Daniel Clausen's Blog - Posts Tagged "reejectiion"
A Taste of ReejecttIIon -- FARQUHAR THE PHOENIX
(From Daniel -- enjoy this guest post by my friend and co-author of the upcoming book ReejectIIon - a number 2)
Finding an idea for a story isn’t too difficult. Finding a really good story idea, however, is harder than a skinhead Rottweiler from Glasgow named Reggie Kray wielding a machete.
Some ideas just come, and as much as they plead with me to be written, they seem unable to evolve beyond that simple germ of an idea. So it is with this short piece entitled Farquhar the Phoenix, which was rejected from the final edit of the upcoming book ReejecttIIon: A Number Two, the sequel to that marvellous writer and all-round good bloke Daniel Clausen’s Reejecttion – which you can read for absolutely free here:
http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...
(Hell, if I can write for a sequel when I had nothing to do with the original, I might make it as a Hollywood script writer yet!)
The short tale of Farquhar the Phoenix may not have made the cut for ReejecttIIon, but as is the habit of that particular breed of birds, it has now risen from the dead…
FARQUHAR THE PHOENIX
by Harry Whitewolf
“Oi mate! Are you a phoenix?” a spotty adolescent yelled aggressively.
“Er… no,” lied Farquhar the phoenix, as he began to quicken his step down the dark side street and ignore the bunch of youngsters who were striding towards him. “I’m a pigeon,” he said, pulling his coat collar up.
“He is!” said one of the youths. “He’s a phoenix all right!” And they began to circle Farquhar.
“Oh, won’t you just leave me alone?” Farquhar shouted. “Do you have any idea how hard it is for an old bird like me to survive in such a depressingly divisive and aggravating modern world of bigotry?”
As Farquhar said those words, one of the kids lunged forwards with a rather large knife. He stuck it deep into Farquhar’s jugular and blood cartoonly spluttered out, as the other kids all jeered and cheered their mate on. The phoenix instantly died and dispersed into ash before WHOOSH! – great flames quickly rose up and Farquhar came back to life; as was the habit of phoenices.
The teenager who had stabbed Farquhar leant in to the last of the flames with a cigarette. “Thanks mate,” he said. “I needed a light.”
“Do you mind?” asked Farquhar, very unhappily. The kids just laughed, shouted and called him names before running off.
“Oh… dear….” sighed Farquhar. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…” It was the fourth time he’d been killed this week and Farquhar was fed up with it. There would always be some joker who would spot that Farquhar was a phoenix and spontaneously decide to murder him. Just for a laugh. There were plenty of YouTube videos showing Farquhar being shot, kicked, drowned, trampled on, decapitated, exploded… and any number of other ways you can kill a bird. All done to just see the phoenix rise from the dead in flames of glory; for damn entertainment. “Why can’t people just leave me alone?” asked Farquhar. “I’m not some goddamn toy!” He was fed up. Indeed, Farquhar was more than fed up. In fact, he was way past clinical depression. Actually, Farquhar the phoenix was completely suicidal.
*
As Farquhar walked down the street, he lit up a cigarette of his own. Some old woman ambled past saying, “You shouldn’t smoke you know! It’s bad for your health.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” replied Farquhar, before crossing the road and disappearing into the corner shop to buy two bottles of whisky and a twelve pack of beer that would accompany his solitary evening alone in his smelly basement flat. Like every night.
Farquhar had had enough of living. He was stuck. Completely trapped. There was no way out.
So if you ever think you’ve had it bad, remember it could be worse. You could be a suicidal phoenix.
Finding an idea for a story isn’t too difficult. Finding a really good story idea, however, is harder than a skinhead Rottweiler from Glasgow named Reggie Kray wielding a machete.
Some ideas just come, and as much as they plead with me to be written, they seem unable to evolve beyond that simple germ of an idea. So it is with this short piece entitled Farquhar the Phoenix, which was rejected from the final edit of the upcoming book ReejecttIIon: A Number Two, the sequel to that marvellous writer and all-round good bloke Daniel Clausen’s Reejecttion – which you can read for absolutely free here:
http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...
(Hell, if I can write for a sequel when I had nothing to do with the original, I might make it as a Hollywood script writer yet!)
The short tale of Farquhar the Phoenix may not have made the cut for ReejecttIIon, but as is the habit of that particular breed of birds, it has now risen from the dead…
FARQUHAR THE PHOENIX
by Harry Whitewolf
“Oi mate! Are you a phoenix?” a spotty adolescent yelled aggressively.
“Er… no,” lied Farquhar the phoenix, as he began to quicken his step down the dark side street and ignore the bunch of youngsters who were striding towards him. “I’m a pigeon,” he said, pulling his coat collar up.
“He is!” said one of the youths. “He’s a phoenix all right!” And they began to circle Farquhar.
“Oh, won’t you just leave me alone?” Farquhar shouted. “Do you have any idea how hard it is for an old bird like me to survive in such a depressingly divisive and aggravating modern world of bigotry?”
As Farquhar said those words, one of the kids lunged forwards with a rather large knife. He stuck it deep into Farquhar’s jugular and blood cartoonly spluttered out, as the other kids all jeered and cheered their mate on. The phoenix instantly died and dispersed into ash before WHOOSH! – great flames quickly rose up and Farquhar came back to life; as was the habit of phoenices.
The teenager who had stabbed Farquhar leant in to the last of the flames with a cigarette. “Thanks mate,” he said. “I needed a light.”
“Do you mind?” asked Farquhar, very unhappily. The kids just laughed, shouted and called him names before running off.
“Oh… dear….” sighed Farquhar. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…” It was the fourth time he’d been killed this week and Farquhar was fed up with it. There would always be some joker who would spot that Farquhar was a phoenix and spontaneously decide to murder him. Just for a laugh. There were plenty of YouTube videos showing Farquhar being shot, kicked, drowned, trampled on, decapitated, exploded… and any number of other ways you can kill a bird. All done to just see the phoenix rise from the dead in flames of glory; for damn entertainment. “Why can’t people just leave me alone?” asked Farquhar. “I’m not some goddamn toy!” He was fed up. Indeed, Farquhar was more than fed up. In fact, he was way past clinical depression. Actually, Farquhar the phoenix was completely suicidal.
*
As Farquhar walked down the street, he lit up a cigarette of his own. Some old woman ambled past saying, “You shouldn’t smoke you know! It’s bad for your health.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” replied Farquhar, before crossing the road and disappearing into the corner shop to buy two bottles of whisky and a twelve pack of beer that would accompany his solitary evening alone in his smelly basement flat. Like every night.
Farquhar had had enough of living. He was stuck. Completely trapped. There was no way out.
So if you ever think you’ve had it bad, remember it could be worse. You could be a suicidal phoenix.
Politics Wins! A Story Cut from ReejecttIIon for Political Reasons
This story just got cut from “ReejecttIIon - A number 2.”
Still, writing about politics has got me in the mood to “stump” for my book. I feel like a good stump speech should be like a nascar race -- lots of drinking and people going around in circles. Thus, I submit this reejectted story for all the middle class Americans who just want politicians to be sensible again -- to solve their problems the way our forefathers did, by sitting on top of monster trucks with javelins and trying to knock each other off or impale each other. It’s like ol’ Frank used to say, you can’t make meatballs without squeezing a bull’s testicles, and wherever you find an omelet, it’s like trying to walk on eggshells.
Well, I’m not a man trying to walk on eggshells. But I do have the courage to squeeze a bull’s ball if it means getting some shit done, especially a fine meatball spaghetti. Which is exactly what this country is about -- making shit! Omelets, meatballs, or synthetic bull’s testicles (none of mine are imported from China!)
What it all comes down to is this -- you should read the first “Reejecttion” book here: http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t... or here: https://www.goodreads.com/reader/5905... -- if you love your country or you have nothing to do with the next hour of your life.
As for the sequel -- “ReejecttIIon - a number 2” for president 2016!
The Untimely Demise of Frank Hand
(a political memoir by Frank Hand’s Mustache)
Long after the mustache had gone out of fashion, he had a big, thick, dirty one.
Legend had it that his mustache was cloned from hair plucked from Tom Selleck’s mustache which had been genetically modified to give off the impression of ruggedness.
He wore T-shirts and jeans. He prefaced everything with, “I don’t want to make a political statement, but...”
He made jokes that weren’t quite jokes. And he talked with an accent that made him sound slightly Mexican. But he wasn’t Mexican. Not one bit.
He was dirty. None of his advisers knew how he got that coat of dirt. His critics claimed that he would coat himself with special dirt imported from the Egyptian desert. They also claimed that he was an East Coast liberal that had been coached to act the way he did by a Berkeley-educated anthropologist.
Frank Hand, when accused of these things by a conservative radio host, stroked his mustache and said, “The East Coast. I have a cousin up there who wants to get into the radio business. You oughta help a feller out.”
Not sure what Frank was talking about, the radio host stopped in his tracks a full five seconds. Five seconds of dead air. Legend has it that the radio host’s head exploded right there on the spot.
Legend also has it that when Frank Hand saw the mess of the exploded head, he said, “Somebody oughta do something about that.”
Confused about how to handle Frank Hand, the conservatives employed two candidates, the smartest conservative they could find, and an oil baron who employed the slogan, “I’ll drill that economy so hard, she’ll scream jobs!”
To which Frank Hand replied, “Sure, you guys are gonna do that, because that’s what you do. But what about the other guys?”
And finally, after ten years in office, when people had a general sense that things were improving for some at least, a new conservative opponent finally said on national television, “Frank Hand is a demon.”
And then, Frank finally made his first political faux pas when he said, not really paying attention to what had been said, “Somebody ought to do something about that.”
That was the end of Frank.
Legend has it his mustache moved on and flourished as a city councilman somewhere in Arkansas.
Still, writing about politics has got me in the mood to “stump” for my book. I feel like a good stump speech should be like a nascar race -- lots of drinking and people going around in circles. Thus, I submit this reejectted story for all the middle class Americans who just want politicians to be sensible again -- to solve their problems the way our forefathers did, by sitting on top of monster trucks with javelins and trying to knock each other off or impale each other. It’s like ol’ Frank used to say, you can’t make meatballs without squeezing a bull’s testicles, and wherever you find an omelet, it’s like trying to walk on eggshells.
Well, I’m not a man trying to walk on eggshells. But I do have the courage to squeeze a bull’s ball if it means getting some shit done, especially a fine meatball spaghetti. Which is exactly what this country is about -- making shit! Omelets, meatballs, or synthetic bull’s testicles (none of mine are imported from China!)
What it all comes down to is this -- you should read the first “Reejecttion” book here: http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t... or here: https://www.goodreads.com/reader/5905... -- if you love your country or you have nothing to do with the next hour of your life.
As for the sequel -- “ReejecttIIon - a number 2” for president 2016!
The Untimely Demise of Frank Hand
(a political memoir by Frank Hand’s Mustache)
Long after the mustache had gone out of fashion, he had a big, thick, dirty one.
Legend had it that his mustache was cloned from hair plucked from Tom Selleck’s mustache which had been genetically modified to give off the impression of ruggedness.
He wore T-shirts and jeans. He prefaced everything with, “I don’t want to make a political statement, but...”
He made jokes that weren’t quite jokes. And he talked with an accent that made him sound slightly Mexican. But he wasn’t Mexican. Not one bit.
He was dirty. None of his advisers knew how he got that coat of dirt. His critics claimed that he would coat himself with special dirt imported from the Egyptian desert. They also claimed that he was an East Coast liberal that had been coached to act the way he did by a Berkeley-educated anthropologist.
Frank Hand, when accused of these things by a conservative radio host, stroked his mustache and said, “The East Coast. I have a cousin up there who wants to get into the radio business. You oughta help a feller out.”
Not sure what Frank was talking about, the radio host stopped in his tracks a full five seconds. Five seconds of dead air. Legend has it that the radio host’s head exploded right there on the spot.
Legend also has it that when Frank Hand saw the mess of the exploded head, he said, “Somebody oughta do something about that.”
Confused about how to handle Frank Hand, the conservatives employed two candidates, the smartest conservative they could find, and an oil baron who employed the slogan, “I’ll drill that economy so hard, she’ll scream jobs!”
To which Frank Hand replied, “Sure, you guys are gonna do that, because that’s what you do. But what about the other guys?”
And finally, after ten years in office, when people had a general sense that things were improving for some at least, a new conservative opponent finally said on national television, “Frank Hand is a demon.”
And then, Frank finally made his first political faux pas when he said, not really paying attention to what had been said, “Somebody ought to do something about that.”
That was the end of Frank.
Legend has it his mustache moved on and flourished as a city councilman somewhere in Arkansas.
Guest Post - Clone Co. (from ReejecttIIon - a Number 2)
[This is a guest post by Harry Whitewolf, my co-author for ReejectIIon - Number 2.]
The good thing about cutting pieces from ReejecttIIon: A Number Two, my upcoming collaborative book with author Daniel Clausen, is that you get to read them here for free. Here’s the latest short story.
And remember you can read Clausen’s first Reejecttion book [http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...] or [https://www.goodreads.com/reader/5905...] for free! It’s short and brilliant, so what are you waiting for?
Harry Whitewolf.
CLONE CO.
by Harry Whitewolf
The receptionist was Daisy Duke from The Dukes of Hazzard. “Welcome to Clone Co.” she said. “How may I help?”
“Hello, yes, I’ve been given a gift voucher I’d like to redeem please.”
“Is this your first time shopping at Clone Co.?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, I’ll get one of our assistants to go through the options we offer. If you’d like to follow Mr. T, he’ll take you to see Dave.”
Mr. T then appeared and said abruptly, “Follow me, fool!” and the customer followed the gold-draped man into a small office where Dave was sitting behind a large desk. “Please, take a seat, Mr…?”
“Dibbit.”
Mr. T walked out with the sound of clunking jewellery as Mr. Dibbit sat down. Dave started laying out all manner of brochures on the desk, whilst saying, “Now, what are you looking for? Do you know what sort of clone you would like?”
“No- this is all new to me. I have a voucher for eight million credit chips, so if you could just show me what you have within that price range, that would be great.”
“Certainly Mr. Dibbit. Well, we offer lots of different types of clones here at Clone Co. Would you perhaps be interested in cloning an old pet? A dog or a canary, for instance?”
“No, I’ve never had any pets,” replied Mr. Dibbit.
“How about a dinosaur? A pterodactyl would be within your price range.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“What about a dodo?”
“That’s a no no."
“Well there are plenty of human options as well. Would you be interested in cloning a dead parent or an ex-girlfriend? Or someone you once had a crush on? We can, of course, make any personality alterations that you may require.”
“No, I don’t think I want to clone anyone personal to me.”
“Would you like to clone yourself? Lots of people like this option -especially men. I mean, just think -finally you could know what it’s like to give yourself a blowjob!”
“Hm… Not for me, no.”
“O.K, so maybe you’d like to clone a celebrity?”
“Yeah… I think that sounds good.”
“Excellent! One of our most popular choices!” Dave began rummaging through the catalogues on the desk. “Have you got anyone in mind?”
“Not really. It just depends on who I can afford.”
“Certainly. Well, I’m afraid our A-Class Celeb Clones will be out of your league, but there are still plenty of other options. Let’s see…” Dave picked up a brochure entitled ‘Famous Fucks’ and said, “Could I interest you in a celebrity shag? For eight million, you could have the weather girl from Channel 87.”
Mr. Dibbit looked a little embarrassed. “Um, no- I don’t think that’s really my style,” he said.
“O.K. No problem. How about celebrities you’d like to punch in the face?” Dave replied, picking up another catalogue and flicking through it. “Our special offer at the moment is Justin Bieber. That’ll only cost you six million. What do you say? Would you like to have a Bieber clone you can use as a punch bag on a daily basis? I’ve heard it does wonders for releasing tension.”
“No, I don’t think so. Could I buy George W Bush? I’ve always fancied giving him a bloody nose.”
“Hmmm… I’m afraid he’s a little out of your price range. How about Ben Affleck?”
“Mm, no.”
“Charlie Sheen?”
“Nah. Haven’t you got anyone more recent?”
Dave replied, “I’m afraid that for your price range, it’s mostly people from over a century ago. Hey- how about Queen Elizabeth II? I always fancied punching her in the face myself.”
Mr. Dibbit looked like he was losing interest. “I’m not sure I really want to punch anyone in the face actually,” he said.
Dave started rummaging through more brochures, saying, “No problem, no problem…. Let’s see- what else have we got? How about someone more historic? Would you like Napoleon to do your dishes for you? Attila the Hun to do your laundry? Jane Austen to wipe your ass?”
Mr. Dibbit carefully considered these options. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to get a clone who could do some household chores for me, but I’m not too keen on those you mentioned. Who else could I get? I was hoping for someone a little more glamorous. Elvis, perhaps.”
“Oh, Mr. Dibbit, I’m sorry, but Elvis Presley costs a lot more than eight million, and anyway, he’s in our Elite Class of clones. He’s not one we sell to the general public I’m afraid. No, if you want to see Elvis, you’ll have to go to one of the concerts. I believe there are fifteen happening tonight…. Let’s see… Yes… Here we are… There are four Early Elvis gigs and eleven Fat Elvis ones tonight.”
“Oh, right.”
“Look, I’m sure we can find you someone just as satisfactory to take home with you. Let’s see…” Dave picked up a list of celebs you could buy for under ten million. “What about Keira Knightly? She’s very cheap.”
“Nah,” replied Mr. Dibbit.
“Phil Collins?”
Mr. Dibbit shook his head.
“Nietzsche?”
“No.”
“Lemmy? Lassie? Fonzie?”
“Mmm… No… How much did you say Justin Bieber was again?”
“Six million. I could throw in Pol Pot for two mil, if you like.”
“Yeah, go on then. I’ll take a Bieber and a Pol Pot”
“A very wise decision Mr. Dibbit!” said Dave and proceeded to get the paperwork together.
The good thing about cutting pieces from ReejecttIIon: A Number Two, my upcoming collaborative book with author Daniel Clausen, is that you get to read them here for free. Here’s the latest short story.
And remember you can read Clausen’s first Reejecttion book [http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...] or [https://www.goodreads.com/reader/5905...] for free! It’s short and brilliant, so what are you waiting for?
Harry Whitewolf.
CLONE CO.
by Harry Whitewolf
The receptionist was Daisy Duke from The Dukes of Hazzard. “Welcome to Clone Co.” she said. “How may I help?”
“Hello, yes, I’ve been given a gift voucher I’d like to redeem please.”
“Is this your first time shopping at Clone Co.?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, I’ll get one of our assistants to go through the options we offer. If you’d like to follow Mr. T, he’ll take you to see Dave.”
Mr. T then appeared and said abruptly, “Follow me, fool!” and the customer followed the gold-draped man into a small office where Dave was sitting behind a large desk. “Please, take a seat, Mr…?”
“Dibbit.”
Mr. T walked out with the sound of clunking jewellery as Mr. Dibbit sat down. Dave started laying out all manner of brochures on the desk, whilst saying, “Now, what are you looking for? Do you know what sort of clone you would like?”
“No- this is all new to me. I have a voucher for eight million credit chips, so if you could just show me what you have within that price range, that would be great.”
“Certainly Mr. Dibbit. Well, we offer lots of different types of clones here at Clone Co. Would you perhaps be interested in cloning an old pet? A dog or a canary, for instance?”
“No, I’ve never had any pets,” replied Mr. Dibbit.
“How about a dinosaur? A pterodactyl would be within your price range.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“What about a dodo?”
“That’s a no no."
“Well there are plenty of human options as well. Would you be interested in cloning a dead parent or an ex-girlfriend? Or someone you once had a crush on? We can, of course, make any personality alterations that you may require.”
“No, I don’t think I want to clone anyone personal to me.”
“Would you like to clone yourself? Lots of people like this option -especially men. I mean, just think -finally you could know what it’s like to give yourself a blowjob!”
“Hm… Not for me, no.”
“O.K, so maybe you’d like to clone a celebrity?”
“Yeah… I think that sounds good.”
“Excellent! One of our most popular choices!” Dave began rummaging through the catalogues on the desk. “Have you got anyone in mind?”
“Not really. It just depends on who I can afford.”
“Certainly. Well, I’m afraid our A-Class Celeb Clones will be out of your league, but there are still plenty of other options. Let’s see…” Dave picked up a brochure entitled ‘Famous Fucks’ and said, “Could I interest you in a celebrity shag? For eight million, you could have the weather girl from Channel 87.”
Mr. Dibbit looked a little embarrassed. “Um, no- I don’t think that’s really my style,” he said.
“O.K. No problem. How about celebrities you’d like to punch in the face?” Dave replied, picking up another catalogue and flicking through it. “Our special offer at the moment is Justin Bieber. That’ll only cost you six million. What do you say? Would you like to have a Bieber clone you can use as a punch bag on a daily basis? I’ve heard it does wonders for releasing tension.”
“No, I don’t think so. Could I buy George W Bush? I’ve always fancied giving him a bloody nose.”
“Hmmm… I’m afraid he’s a little out of your price range. How about Ben Affleck?”
“Mm, no.”
“Charlie Sheen?”
“Nah. Haven’t you got anyone more recent?”
Dave replied, “I’m afraid that for your price range, it’s mostly people from over a century ago. Hey- how about Queen Elizabeth II? I always fancied punching her in the face myself.”
Mr. Dibbit looked like he was losing interest. “I’m not sure I really want to punch anyone in the face actually,” he said.
Dave started rummaging through more brochures, saying, “No problem, no problem…. Let’s see- what else have we got? How about someone more historic? Would you like Napoleon to do your dishes for you? Attila the Hun to do your laundry? Jane Austen to wipe your ass?”
Mr. Dibbit carefully considered these options. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to get a clone who could do some household chores for me, but I’m not too keen on those you mentioned. Who else could I get? I was hoping for someone a little more glamorous. Elvis, perhaps.”
“Oh, Mr. Dibbit, I’m sorry, but Elvis Presley costs a lot more than eight million, and anyway, he’s in our Elite Class of clones. He’s not one we sell to the general public I’m afraid. No, if you want to see Elvis, you’ll have to go to one of the concerts. I believe there are fifteen happening tonight…. Let’s see… Yes… Here we are… There are four Early Elvis gigs and eleven Fat Elvis ones tonight.”
“Oh, right.”
“Look, I’m sure we can find you someone just as satisfactory to take home with you. Let’s see…” Dave picked up a list of celebs you could buy for under ten million. “What about Keira Knightly? She’s very cheap.”
“Nah,” replied Mr. Dibbit.
“Phil Collins?”
Mr. Dibbit shook his head.
“Nietzsche?”
“No.”
“Lemmy? Lassie? Fonzie?”
“Mmm… No… How much did you say Justin Bieber was again?”
“Six million. I could throw in Pol Pot for two mil, if you like.”
“Yeah, go on then. I’ll take a Bieber and a Pol Pot”
“A very wise decision Mr. Dibbit!” said Dave and proceeded to get the paperwork together.
