Harry Whitewolf's Blog - Posts Tagged "reejecttion"
Farquhar the Phoenix: a taste of ReejecttIIon.
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.
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.
Another short story rejected from ReejecttIIon.
Author Daniel Clausen and I are continuing to edit our upcoming book, so it's time for a great guest blog post from Daniel:
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.
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.
Dear Mr. Psycho.
Daniel Clausen’s incredibly entertaining book Reejecttion is a short story/essay collection that looks at the challenges of being a writer, being a human and being on the other side of a rejection slip. The book comes highly recommended by this reader, and you can read all 63 pages of it here: https://www.goodreads.com/reader/5905... or here: http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t...
The sequel to Reejecttion, which Daniel kindly asked me to contribute towards, has metamorphosed into something else and it’s now shapeshifting into its final form; which means some pieces need to be rejected.
The following rejection letter has been rejected from ReejecttIIon – a number two. There’s got to be some sort of irony in that.
***
Dear Mr. Psycho,
Thank you for your submission to the Fat Bastard Literary Agency.
We read with much interest how you proposed a “new renaissance for physical copies of books in wake of the Kindle Age”, beginning with your gruesome horror story Skinned Alive which “is to be printed on pages made out of stretched and dried human flesh”. We also noted that you must have gone to quite some trouble to achieve the high standard seen in the sample that you enclosed with your letter of enquiry.
We especially liked your attention to detail- in particular, the bloody nose attached to the front cover. However, the viciously vile stench it emitted indicated that this was indeed the skin and nose of an actual dead person and so, in keeping with our professional standards, we had no option but to contact the police about the matter.
Seeing as we are now aware that our informing the police resulted in your arrest, it should come as no surprise to learn that we must decline your book at this present time as it does not suit our current needs; and it’s been taken away by Scotland Yard anyway.
We wish you every success in your future endeavours.
Yours sincerely,
Maurice Morris-Morrison.
Fat Bastard Literary Agency.
p.s- please get in touch and we will happily offer you lots and lots of money for a book about your Skinned Alive book.
The sequel to Reejecttion, which Daniel kindly asked me to contribute towards, has metamorphosed into something else and it’s now shapeshifting into its final form; which means some pieces need to be rejected.
The following rejection letter has been rejected from ReejecttIIon – a number two. There’s got to be some sort of irony in that.
***
Dear Mr. Psycho,
Thank you for your submission to the Fat Bastard Literary Agency.
We read with much interest how you proposed a “new renaissance for physical copies of books in wake of the Kindle Age”, beginning with your gruesome horror story Skinned Alive which “is to be printed on pages made out of stretched and dried human flesh”. We also noted that you must have gone to quite some trouble to achieve the high standard seen in the sample that you enclosed with your letter of enquiry.
We especially liked your attention to detail- in particular, the bloody nose attached to the front cover. However, the viciously vile stench it emitted indicated that this was indeed the skin and nose of an actual dead person and so, in keeping with our professional standards, we had no option but to contact the police about the matter.
Seeing as we are now aware that our informing the police resulted in your arrest, it should come as no surprise to learn that we must decline your book at this present time as it does not suit our current needs; and it’s been taken away by Scotland Yard anyway.
We wish you every success in your future endeavours.
Yours sincerely,
Maurice Morris-Morrison.
Fat Bastard Literary Agency.
p.s- please get in touch and we will happily offer you lots and lots of money for a book about your Skinned Alive book.
Clone Co. - a short story cut from ReejecttIIon.
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 here: http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t... or here: https://www.goodreads.com/reader/5905... for free! It’s short and brilliant, so what are you waiting for?
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.
And remember you can read Clausen’s first Reejecttion book here: http://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/t... or here: https://www.goodreads.com/reader/5905... for free! It’s short and brilliant, so what are you waiting for?
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.
SHICHIRIGAHAMA - A short story by Daniel Clausen
What’s that? You’re itching so much in anticipation of our forthcoming book ReejecttIIon - a number two that you’re wondering if you might actually have fleas instead?
Well, don’t worry – our seriously comical book will be with you very soon, so if you don’t stop scratching at that point, you’ll know to buy some cream from your local pharmacist.
In the meanwhile, we’ve decided to cut a couple of the more sentimental pieces from the final draft of ReejecttIIon to make it as top notch as humanly possible, which means you get to read them here gratis! Here’s the first:
SHICHIRIGAHAMA
A short story by Daniel Clausen
He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there at the train station at Shichirigahama, or even that he was at Shichirigahama, one of the many small rustic train stations that dotted the Enoden line along
the Fujisawa coast. It seemed like it hadn’t been any time at all since he had left the Army two years ago. He had done two tours in Afghanistan and one in Iraq, and then he was out of the Army, and then he was working as an English teacher, and then one day he was just wandering around Fujisawa trying to figure things out. His body was weightless, nothing was real, and he wondered as he sat at the train station if he would simply sit there until his thoughts had settled, or if he would throw himself on the tracks and just be done with it all.
For a while teaching kids in Fujisawa had seemed alright, and then one day he was sitting in class and this older Japanese teacher told one of her kids to “shut up” in English. When he heard
it, his mind went blank and angry, and then he heard her say it again. It was strange, but somehow his nose started itching like he could feel smoke. He had told her not to tell the kids to shut up, that
she should never say that to a kid. He thought he had said it calmly.
The teacher had gotten angry, there had been a meeting called, and finally he had just walked off the job.
He thought he could escape, but there he was at some random train station.
He had gone back to his apartment and changed into jeans and a t-shirt. He had gone for a long walk along the coast of Fujisawa. He had watched the shoreline and had begun to feel better, and then worse, and finally better again. He saw the surfers out in the water trying to catch little waves on a Tuesday evening. There was a time in California when he thought that just about anything could be cured by the ocean. He wondered if the people in Shichirigahama surfed out their frustration. He wondered whether he could forget himself if he tried to surf the small waves.
Then he had made his way to this train station,
Shichirigahama, and now he was trying to figure out what to do.
He still had a lot of his Army money. He had enough. Enough for something. But enough for what? Every time he tried to wrap his mind around the question his body seemed so light he thought he might float up off the platform and wake up as someone completely different.
He felt for a moment that he should try to call his old
girlfriend, Beverly, from high school. He would ask her what she was doing and whether she was married. He was sure he could track her
down through Facebook. Then for a moment, he thought he would call one of his old friends who was still in the Army. He would be on leave right about now.
People got off the train and people got on. The first few times he would try his best to smile or nod, but after a few times of doing this, he lost his appetite for even this common courtesy and began
to simply stare into space.
Afghanistan, Iraq, Japan, and now his mind was turning blank and angry because some Japanese teacher had told a kid to shut up. Now he could smell smoke that didn’t exist, and here he
was thinking about the green Enoden train and how it would be nothing at all to throw himself in front of one.
The girl must have shown up sometime later, perhaps just as the sun was starting to go down. By this time, though he couldn’t be sure, he thought that he must have been sitting at the station for a
few hours.
At first, he didn’t even notice her. He couldn’t explain how she had managed to get to the train platform or if she was one of the passengers who had exited the train sometime before. She couldn’t
have been more than seventeen or eighteen years old. She wore an old baseball cap that she kept touching around the edges near her ears.
The old soldier, perhaps soon ex-teacher,
tried to pull himself together, to begin considering what his next move would be. Would he try to call his ex-girlfriend, would he try to find a new job, join the Army again? The badness would just keep on repeating itself forever without end: quit his job, bad relationship, Army, quit his job, and so on. That’s when he noticed that the girl’s cap was off and
that she was rubbing her ears. He noticed that her ears were much larger than normal ears, at least a half size larger than normal. She wore her hair long, perhaps as a way to cover them, and she kept
brushing her hair first over her ears and then away from them, and the process was so natural and compulsive that the man thought he
saw the rhythm of a song there. As he watched her natural stroke, first touching her ears, then brushing her hair over them, then combing it away, then considering the cap with her other hand, he
thought he could hear a melody playing.
The melody was soft and beautiful, classically played, and he wondered where this girl had suddenly appeared from and if any English teacher had ever told her to “shut up.” As he began to look
at the girl, something inside him said that long ago he had known her. That’s when he noticed her fingers. Long and slender, they were the ones holding the cap and stroking her hair and touching her ears. They must have been the most beautiful fingers he had
ever seen.
He watched her, and then he watched the train coming, and it didn’t even cross his mind that she would jump.
The last thing he remembered was reaching out for her. His arms seemed impossibly short and she was far away, and the train came and didn’t seem to stop, and then she was gone, and he woke up on
the bench of the train station with cold sweat running down his forehead and the smoke of a bomb crawling up his nostrils.
It was night now, and he seemed alone on the bench of the train station at Shichirigahama.
He checked the time and then checked the train schedule.
He looked around to make sure the girl wasn’t there.
Suddenly, the next step seemed clear. When the next train came he would get on it and let the rest figure itself out.
Idle Tuesday - a short story by Daniel Clausen.
Our forthcoming book ReejecttIIon has been hailed as “the greatest book ever written” by Johnny Fictitious of Reader’s Indigestion, and it’ll be available very soon! In the meantime, here’s the last of the pieces we’ve ended up cutting. As great as this short story by Daniel is, it was just too sentimental for it to fit in with the comical pages of ReejecttIIon. Enjoy!
IDLE TUESDAY
by Daniel Clausen
Her breath comes heavy and labored. It’s the summer of 2011, but I feel like a ghost inhabiting a future self. Or maybe this is my future self mimicking a person that no longer exists.
I’m playing an old arcade version of the football game Blitz in the lobby of a movie theater in Edgewater, Florida. The same one I played eleven years ago when I was a high school student. My mom has to settle herself down on the bench next to the game to catch her breath.
She has COPD and in another two years she will have trouble just walking into the movie theater. Soon we’re out of the lobby and in the theater. It’s 4:00 p.m. on Tuesday in the afternoon and we are the only ones there. We are watching a movie that is out of time. It’s the new Planet of the Apes movie, which is really based on number four of the old Planet of the Apes movies. I try to explain this all to my mom and I think she does a good job of pretending she understands. In the back of my mind, I notice that she’s still having trouble catching her breath.
Later that day, I’m reading Feeding the Ghost by Fred D’Aguiar, one of my old novels from college I had in storage. A week later I give it away. Little by little I’m learning to let go. Before I do, though, I write a little nothing review of it on goodreads.com something to mark the passage of time. The only thing I can think to say about the book is that it’s poetic.
My mom and I are driving through Oak Hill now, a little town just south of Edgewater. Actually, I’m driving and she’s talking. My mom tells me that the town is so small that if I blink I might miss it. This too strikes me as poetic. The town is small and beautiful and she asks me to take her there again someday.
This is how the summer of 2011 goes. A nothing summer really. I quit my job, play old arcade games, read books from my college years, and vaguely I sense that my mom might not have much time left.
Now two years in the future, I know this to be true.
One idle Tuesday with my mom. If I hadn’t looked closely, I might have missed it.
ReejecttIIon - OUT NOW!
ReejecttIIon - a number two – my new collaborative book with Daniel Clausen is now available. Woo-hoo! What’s more, it’s free on Kindle for five days: 9th March – 13th March (links below). So rather than poo yourself with excitement, why not grab a copy of A Number Two* instead? (*Toilet tissue not included.)
Here’s the blurb:
By reading ReejecttIIon, it’s likely you’ll discover: colorful short stories, funny flash fiction, hilarious cartoons, riveting reviews, wondrous anagrams and other assorted skits and titbits of under-achieving literary genius.
If you’re lucky, you might come across sci-fi tales about the privatization of words, horror stories about hair and ruminations on indie writing. It’s also possible that you’ll find commentary on the hazards of greedy literary agents and stories about washed up movie directors who receive financial backing from space aliens.
Publisher’s Meekly calls it: “a thought-provoking fable about technological hubris and the hazards of bioengineering.” (*This may or may not be referring to Jurassic Park and not ReejecttIIon.)
Reader’s Indigestion says: “this book quietly stands as one of the most powerful statements of the Civil Rights movement.” (*This may or may not actually refer to To Kill a Mockingbird and not ReejecttIIon.)
But why not read this seriously comical scattergun book and see what you can discover about ReejecttIIon for yourself?
And here are the links you’re surely itching to click on:
Amazon.com:
Kindle:
http://www.amazon.com/ReejecttIIon-nu...
Paperback:
http://www.amazon.com/ReejecttIIon-nu...
Amazon.co.uk:
Kindle:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0...
Paperback:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/ReejecttIIon-...
You can also start reading ReejecttIIon here:
https://www.goodreads.com/reader/7516...
Thank you!
ReejecttIIon - FREE ON KINDLE!
Daniel - What’s the matter Harry? Why are you boo-hooing like a toddler that’s just seen his favourite teddy bear go through a shredder? You shouldn’t be such a cry baby, you know.
Harry - It’s nothing, Daniel. Don’t you worry about me.
Daniel - Alright, I won’t. But do stop crying. I can’t hear the plot to The Dukes of Hazzard, and you’re getting tears and snot all over the T.V remote.
Harry - Isn’t that the same remote control that took us on a crazy trip into the television where we met Danny Zuko and The Fonz?
Daniel - Hm? Yeah, I think it is. Why do you ask? And why the hell have you started crying even more? Here, rip a page out of this poor-selling poetry book of yours and use it as a handkerchief. You’re dripping snot everywhere!
Harry - Boo-hoo-hoo...
Daniel - Whatever is the matter man?
Harry - It’s just that... You forgot.
Daniel - Forgot what? What are you drivelling on about?
Harry - It’s our anniversary! And you forgot!
Daniel - Anniversary? I don’t remember us getting hitched. And even if we did, we can’t be legally wed ‘cos I’m still married to that Albanian hooker who robbed me of all my money and ran away to Hawaii with some bloke called Disco Derek.
Harry - Don’t be daft! It’s not our wedding anniversary!
Daniel - What is it then? Our first kiss? I’ve told you a million times that I was drunk and that was just a one off thing.
Harry - No, no. It’s our anniversary of publishing our book ReejecttIIon – a number two.
Daniel - You mean the book where we get sucked into the T.V and waterski with Arthur Fonzerelli and try to keep up with Danny Zuko’s disco moves?
Harry - Exactly!
Daniel - Well, why didn’t you say so? And don’t worry Harry, I hadn’t really forgotten. In fact, I’ve just set up a giveaway on Kindle to celebrate ReejecttIIon being one year old.
Harry - You have?
Daniel - Yeah, it’s my present to you Harry.
Harry - Damn. I wanted a My Little Pony.
ReejecttIIon - a number two: FREE ON KINDLE FOR FIVE DAYS: 23RD – 27TH FEBRUARY
Amazon.com: http://a.co/2zot8qi
Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01CF3MK4I
You can also read the first Reejecttion for FREE here:
https://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/...
Harry - It’s nothing, Daniel. Don’t you worry about me.
Daniel - Alright, I won’t. But do stop crying. I can’t hear the plot to The Dukes of Hazzard, and you’re getting tears and snot all over the T.V remote.
Harry - Isn’t that the same remote control that took us on a crazy trip into the television where we met Danny Zuko and The Fonz?
Daniel - Hm? Yeah, I think it is. Why do you ask? And why the hell have you started crying even more? Here, rip a page out of this poor-selling poetry book of yours and use it as a handkerchief. You’re dripping snot everywhere!
Harry - Boo-hoo-hoo...
Daniel - Whatever is the matter man?
Harry - It’s just that... You forgot.
Daniel - Forgot what? What are you drivelling on about?
Harry - It’s our anniversary! And you forgot!
Daniel - Anniversary? I don’t remember us getting hitched. And even if we did, we can’t be legally wed ‘cos I’m still married to that Albanian hooker who robbed me of all my money and ran away to Hawaii with some bloke called Disco Derek.
Harry - Don’t be daft! It’s not our wedding anniversary!
Daniel - What is it then? Our first kiss? I’ve told you a million times that I was drunk and that was just a one off thing.
Harry - No, no. It’s our anniversary of publishing our book ReejecttIIon – a number two.
Daniel - You mean the book where we get sucked into the T.V and waterski with Arthur Fonzerelli and try to keep up with Danny Zuko’s disco moves?
Harry - Exactly!
Daniel - Well, why didn’t you say so? And don’t worry Harry, I hadn’t really forgotten. In fact, I’ve just set up a giveaway on Kindle to celebrate ReejecttIIon being one year old.
Harry - You have?
Daniel - Yeah, it’s my present to you Harry.
Harry - Damn. I wanted a My Little Pony.
ReejecttIIon - a number two: FREE ON KINDLE FOR FIVE DAYS: 23RD – 27TH FEBRUARY
Amazon.com: http://a.co/2zot8qi
Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01CF3MK4I
You can also read the first Reejecttion for FREE here:
https://issuu.com/danielclausen/docs/...
