicked and Joe clicked. This continued for a while until Joe sighed in boredom, completely clicked out. Trying another kind of clicking, Joe picked up the remote to the now absent TV and pressed a few buttons, aiming it at the empty space with the imaginary hole in the wall. He put the remote down and sighed again. Brad clicked his tongue.

“So,” Joe said in lieu of clicking, “when is it supposed to be fixed?”

“The guy said no later than five.”

Joe looked at his watch. 1:36 PM, read his Casio. Brad clicked.

“Power words?” Joe asked.

Brad’s face lit up as if this was the best idea he had ever heard. He willed his expression into one of reserved indifference. “Power words,” Brad said with a stoic nod.

“Power words” is a game of sorts that they would play when they were bored enough, or whenever Brad started clicking too much. The goal was to think of a “power word”, but to an outsider, this can be misleading. The real goal was to think of words that were smooth but crisp, stout but silky. In other words, any word that a beer advertisement would describe. The kind of words you could put in a wind tunnel with a thin stream of smoke blowing over and the smoke wouldn’t know the difference. Brad and Joe loved to play “Power Words”, despite the fact that their only power was to entertain them immensely .

“Marble,” Joe said.

Brad nodded as a philosopher would to some insightful comment about the pointlessness of existence. “Marble. Mar…bol. Good start.” Now it was Brad’s turn.

“Dollop,” Brad said after a moment’s thought.

“Dollop?” Joe asked, as if Brad had suggested that evil is good and vice versa. After letting the word dwell in his mind, passing certain filters and logic checking synapses, he finally said, “Yes…dollop. Dolllll…up.”

Joe rubbed his chin for a while and extended his forefinger in the air as if a brilliant insight into the human condition just occurred to him. “Entanglement,” Joe said, curving his finger in an arc to Brad.

Brad looked at him condescendingly as if he had just disproven his own philosophical conjecture. “Entanglement‽” Brad said without masking his contempt.

“No,” Joe said at once, realizing what a foolish and utterly stupid thing he had just said. After more thought, Joe said, “Callipygous?” as if suggesting a theory based on precariously balanced logic.

“Callipygous?” Brad said, considering this seriously. “Hmm…” Brad brought a flat hand just under his own eye sight, ignoring the imaginary group effort they had abandoned in their wall hole. His hand moved along in front of him as if slowly petting an imaginary cat. “Callll-iiipp—no,” he said and brought his hand back to the starting position. Joe looked on with anticipation, fearing the worst. “Callll-ipp-iiiiig-uuuuus” Brad said, slowly moving his hand along the path the word made in his head. “Cal-ip-ig-us” he said again, moving along faster this time. “Yes,” Brad said, nearly stunned. “Callipygous! High five!” They clapped hands in celebration.

They then spent an inordinate amount of time pronouncing the word in various ways, drawing out each syllable to the breaking point. Finally brad declared it to be his turn.

“Funnel,” he said finally. Joe did not disagree. Joe immediately thought of the word “tunnel” but knew that rhymes of the previous word were expressly forbidden. The game of “Power words” has many strict rules.

“Bullion,” Joe said. Brad agreed enthusiastically.

“Hinge,” Brad said, sparking excitement in Joe. Words like “hinge” were what “Power Words” was all about.

“Sponge,” Joe said, eyes widening.

“Lounge,” Brad said, nearly unable to contain himself.

Joe drew in a breath to say his next word and stopped. He stopped breathing and his mouth hung open. Brad waited in anticipation.

“Blancmange!” Joe said. Brad gasped and recoiled from the word as if it were some awesome, dangerous truth.

“Oh my God,” Brad whispered. “Is that…is that really a word?” Joe nodded. “What…what does it mean?”

Joe looked away quickly, desperately trying to remember its definition as if it were God’s private number. “It’s…uhh…a French something…like, a French dish.”

“Blancmange!” Brad said. “Blancmange! Blaaaa-monnnnnnn-ge. Amazing!”

Time lost all meaning to them as they dissected and elongated the word over and over. To them it was as if the word were a physical manifestation of infinity. Their monk-like chanting of blancmange nearly caused Brad to miss the fact that his cell phone was ringing. They stopped to hear, “Get it straight…straighten up…move forward” coming from his jeans pocket.

While Brad talked, the true purity of the word they had been repeating still boggled Joe’s imagination. He felt at peace and one with the world. Joe distantly noticed that Brad had stopped talking.

“Well, they fixed it. They said it’s ready to be picked up now,” Brad said.

“Outstanding, let’s go get it,” Joe said.

They sat in silence for a little while longer and looked at each other. They returned to the non-hole their collective psychic power had made. Then they started saying “blancmange” again.

By the time they got to the shop to pick up the TV, the sun was down and the shop was closed.

Sep

500 HITS!

By Gary Harmon 1 Comment

Categories: Tru Dat

This is a stupendously extremely very somewhat kind of more-or-less special day here at my little blog. On 500+ separate occasions, people bored out of their wits (or duped by my cunningly placed links) have come here to read my rantings and drivel. Kudos to you, people. Now, here are a few history facts that may mildly interest you:

500 BC

Pythagoras of Samos, that nutty Greek with a triangle fetish, died…or was on his last legs at least. Whatever, who cares, that was like two thousand years ago. Good riddance, I say.
Also, this year saw the fall of Gadir (modern day Cádiz, Spain) to Carthage. Later, it fell to the Romans, then fell to the Visigoths and then to the Moors who named it “Qādis”. The town was finally conquered by Alphonso X of Castile who had no respect for Cádiz’s having been conquered so many times and felt dirty just looking at her.

500 AD

This auspicious year in history saw the founding of Uxmal by the Mayans, which disputably means “built three times”. The Mayan king had stated that it was “daft to build it in the swamp”, but they built it all the same. It sank into the swamp. So, they built a second one…that one burnt down, fell over, then sank into the swamp. But the third one stayed up. And there was much rejoicing. (yay)
Everyone’s favorite Byzantine scholar, Procopius was born this year. Procopious. Sounds dirty, doesn’t it? Sounds like a word a romance novelist would use to describe something naughty. “…And he thrust his Procopious again and again with all the rage of a Byzantine scholar…” and, well, you get the picture.

Anyway, thanks for taking an interest, everybody. Tune in for more pointlessness in the future. I’ve got pages of the stuff and I’m more than willing to write it at you.

Sep

The Vicious Cycle

By Gary Harmon 10 Comments

Categories: #Flash Friday and Brad & Joe

Welcome back friends and neighbors!

For this blog entry, I’m doing something a bit different. My online fellow writer droogs started something they call “Flash Fiction Friday” and the following is my contribution. What this means to you, is that you can semi-expect a fresh 1,000 word story posted here this time next week and the week after and so on, come Hell or high water or me just generally getting bored with doing it every week.

This little yarn is something that I think most of us (most of my Daegu pals at least) can relate to. Those of you who know me might be able to pick out a few things here that are more or less non-fiction. To that, I’d say…Geez, get off my back about it! This writing stuff is hard, OK?!

So, without further ado: freshly squeezed drivel from my brain. Mmmm…brain juices…

______________________________________________________________________

The Vicious Cycle

Brad woke up promptly at 11 AM. Instantly realizing what a terrible idea that was, he wisely decided to go back to sleep. Though he was still asleep at noon, by 12:30 he was snoring. Sometime after this, he was awoken to the sound of “Whip it!” by Devo coming from his cell phone. “Gotta change that ringtone,” he said and answered it.

“Morning sunshine! Open your door, I’m outside,” said the voice of Joe, one of the annoying few that never felt the adverse effects of alcohol. The bastard, Brad thought.

Brad sat up and felt his brains slosh inside his skull and moaned. He slipped some shorts on and staggered to the front door of his apartment.

“Bradley!” Joe said at a level that was just short of painful. “You look like hell.” Feeling like hell, Brad said nothing and motioned him inside.

Brad made his way unsteadily and ungracefully to the couch in his living room and collapsed on it. Joe followed and made himself comfortable his chair.

“I gotta say, I am supremely disappointed with you my friend. You sure blew it last night. My opinion of you and of your heterosexuality has taken a hit,” Joe said.

Last night? Brad thought. He wasn’t totally sure there actually was a last night if it weren’t for the throb in his head and that general feeling of dread and death that comes with a hangover. He remembered getting off work, he remembered watching a few episodes of “Entourage”, he remembered meeting Joe at the steak house. After that, the rest of the day faded into black with only nondescript and totally unhelpful images flashing in his head. It was like the least informative PowerPoint presentation ever made. Brad decided to ignore Joe’s comment.

“Fuck your opinion. Order pizza.”

Joe smiled and reached for his cell phone.

***

By the time the pizza came, the aspirin and Gatorade Brad had downed earlier was doing its work and making him feel more like a human being once again. They ate voraciously as they watched lions feast on a zebras on Animal Planet. The irony was lost to them.

“Never again, dude. Never again.”

“Huh?” Joe said and bit a chunk off of his crust in a way that David Attenborough would have been interested in filming.

“Like…I know people say never again when they’re hung-over. ‘I’m never drinking again,’ and all that. But dude…never again.”

Joe smiled, nodding. “Sure. You say that now, but I think we both know what the real deal will be once eight o’clock rolls around. You’ll be out and about just like I will.”

“No way,” Brad said, watching a lion on his TV creep through the tall grass on some African savanna. “I’m out for tonight. Maybe next weekend—MAYBE—but not tonight, dude.”

Joe looked at him with a smirk and shrugged. His attention went back to his crust.

Their conversation lulled as they watched the lion closing in on an unsuspecting herd of antelope.

“I’m serious,” Brad said.

“Ok.”

A British accented voice-over narrated the lion’s behavior. His tone was low as if he were actually there with the crew filming the lion, likely to add to the tension of the scene.

“Why is it that they always get the Brits to narrate these things? So, I guess the Brits get nature shows, the French get the ocean shows. What do Americans get? Talk shows? That doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

“I don’t know, but I’m definitely not going out tonight,” Brad said and folded his arms.

“Alright! I get it! You’re not going out tonight. Give it a rest already.”

“No, because I know you’re going to try to convince me somehow and it’s not going to work,” said Brad, not taking his eyes off of the television.

“When have I ever—”

“Last weekend! You said, and oh God was this ever classic, “You gotta go out! It’s Saturday night! They wrote songs about it, for cryin out loud!” Then you started singing “S-A-TUR-DAY…NIGHT!” Somehow that worked and I’m here to tell you it’s not going to work this time.”

“Fine, fine, whatever. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” Joe got to his feet and collected up the pizza box to bring it to the kitchen. Without pausing, Joe said, “But you will.”

“I’m not going out tonight, you asshole!”

“Ok.”

***

The strange trance that nature shows seem to hold people in was broken when Brad heard his phone singing Devo in his kitchen. Before the song could get to the chorus, Joe answered it, saying, “This is Brad’s phone, how can I help you?”

Brad sighed in annoyance; half because of Joe answering his phone without permission and half because he needed desperately to change his ringtone.

Brad over heard Joe’s half of the conversation. “Yes… Oh right, I remember you. Red top, right? How are you doing?…Look, I have to apologize for him. He’s a terrible human being, isn’t he?…Well, you don’t know him like I do…But you know, I think he’s on the straight and narrow again. He told me that he’s not going out tonight…Yeah, I think he has learned his lesson…Yeah, he’s here. One second.” At this, Joe put his hand over the receiver.

“Who is it?” Brad said, more or less uninterested.

“Courtney.”

“Courtney? I don’t know any—”

“Courtney, the statuesque goddess that was all over you last night. You know, the one that you were too drunk to take home with you last night.”

Brad’s eyes went wide, remembering the deity in question. Brad lunged for his phone but Joe pulled it away.

“Remember, you’re not going out tonight,” Joe said and handed him the phone.

Brad’s mouth gapped open as Joe looked at him, eyebrows raised in interest.

***

The next morning, Brad woke up promptly at 11 AM, alone. Instantly realizing what a terrible idea that was, he wisely decided to go back to sleep.

Sep

Hearsay Vs. Drill Sergeants

By Gary Harmon 2 Comments

Categories: Tru Dat
Tags: basic training, gary harmon

Another story of mine from basic training.

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374477802l4tp When you get to basic, well actually you don’t get to basic for at least a week. First you go to what’s called “Replacement Battalion” Replacement Battalion is a sort of limbo for recruits. This is where you get your personal things rifled through, get the goofy haircut, get issued your uniform and have the mind-controlling microchip placed at the base of your skull. No, I’m kidding of course. The microchip is placed inside your skull, it’s much safer there. This is where you’re supposed to learn ranks, protocol and various other miscellanea your oh-so-compassionate drill sergeants would have you know. After the medical folks look under your hood and up your tailpipe and after a multitude of paperwork is processed, this is when you get to go to basic training. When you get to basic, you know basically nothing.

I believe that this general ignorance of a military lifestyle is the semi-divine will of the Drill Sergeants. I say semi-divine because for the next few months, their will is like God’s will, and I’m talking “Old Testament God” here. They are mere mortals, yes, but don’t tell them that or they’ll see to it that you never find out in any definitive way. Or as one Drill told me once, “Private, are you aware that I can fuckin’ kill you?” Of course I was, he was God. They were all God. Old Testament God. I’m mean, for the slightest deviation from their awesome and mighty will, swarms of locusts would descend and rivers of blood would flow (possibly consisting of your own blood). Famine, gnashing of teeth and the most miserable existence you could possibly imagine. Yeah, all of the worst parts of the Bible basically.

“And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.” — Revelations 9:6, KJV

Yep, that’s what it is to be on a Drill Sergeant’s bad side.

But here’s the thing, basic isn’t so hard if you just do what they say when they say to do it. Thing is, they don’t always tell you what it is they want you to do. It’s sort of like when your girlfriend gets mad at you for something but won’t tell you what she’s mad about. So, to compensate, privates come together and share what they’ve “heard” that you should do in any given circumstance. Sometimes, good advice is shared. Quite often, a BCT (Basic Combat Training) platoon will get someone that was in JROTC in High School. Their advice is usually on point. However, every now and then a bit of evil advice starts circulating and…

We had gone through, I don’t know, maybe a month of Basic when we got to the Pugil Stick course. Pugil sticks looked like over-sized Q-tips, like the kind you see on American Gladiators, and they were used to show you how to fight with a bayonet attached to your rifle. This was one of the more enjoyable parts of basic for me, mainly because I smashed everyone I went up against. However, before we got into it, the drill sergeant in charge of the training gave a block of instruction showing how this training was meant to carry over into a real-life combat situation. The Drill was speaking to us through a bullhorn and was maybe 50 yards away from me at the time. He stopped talking and said something to a nearby private. There was a blur of motion and the next thing I knew, five Drill Sergeant had piled on top of this guy and were screaming at him. He was taken away and we didn’t see him for the rest of the day.

colbert This is what happened. Somewhere along the line someone had told him that, and I quote, “If a Drill Sergeant asks you for your weapon, throw it at him.” If you’re unaware, this is NOT what you do when a Drill Sergeant asks you for your weapon. In fact, this technically counts as assaulting a superior officer, which is punishable by a court martial in severe cases. Being that the offender was just a dip-shit private, who wouldn’t know his asshole from his elbow on the clearest of days, he got off with an extreme session of push-up, low crawls and whatever other divine retribution they rained down on him that day.

The moral of this story is this: if you are on your way to basic training and a Drill Sergeant asks you for your rifle one day, throw it at him. If you don’t have the stones to do it yourself, tell someone else to. For all the hardships of basic and for all the pain and suffering that you go through just to be in the real Army, no one should have to do it without being able to tell this story.

Sep

Self-Serving Blog Entry #1

By Gary Harmon 3 Comments

Categories: Tru Dat

Cool picture.

Anyway…

Here’s a brief run down of some stories that I’m working on.

A Quality of Mercy — This is going to be a novel length story that is based on an old Twilight Zone Episode (non-stateside users may not be able to view the video). I’ve been working on this for about a year I think. I’m nearly half-way done.

The premise is essentially the same as the episode but I think that I’ve changed enough of it to make it my own. The story takes place in Iraq and is divided into two parts: “The NCO” and “The Officer”. The first half (which is the bit I’ve got now) tells the story of Staff Sergeant Williams finding his path back to humanity by way of learning about one of his recently deceased soldiers, Specialist Samuel Clemens Brown. Here’s an excerpt that, incidentally, is mostly unrelated to the plot:

The face of Staff Sergeant Williams slowly exposed itself to the light as he stared in to the moon, full and bright. “It’s so beautiful,” he thought in genuine wonder. With no nearby cities or major sources of light pollution, the face of the moon was sharply contrasted in its sea of inky, black sky. Williams started to see how people thousands of years ago would think to worship it. “I would,” he thought, “I would right now.” He imagined throwing down his weapon, building a bonfire and dancing naked around it to gain the favor of the moon somehow. Williams knew immediately what this was. It was one of those fantasies that soldiers concocted from time to time, in the same category of booze, women and soft pillows. Still he looked at the moon in real wonder and thought again of worshiping it. “At least it would be something to believe in, not like the rest of this shit.”

“The Officer”, as I said, has yet to be written, so I don’t want to give away too much. I will say that is it a departure from the episode’s storyline in a major way.

This story kind of bugs me because I don’t know the legal in’s and out’s of adapting a TV show episode to a novel format…

Untitled Novella – I think of this story as “The Sacrifice” but I am not totally satisfied with that as its title. I don’t want to say too much about it because I’m not too far into it yet. It is told from the perspective of a man named Ezra who accompanies his father to the “Shrine of Gustoffson” to make the harvest sacrifice for his village.

The story was inspired by a conversation between Richard Dawkins and 3 other prominent atheists that I saw on YouTube (that I can’t seem to find now). Someone asked if they could imagine or would even want to see a world without religion. Dawkins said that he can imagine a world like that. I can’t. My story is of that world.

I’ve liked writing this story so far because I’m using a sort of archaic language, the kind you find in books written in the 1800’s. I think I’m pulling it off pretty well. I also like the deeply thematic nature of the story, probably because I like Orwell so much.

NaNoWriMo Story — NaNoWriMo stands for “National Novel Writing Month” and it will take place in Novemeber. The idea is for a writer to commit to writing 50,000 words in a month, which is standard size for a novel, if a bit light.

My story is going to be about a tea-toddling man who lives a sedentary life spending most of his time on the internet, fiddling with social networking sites. He accidentally gets drunk one day and blacks out. In the morning, he finds that he had opened a word document and typed an odd phrase. Throughout the course of the day, someone says this odd phrase to him. Accidentally getting drunk and blacking out again, he finds that he has done the same thing, but written a bit more. What he wrote also gets repeated.

Basically, this guy gets drunk and is able to predict the future through his writings. He then follows what he wrote like a script the next day. The story is about fatalism, determinism and free will. I think I’ll be channeling Douglas Adams for this one, in that I want it to be a fairly humorous story but with a somewhat intellectual theme.

__________________

And those are my major projects. I think I’m going to have to squeeze out some flash fiction (<1,000 words) sometime in the near future or polish the ones that I’ve already writing and submit them somewhere.

So that’s what I’ve got on the docket. I’ll try to keep these personal updates scant as they are a little dry. I promise more pointlessness in the near future.

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