Daniel Clausen's Blog, page 43
June 23, 2017
Booze, Weed, Girls or Advice? (Office Saga Part 3)
The Novel in Short: After graduating from university with a degree in business, Dustin has a problem. He needs to figure out a way to break through the confines the world has built for him. The confines of middling employment opportunities, family expectations, and the small imaginations of others. Luckily, he's not alone. With his monkey sidekick, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
Thing I heard in a song once:
If you can’t hide it, you might as well embrace it.
-Sum 41
Choices: Booze, weed, girls, or advice? Sometimes, take the advice.
Rule for Fiction: Avoid using gratuitous foreshadowing about future plot events. Especially when it interferes with the story. And when it’s about vampires.
J.P. wants to spend his entire paycheck on booze, weed, and girls. It’s been two weeks since he’s lit up, and I don’t want him to fall off the wagon.
Office drama sucks. This person is screwing this person. This person thinks this person’s work performance is off. The worst part is, for all the drama, very little happens. According to gossip I slept with two temps while J.P. filmed it. No such bonanza ever took place. In fact, nothing ever occurs. Endless talk. I just separate from it. I’m always on the lips of someone because I’m friends with J.P. The monkey did actually make it with one of the temps. A temp a certain supervisor, Bob, happened to like. Supervisor Bob is furious with J.P. but knows the boss loves his little monkey so he takes it out on me.
After work J.P. and I go to this bar near the beach where people are generally friendly and monkeys are allowed.
“Everything is all out of whack, J.P. My mom and dad are fighting, I hate my job, and this number…the number you got on the beach two weeks ago…I can’t call her up. I get this weird twitch in my hand every time I try to dial her number. I think I still miss Suzie.”
J.P. asks me if I want him to set me up with someone from work.
“No,” I say. “Work sucks. I know my dad wants me to stay there, but the money is awful, it’s boring, and I really do think he’s going to replace us all with monkeys pretty soon. I almost want to go buy my old Nintendo back.”
It’s at this point that J.P. gives me a speech -- About how there is no going back. And instead I should search deep down, find out what I really want, and then move boldly into the future. Then he says something amazing. He says I’m the most resourceful person he knows, that it’s a talent, and that I shouldn’t deny it just because of what other people think. Instead, I should embrace it.
“Resourceful Odysseus,” I say. Fucking-aye.
A man interrupts: “I hate to say it, youngster, but the monkey is right.”
The man looks grungy. He has a stained T-shirt, cut off jean-shorts, he’s unshaved, missing teeth, and his breath suggests that he subsists mostly on a diet of cheese, bourbon, and grilled whatever happens to be dead on the floor.
“Go after your dream, son, not someone else’s. Be a man and step up to your father and anyone else who tells you that you can’t do it. And whatever you do, you have to watch out for vampires. Kill them before they kill you. You understand?”
“What?!”
“Vampires, son. Vampires all around you!” At this point he starts yelling out “Vampires” in a very loud voice. Repeatedly. I ask him to stop, but he doesn’t.
“Alright, you’ve been warned.” I big man in a grease-stained t-shirt says and escorts him to the door.
“What the hell?” I say.
J.P. shrugs his shoulders and tells me to forget about it. He asks if I want to rent some porn.
I say okay. And that’s that.
I know now that I have one wise monkey on my hands, and that I’d have to keep an eye on him. I know I need the pornography break because with the coming of the dawn, I would have a new mission: To ditch my day job, to plan my escape.
Read more of the Underground Novel here:
https://www.wattpad.com/384227839-the...
Thing I heard in a song once:
If you can’t hide it, you might as well embrace it.
-Sum 41
Choices: Booze, weed, girls, or advice? Sometimes, take the advice.
Rule for Fiction: Avoid using gratuitous foreshadowing about future plot events. Especially when it interferes with the story. And when it’s about vampires.
J.P. wants to spend his entire paycheck on booze, weed, and girls. It’s been two weeks since he’s lit up, and I don’t want him to fall off the wagon.
Office drama sucks. This person is screwing this person. This person thinks this person’s work performance is off. The worst part is, for all the drama, very little happens. According to gossip I slept with two temps while J.P. filmed it. No such bonanza ever took place. In fact, nothing ever occurs. Endless talk. I just separate from it. I’m always on the lips of someone because I’m friends with J.P. The monkey did actually make it with one of the temps. A temp a certain supervisor, Bob, happened to like. Supervisor Bob is furious with J.P. but knows the boss loves his little monkey so he takes it out on me.
After work J.P. and I go to this bar near the beach where people are generally friendly and monkeys are allowed.
“Everything is all out of whack, J.P. My mom and dad are fighting, I hate my job, and this number…the number you got on the beach two weeks ago…I can’t call her up. I get this weird twitch in my hand every time I try to dial her number. I think I still miss Suzie.”
J.P. asks me if I want him to set me up with someone from work.
“No,” I say. “Work sucks. I know my dad wants me to stay there, but the money is awful, it’s boring, and I really do think he’s going to replace us all with monkeys pretty soon. I almost want to go buy my old Nintendo back.”
It’s at this point that J.P. gives me a speech -- About how there is no going back. And instead I should search deep down, find out what I really want, and then move boldly into the future. Then he says something amazing. He says I’m the most resourceful person he knows, that it’s a talent, and that I shouldn’t deny it just because of what other people think. Instead, I should embrace it.
“Resourceful Odysseus,” I say. Fucking-aye.
A man interrupts: “I hate to say it, youngster, but the monkey is right.”
The man looks grungy. He has a stained T-shirt, cut off jean-shorts, he’s unshaved, missing teeth, and his breath suggests that he subsists mostly on a diet of cheese, bourbon, and grilled whatever happens to be dead on the floor.
“Go after your dream, son, not someone else’s. Be a man and step up to your father and anyone else who tells you that you can’t do it. And whatever you do, you have to watch out for vampires. Kill them before they kill you. You understand?”
“What?!”
“Vampires, son. Vampires all around you!” At this point he starts yelling out “Vampires” in a very loud voice. Repeatedly. I ask him to stop, but he doesn’t.
“Alright, you’ve been warned.” I big man in a grease-stained t-shirt says and escorts him to the door.
“What the hell?” I say.
J.P. shrugs his shoulders and tells me to forget about it. He asks if I want to rent some porn.
I say okay. And that’s that.
I know now that I have one wise monkey on my hands, and that I’d have to keep an eye on him. I know I need the pornography break because with the coming of the dawn, I would have a new mission: To ditch my day job, to plan my escape.
Read more of the Underground Novel here:
https://www.wattpad.com/384227839-the...
June 21, 2017
Underground Novel - Conservative. Business. Culture. (Office Saga Part 2)
The Novel in Short: After graduating from university with a degree in business, Dustin has a problem. He needs to figure out a way to break through the confines the world has built for him. The confines of middling employment opportunities, family expectations, and the small imaginations of others. Luckily, he's not alone. With his monkey sidekick, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
Rule: You can only fake it for so long.
Rule for Surviving the (Conservative) Business World: Try to keep a straight face.
"For those in misery, perhaps better things will follow."
-Virgil
I look at myself in the mirror. It’s now the second week, and I am a man transformed. My shirt is pressed. I wear a tie. And there is very little slack in my slacks. I am an office worker. In Japan, they would call me a salaryman.
Conservative. Business. Culture.
I say it out loud because it helps me get into the professionalism groove. “Conservative. Business. Culture. Conservative. Business. Culture.” I try hard not to laugh.
When I go to the office, I’m like a John Travolta in reverse. I don’t strut, but I walk modestly and sip from a mug of black coffee.
I repeat my mantra to myself.
Conservative.
“Hello, good morning.”
Business.
“Have you seen last month’s numbers? Quite an improvement.”
Culture.
“No, I haven’t read that new article in the Professional, but I will on my working lunch break.” Wink.
I am a man transformed. I think to myself: Yes, I can do this again tomorrow. I can do this again any day. I am a company man.
I sit at my desk, and, lacking any idea about what my actual job is or how to go about faking it, I instead make my face look perturbed and ponder a non-existent problem.
The clock on the wall moves once again, and I practice my wink, smooth my tie, and take a sip from my coffee.
The man next to me turns. “Plexicorp is the number one exporter of cutting-edge ideas about the use of plastics now and in the future. Our company is on the cutting edge of plastic-streamlining, logistics, and plasti-marketing. Our company takes plastics into the information-rich economy of the future.”
“Hell yeah,” I say, and we high five.
I sit at my desk for a little while, listening to the man type something out.
I contemplate what I’m supposed to do next.
“What exactly should I do?” I ask him. Perhaps this was not the wisest course of action. Perhaps, unknowingly, I had violated a rule of business decorum.
“Oh, um, well I’m charting consumer attitudes about plastics and the effect of various pro-plastic agenda groups to counteract go-green environmentalists. Go Plexicorp!”
I think about this for a second. “Yeah...okay. Go Plexicorp!”
“Go Plexicorp!” he says again and smiles.
I decide to take out my Latin workbook and do some translation. What the hell, I think, might as well do something actually productive.
I look over at the guy next to me again, charting wonkity wonk on his wonka-computer.
“Forsan miseros meliora sequentur,” I say and wink.
And because he can’t think of a suitable reply, he says, “Go Plexicorp!”
Rule: You can only fake it for so long.
Rule for Surviving the (Conservative) Business World: Try to keep a straight face.
"For those in misery, perhaps better things will follow."
-Virgil
I look at myself in the mirror. It’s now the second week, and I am a man transformed. My shirt is pressed. I wear a tie. And there is very little slack in my slacks. I am an office worker. In Japan, they would call me a salaryman.
Conservative. Business. Culture.
I say it out loud because it helps me get into the professionalism groove. “Conservative. Business. Culture. Conservative. Business. Culture.” I try hard not to laugh.
When I go to the office, I’m like a John Travolta in reverse. I don’t strut, but I walk modestly and sip from a mug of black coffee.
I repeat my mantra to myself.
Conservative.
“Hello, good morning.”
Business.
“Have you seen last month’s numbers? Quite an improvement.”
Culture.
“No, I haven’t read that new article in the Professional, but I will on my working lunch break.” Wink.
I am a man transformed. I think to myself: Yes, I can do this again tomorrow. I can do this again any day. I am a company man.
I sit at my desk, and, lacking any idea about what my actual job is or how to go about faking it, I instead make my face look perturbed and ponder a non-existent problem.
The clock on the wall moves once again, and I practice my wink, smooth my tie, and take a sip from my coffee.
The man next to me turns. “Plexicorp is the number one exporter of cutting-edge ideas about the use of plastics now and in the future. Our company is on the cutting edge of plastic-streamlining, logistics, and plasti-marketing. Our company takes plastics into the information-rich economy of the future.”
“Hell yeah,” I say, and we high five.
I sit at my desk for a little while, listening to the man type something out.
I contemplate what I’m supposed to do next.
“What exactly should I do?” I ask him. Perhaps this was not the wisest course of action. Perhaps, unknowingly, I had violated a rule of business decorum.
“Oh, um, well I’m charting consumer attitudes about plastics and the effect of various pro-plastic agenda groups to counteract go-green environmentalists. Go Plexicorp!”
I think about this for a second. “Yeah...okay. Go Plexicorp!”
“Go Plexicorp!” he says again and smiles.
I decide to take out my Latin workbook and do some translation. What the hell, I think, might as well do something actually productive.
I look over at the guy next to me again, charting wonkity wonk on his wonka-computer.
“Forsan miseros meliora sequentur,” I say and wink.
And because he can’t think of a suitable reply, he says, “Go Plexicorp!”
June 19, 2017
Underground Novel - An Office Job, the Other Cosmos (Office Saga Part 1)
The Novel in Short: After graduating from university with a degree in business, Dustin has a problem. He needs to figure out a way to break through the confines the world has built for him. The confines of middling employment opportunities, family expectations, and the small imaginations of others. Luckily, he's not alone. With his monkey sidekick, Dustin braves the hazards of the real world, demonstrating his own unique brand of hippy entrepreneurship.
Observation about Real Jobs: A Real job is not a death sentence, necessarily. Your office is not a tomb, unless your office is in a basement and has no windows--then this is questionable. And while the physics of an office are a little different: time stands still, the universe revolves around a desk that is slightly out of balance and tends to nullify the universe you once knew—relax, there is still a world unto itself ready to be discovered in office drama.
Advice from Mom: Even when others are outshining you, have the courage to be your own man (or woman...or monkey).
J.P. and I have had a rough day at the office. Dinner is ready, and my father is finally ready to accept the fact that I am living with a monkey whose name is J.P., that he and I have the same job, and that he is slightly better at it.
J.P. doesn’t let on, but I can read the writing on the wall.
Today, Mr. McKenzy pulls me aside. “Now don’t get me wrong, Dustin. You’re doing a fine job here at Plexicorps, and your father would be proud. But I just don’t know what I ever did before I hired that monkey.”
My dad is happy to engage in talk of the smallest kind, and I mean this in the most judgmental way. “How was your day?” “How is business?” “The (insert sports team) is doing well this year.” “The food tastes great.” “The economy is (blank).”
My dad is the happiest person in the world when engaged in this petty talk. It’s safe and it makes him think the world has grown smaller. It hasn’t -- the world is complex, outsourcing and offshoring, problems with Medicare, tribal warfare of the most brutal kind, global warming, and apathy toward the plight of the world’s poor.
It’s 2004. But I’m sure it’s not that different from whatever year you’re reading this in.
Oddly enough my parents are taken in by J.P. They’re impressed by his manners and etiquette, and they take his silence as a kind of reservation that demonstrates decorum.
“You should have more friends like J.P., Dustin. He has such great manners.”
“Right, well when I bought him off the dealer, they said he had been trained to do mining work in some place in Africa…”
“Dustin, don’t use that kind of language around your mother.”
“Huh?” I ask, genuinely confused. “I don’t get it. What did I say? Africa? Is Africa a bad word?”
“Your dealer!”
“What?! Well, yeah dad. See, that’s how free market capitalism works: one person serves as a mediator between supply and demand and when an object is especially hard to come by a person usually has to go through two or more people…”
“That’s enough, young man! Go to your room!” My dad’s face turns red. “I’m sorry, J.P., but you see what he does to me.”
“Leave J.P. out of this, dad.”
My mother just stares down into her food. She is sullen. My dad and I yell some things back and forth: I call him a greedy white capitalist motherfucker (not my best choice of words, but a factual description of reality). He calls me a vagrant street hustler with no manners (a somewhat factual description of reality). We do our little routine of observational anger, and I say some things in Latin that really get him going.
“Are you having an affair?” my mom asks softly.
The table goes quiet as Death.
“Because, if you are, it’s okay. I would just like to know.”
Dad’s face turns red again, and strangely his eyes glance over at J.P.
“I swear to God, dad, if you apologize to the monkey, I’ll fucking kill you.” I put unusually dire stress on the word kill.
Believe it or not, it’s about the most appropriate thing I could’ve said. And my mom actually smiles at me. I debate hitting my dad in the back with a chair, wrestler style, then propel J.P. up in the air, do a monkey body slam followed by a suplex. But me and J.P. decide to help mom out with the dishes instead. We’re still in the lower upper class bracket, so we don’t have a maid to take care of the dishes. Maybe my dad hasn’t gotten around to it, or maybe he’s waiting for my grandfather on my mom’s side to die so he can get a hold of some more money.
“You’re so grown up, do you know that?” she says to me. “I’m so proud of the person you’ve become.”
“I’m sorry about what’s going on between you and dad.”
“Oh, we’ll work it out. You just have to worry about yourself.”
“Mom, what if I’m not cut out for the office life? I know Mr. McKenzy says I am, but I just don’t know. Sometimes it seems like my job keeps getting stupider and stupider. Yesterday, we had a three hour meeting about what type of coffee filters to buy for the coffee machine in the breakroom. Nothing was decided and I’m pretty sure I’ve been tasked with coming up with a working group to make proposals on the topic. I have a feeling this coffee filter thing could drag out for months.”
My mom smiles at me. “It will all work out,” she says. “You need to follow your own heart, be your own man.”
She’s right, I decide, although I’m not quite sure what it all means at the moment.
Observation about Real Jobs: A Real job is not a death sentence, necessarily. Your office is not a tomb, unless your office is in a basement and has no windows--then this is questionable. And while the physics of an office are a little different: time stands still, the universe revolves around a desk that is slightly out of balance and tends to nullify the universe you once knew—relax, there is still a world unto itself ready to be discovered in office drama.
Advice from Mom: Even when others are outshining you, have the courage to be your own man (or woman...or monkey).
J.P. and I have had a rough day at the office. Dinner is ready, and my father is finally ready to accept the fact that I am living with a monkey whose name is J.P., that he and I have the same job, and that he is slightly better at it.
J.P. doesn’t let on, but I can read the writing on the wall.
Today, Mr. McKenzy pulls me aside. “Now don’t get me wrong, Dustin. You’re doing a fine job here at Plexicorps, and your father would be proud. But I just don’t know what I ever did before I hired that monkey.”
My dad is happy to engage in talk of the smallest kind, and I mean this in the most judgmental way. “How was your day?” “How is business?” “The (insert sports team) is doing well this year.” “The food tastes great.” “The economy is (blank).”
My dad is the happiest person in the world when engaged in this petty talk. It’s safe and it makes him think the world has grown smaller. It hasn’t -- the world is complex, outsourcing and offshoring, problems with Medicare, tribal warfare of the most brutal kind, global warming, and apathy toward the plight of the world’s poor.
It’s 2004. But I’m sure it’s not that different from whatever year you’re reading this in.
Oddly enough my parents are taken in by J.P. They’re impressed by his manners and etiquette, and they take his silence as a kind of reservation that demonstrates decorum.
“You should have more friends like J.P., Dustin. He has such great manners.”
“Right, well when I bought him off the dealer, they said he had been trained to do mining work in some place in Africa…”
“Dustin, don’t use that kind of language around your mother.”
“Huh?” I ask, genuinely confused. “I don’t get it. What did I say? Africa? Is Africa a bad word?”
“Your dealer!”
“What?! Well, yeah dad. See, that’s how free market capitalism works: one person serves as a mediator between supply and demand and when an object is especially hard to come by a person usually has to go through two or more people…”
“That’s enough, young man! Go to your room!” My dad’s face turns red. “I’m sorry, J.P., but you see what he does to me.”
“Leave J.P. out of this, dad.”
My mother just stares down into her food. She is sullen. My dad and I yell some things back and forth: I call him a greedy white capitalist motherfucker (not my best choice of words, but a factual description of reality). He calls me a vagrant street hustler with no manners (a somewhat factual description of reality). We do our little routine of observational anger, and I say some things in Latin that really get him going.
“Are you having an affair?” my mom asks softly.
The table goes quiet as Death.
“Because, if you are, it’s okay. I would just like to know.”
Dad’s face turns red again, and strangely his eyes glance over at J.P.
“I swear to God, dad, if you apologize to the monkey, I’ll fucking kill you.” I put unusually dire stress on the word kill.
Believe it or not, it’s about the most appropriate thing I could’ve said. And my mom actually smiles at me. I debate hitting my dad in the back with a chair, wrestler style, then propel J.P. up in the air, do a monkey body slam followed by a suplex. But me and J.P. decide to help mom out with the dishes instead. We’re still in the lower upper class bracket, so we don’t have a maid to take care of the dishes. Maybe my dad hasn’t gotten around to it, or maybe he’s waiting for my grandfather on my mom’s side to die so he can get a hold of some more money.
“You’re so grown up, do you know that?” she says to me. “I’m so proud of the person you’ve become.”
“I’m sorry about what’s going on between you and dad.”
“Oh, we’ll work it out. You just have to worry about yourself.”
“Mom, what if I’m not cut out for the office life? I know Mr. McKenzy says I am, but I just don’t know. Sometimes it seems like my job keeps getting stupider and stupider. Yesterday, we had a three hour meeting about what type of coffee filters to buy for the coffee machine in the breakroom. Nothing was decided and I’m pretty sure I’ve been tasked with coming up with a working group to make proposals on the topic. I have a feeling this coffee filter thing could drag out for months.”
My mom smiles at me. “It will all work out,” she says. “You need to follow your own heart, be your own man.”
She’s right, I decide, although I’m not quite sure what it all means at the moment.
June 18, 2017
The Beginning (Something to Stem the Diminishing)
Every book needs a beginning.
The beginning of this book came to me one day as I was contemplating where writing comes from -- any kind of writing.
I can't remember which writer said it, but the quote goes something like this: "Writing is easy! Just open a vein and bleed."
So, what is the beginning?
This is the beginning.
The Beginning
I was successful by my own modest standards. At the very least, I didn’t worry about money anymore. In my dreams, I saw them there, and I said to one of them, “Teach me about pain.”
The person I spoke to smiled briefly, knowingly and said, “Fuck you. Get the fuck away from me.”
Winter comes and my company gives me a bonus. It’s apparent by the way my boss hands me the check that he’s worried about losing me—talent flight or something.
But no one is worried about losing those who suffer in silence. They suffer in silence—so we learn nothing about pain.
We are supposed to learn about teamwork at a seminar at work. I raise my hand and say honestly, “Shouldn’t we take a bullet in the kneecap before beginning our discussion? Before we can become a team, we’ll probably need to share something horrible.” The man at the podium has probably been informed that our company fears my flight of talent. I forget what I’m good at, but it must be pretty serious because everyone nods politely and compliments me on my taste in ties before moving on.
One day I drive into a neighborhood where normal people dare not go. I find a man on the street and I say to him, “Teach me about pain.”
And it’s strange. He straightens up as if he knows me.
“My son, you are flesh and blood, alive but fragile—you are human. If you do not suffer pain, then I don’t know what you are. Spare us this pretentious question and become one of us. Only when you admit your pain can your story begin—for all stories, even our comedies, are born of pain.”
My eyes tear up. Is this really the cost of a beginning? Do I need to once again find myself cloaked in agony? Do I have to die again?
I explain to him that I have something others call talent.
“True, this thing others call talent has made you wealthy. It has kept you warm and protected. But it will not make you human. It will not teach you pain. And without pain, there is no beginning.”
You can check out the book here:
Available on Smashwords and Kindle.
You can also download a free PDF file on Goodreads.
The beginning of this book came to me one day as I was contemplating where writing comes from -- any kind of writing.
I can't remember which writer said it, but the quote goes something like this: "Writing is easy! Just open a vein and bleed."
So, what is the beginning?
This is the beginning.
The Beginning
I was successful by my own modest standards. At the very least, I didn’t worry about money anymore. In my dreams, I saw them there, and I said to one of them, “Teach me about pain.”
The person I spoke to smiled briefly, knowingly and said, “Fuck you. Get the fuck away from me.”
Winter comes and my company gives me a bonus. It’s apparent by the way my boss hands me the check that he’s worried about losing me—talent flight or something.
But no one is worried about losing those who suffer in silence. They suffer in silence—so we learn nothing about pain.
We are supposed to learn about teamwork at a seminar at work. I raise my hand and say honestly, “Shouldn’t we take a bullet in the kneecap before beginning our discussion? Before we can become a team, we’ll probably need to share something horrible.” The man at the podium has probably been informed that our company fears my flight of talent. I forget what I’m good at, but it must be pretty serious because everyone nods politely and compliments me on my taste in ties before moving on.
One day I drive into a neighborhood where normal people dare not go. I find a man on the street and I say to him, “Teach me about pain.”
And it’s strange. He straightens up as if he knows me.
“My son, you are flesh and blood, alive but fragile—you are human. If you do not suffer pain, then I don’t know what you are. Spare us this pretentious question and become one of us. Only when you admit your pain can your story begin—for all stories, even our comedies, are born of pain.”
My eyes tear up. Is this really the cost of a beginning? Do I need to once again find myself cloaked in agony? Do I have to die again?
I explain to him that I have something others call talent.
“True, this thing others call talent has made you wealthy. It has kept you warm and protected. But it will not make you human. It will not teach you pain. And without pain, there is no beginning.”
You can check out the book here:
Available on Smashwords and Kindle.
You can also download a free PDF file on Goodreads.
June 16, 2017
(Guest Post by Leo Robertson) - Everything You Need to Know About Daniel Day Lewis or Extreme Sitting for Beginners
Daniel Day Lewis proved that if you sit hard enough you can break a rib. Now that’s some extreme sitting! Can you imagine the hemorrhoids that guy must have had? They’d be like mine after sitting so hard I reached the end of There Will Be Blood followed by an evening’s attempts to excrete all that forced masculinity from my skeptical bowels: I can report that the film’s title was pretty damn prescient.
*This micro-short was kindly provided by Leo Robertson.
He writes things that go "splat!"
You can check out his book "Sinkhole" right here:
*This micro-short was kindly provided by Leo Robertson.
He writes things that go "splat!"
You can check out his book "Sinkhole" right here:
June 15, 2017
Micro-Short: The Hapless Peacekeepers
*I'm trying something new.
Every once in a while, I'm going to post a really, really, really short story. Keep an eye for them. Comment. Share. Enjoy.
The Hapless Peacekeepers
(A Science Fiction Epic in about a 100 words)
They looked at the great fluorescent blobs glowing the double moonlit night of Gooblie-Goopa. The inhabitants hated being called “Jello”, but it didn’t help that they traveled in vehicles that looked like little plastic containers with doors that opened like peel-lids.
Yes, there was definitely a genocide going on. But what was killing what? For a week, the peacekeepers looked like kids playing with gelatine desserts. And for all their efforts, they still couldn’t tell whether they had prevented a single ounce of jelly from being spilled.
Well, the lead peacekeeper decided, perhaps they’d have better luck on the planet with beings that looked pop-tarts.
Every once in a while, I'm going to post a really, really, really short story. Keep an eye for them. Comment. Share. Enjoy.
The Hapless Peacekeepers
(A Science Fiction Epic in about a 100 words)
They looked at the great fluorescent blobs glowing the double moonlit night of Gooblie-Goopa. The inhabitants hated being called “Jello”, but it didn’t help that they traveled in vehicles that looked like little plastic containers with doors that opened like peel-lids.
Yes, there was definitely a genocide going on. But what was killing what? For a week, the peacekeepers looked like kids playing with gelatine desserts. And for all their efforts, they still couldn’t tell whether they had prevented a single ounce of jelly from being spilled.
Well, the lead peacekeeper decided, perhaps they’d have better luck on the planet with beings that looked pop-tarts.
June 12, 2017
In Limbo with the Monkey (Underground Novel)
A new chapter of the "Underground Novel: An Alternative Guide to Life After Graduation" is up on my personal blog (and Wattpad).
You can read it here:
https://ghostsofnagasaki.com/2017/06/...
or here:
https://www.wattpad.com/425300599-the...
You can read it here:
https://ghostsofnagasaki.com/2017/06/...
or here:
https://www.wattpad.com/425300599-the...
June 11, 2017
Tomebook
The website would be called “Tomebook”.
You could only write ideas that were no less than 1000 pages in length, philosophically-oriented, and had non-reducible parts.
You could only post after you’d read and commented on three tomes and provided detailed written feedback of no less than 30 pages each.
Note to investors: Feel free to invest once you’ve read my 2500-page business proposal (no executive summary available because it is non-reducible).
You could only write ideas that were no less than 1000 pages in length, philosophically-oriented, and had non-reducible parts.
You could only post after you’d read and commented on three tomes and provided detailed written feedback of no less than 30 pages each.
Note to investors: Feel free to invest once you’ve read my 2500-page business proposal (no executive summary available because it is non-reducible).
June 9, 2017
Missing Pieces (Statues in the Cloud Tease)
I crossed the bridge from Fujisawa to Enoshima Island on foot. A good twenty-minute walk in the early winter sun, not a bit of sweat and more than a bit of lightness in my step. Just fresh sea air and the sound of laughter. It was the kind of day I might have had in a dream.
That day when I got to the road leading up to the shrine there was a smallish crowd of tourists climbing up the road with me. Along the road were all kinds of shops. Some were the kind that had tacky touristy things, flip flops and shirts and plastic shovels so that kids could play on the beach. Others were shops with tinted windows and the trappings of long years of dignity -- est. 1952, one said. The shop did nothing more than serve as a tea and coffee house, but its dignity had market value that only the owners understood.
I stopped and looked through a shop window with traditional glassware. It was neither tacky nor overly dignified. It was just a simple glassware shop. Here and there I saw little samurai and other creatures.
Which one am I? I thought. I looked around and noticed that several were clustered together oddly.
Suddenly, a voice came to me.
“Yasui yo (cheap),” a shopkeeper was saying to me.
She had appeared from out of the store, perhaps because I had been lingering. Then suddenly she started talking very fast and I had trouble keeping up with her.
A stranger interjected helpfully, an old Japanese man with thick glasses. “She says that there are several that are half price because they have little pieces missing.”
I looked closely at the glassware in the window of the store. I couldn’t see any pieces missing. They were so small it was hard to see what exactly was wrong.
“You like glassware, young man?” the old man with the glasses asked me. “She makes the best glassware.”
I waved my hand, apologized, and said that I must be on my way.
I continued up the road trying to imagine people as little glassware models.
That day when I got to the road leading up to the shrine there was a smallish crowd of tourists climbing up the road with me. Along the road were all kinds of shops. Some were the kind that had tacky touristy things, flip flops and shirts and plastic shovels so that kids could play on the beach. Others were shops with tinted windows and the trappings of long years of dignity -- est. 1952, one said. The shop did nothing more than serve as a tea and coffee house, but its dignity had market value that only the owners understood.
I stopped and looked through a shop window with traditional glassware. It was neither tacky nor overly dignified. It was just a simple glassware shop. Here and there I saw little samurai and other creatures.
Which one am I? I thought. I looked around and noticed that several were clustered together oddly.
Suddenly, a voice came to me.
“Yasui yo (cheap),” a shopkeeper was saying to me.
She had appeared from out of the store, perhaps because I had been lingering. Then suddenly she started talking very fast and I had trouble keeping up with her.
A stranger interjected helpfully, an old Japanese man with thick glasses. “She says that there are several that are half price because they have little pieces missing.”
I looked closely at the glassware in the window of the store. I couldn’t see any pieces missing. They were so small it was hard to see what exactly was wrong.
“You like glassware, young man?” the old man with the glasses asked me. “She makes the best glassware.”
I waved my hand, apologized, and said that I must be on my way.
I continued up the road trying to imagine people as little glassware models.
June 7, 2017
The Lexical Funk is Free on Kindle!
Hey everyone,
My short story collection -- The Lexical Funk -- is free on Kindle for the next few days.
Please get a copy and encourage others to do the same.
You can download your copy here: https://www.amazon.com/Lexical-Funk-D...
If you want to read reviews of the book, you can do so here:
Thanks again!
My short story collection -- The Lexical Funk -- is free on Kindle for the next few days.
Please get a copy and encourage others to do the same.
You can download your copy here: https://www.amazon.com/Lexical-Funk-D...
If you want to read reviews of the book, you can do so here:
Thanks again!
