Thursday, February 12, 2015

A Bored Retelling of The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

What's up?
Nothing. That's what's up.
Work has me traveling through Kentucky mountains in a snowstorm.
So, it's either I listen to solid gold country until I blow my brains out
Or I write. 
And the last original thing I wrote sucked, so I figured I should just copy other successful artists.
I mean, it worked for Kanye
That's why I'm going to tell you all a story so sad that we make middle schoolers everywhere read it to prepare them for an adult life of mediocrity and depression.

The Metamorphosis

There's this traveling salesman named Gregor Samsa who wakes up to find himself turned into a bug.
I hate when that happens. 
Instead of immediately hunting down the witch that transformed him, he decides to lay there and think about how much being a salesman sucks.
Cause clearly that's his biggest problem right now.
You guys, being a salesmen is, like, super hard.
You have to travel, and sell stuff. It's so hard.
As Gregor is just laying there ignoring his problems, a trend which I can assure you will continue, Gregor's mom comes, knocks on the door, and is like, "Gregor, you're late. You're so stupid late. What's going on?"
You wanna know what he says?
You wanna know what he freaking says?
"Oh, ok, Mom, I'm coming."
So, then his dad and sister come.
Again, same story. 
"Gregor, are you ok?"
"Yeah, totally, you guys. I'm, like, super great."

Just a reminder, this guy woke up as a bug/beetle thing just minutes ago. Just so that's clear.

So, then his boss shows up to check on him just in case he was turned into a bug overnight or something.

Boss is like, "Gregor, you're late. Open up right now."

Gregor says, "Oh, ok. Be right there."

This guy is so stupid I literally can't even. 

So, basically everyone is outside his door waiting, but bugs aren't very good at opening doors. Gregor finally gets it open...big mistake. 

His mother faints on the spot. His boss runs away. His father beats him with a cane and newspaper back into his room.

After all this, Gregor is tired so he just goes back to sleep. 

Super productive day. 

Next day, Gregor is still a bug.
His awesome sister has put milk in a bowl for him, but he doesn't like it. Instead, he opts for the rotting food scraps.

This becomes the routine for a while. His sister feeds him rotting food, and he just climbs the walls in his room. Normal home life stuff. 

During this time his family is getting very poor because all the salesbug jobs are taken. He feels bad. 

Apparently, nobody else can work at all so they just sit around depressed talking about how much life sucks.  I'm starting to see where Gregor gets it from.

This goes on for a few pages, then his mother sees him, and faints again. Big surprise.

His father sees him, and starts throwing apples at him. 

Great use of the food there, super dad. It's not as if you're all poor or anything.

Anyways, the apples paralyze parts of Gregor, but he makes it to his room.

But at least he's gonna stay there this time, right?





So, yeah, the family decides to rent out the extra space to a family to make more money. The two families are all just chilling, having fun, listening to the sister playing violin in the living room when Gregor thinks, "Hmmm, I should leave the room so I can hear better."

Nevermind the fact that I'm a giant bug. I'm sure they won't even see me.

Wrong again. They see him. They immediately freak out on an atomic level, and move out without paying any rent. Awesome. 

So now, the sister, whose name is Crete by the way, not sure if I mentioned that, says that Gregor is too much trouble. 

You guys, taking care of a bug is, like, so hard. They eat rotten food scraps, and sleep all day. It's just too much work. 

The family resolves to get rid of Gregor, wishing that he would just take the hint and go away on his own. Gregor hears this, and gets all Hawthorne Heights Emo-sad. So, he goes to his room, and dies.

Just dies. No long speech about how they never appreciated him. Bug mouth parts don't speak eloquently. 

Then the family is like, finally! Let's make the maid clean up the dead bug mess(you guys have had the money for a maid during all this? I thought you were so poor that you couldn't afford rotten food for your bug transformed son, but whatever) then we will fire the maid, and take a train to the countryside where we will be happy ever after.

So, yeah, that's pretty much it. I hope you weren't holding on for him to change back into a man from true love's kiss. No one loves a bug. And even the weirdo scientists that do love them don't make a habit of kissing them.

If we have learned anything it's don't avoid your problems, and try to die as soon as possible so you don't make your family suffer with your unbearable presence. 

They don't really love you anyways. 

Cause I guarantee you that if you one day turn into a bug they will just stone you to death with apples.


Monday, February 9, 2015

The Book of Job

There was a man whose name was Job; and that man was terrible and sinful, and one who hated God and loved evil. He had no children or wife. Being poor, he had no substance or household; so that he was the least of all men everywhere. He spent his days hungry and thirsty. And it was so, when he was starving, that Job blamed God, and cursed God with his mouth and mind.

Now there was a day when the Spirit of God came before Satan. And Satan said to the Spirit,

"Where have you come from?" Then the Spirit answered, and said,

"From going to and fro in the Earth, and from walking up and down in it."

And Satan said unto the Spirit, "Have you considered my servant Job, that there is none like him in the Earth, an awful man, one that hates God, and loves evil?"

"Does he hate God for nought? Have you not cursed everything around him? Have you not taken everything from him, and cursed the work of his hands so that his substance is decreased? But now I will touch everything he has, and bless him, and he will curse you and love God."

And Satan replied, and said, "All that he has is in your power. So the Spirit went forth from the presence of Satan.

Now in that time Job had nothing. When the Spirit came to him, Job had not eaten in days. His bones showed through his skin, and his throat was so dry that he could not speak without pain. He had no place to rest, and barely had any clothes to wear. The Spirit spoke to Job and said,

"Job, come with me and eat." Job answered and said,

"Who are you, that you would feed me?"

"I am the one who has always loved you. I am here to bless you, and make you well. Come and eat." So Job followed the Spirit of God, and the Spirit led him to a house that he had prepared. Inside the house were two beds, tables and chairs, clothes, and food. Outside were animals in breeding pairs, which would provide Job with food for the rest of his life. All the things Job never had and more were provided to him. The Spirit clothed him, and sat him down at the table. The Spirit prayed with Job, and in joining hands with him, healed him of all his ailments. Job ate until he was full. And being no longer hungry, with his desire for food and shelter satisfied, Job asked the Spirit,

"Have I wine or women?" The Spirit answered, and said,

"Only wine, but in time you may find a wife."

"What good is a house and food without people to fill it? I have seen on occasion houses full of people, men and women, drinking, singing, and laughing."

"I love to hear that you wish to share your new found wealth. Fill your house with others, and spread God's love. I will return later to see all that you have accomplished."

When Job went into town to search for companions, he came across his three friends he knew were also homeless, for many nights they had all four shared a fire, Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar. When they saw Job in his new clothes they did not recognize him, but Job said to them,

"My friends, I have been working very hard. I have built a house, and stocked it with food and drink enough to last a lifetime. I can feed and clothe you all. Please come and see."

Eliphaz spoke, and said, "Job, if what you say is true, then we should feed only ourselves, and drink until we are dizzy. Let others worry about themselves. We have wanted for everything our entire lives."

Bildad spoke and said, "We should find women to share this wealth with. We will impress them, and seduce them. If what you say is true then we could have many wives to each one of us."

Zophar spoke, and said, "We should invite only the wealthiest individuals so that they will return the favor, and we can continue to eat and drink for years to come."

And Job agreed, saying, "Who am I that I should help the needy? I have had nothing my entire life. Every day I starved. Now I have wealth. Now is my time to share with the wealthy, and elevate my position in life so that others will know my name."

So, the four of them went to Job's house, and clothed themselves in his clothes. They washed their hands, faces, and hair so that they might look nothing like their former selves. Then, they went into town announcing themselves under different names so that nobody would know their identity. They made friends with beautiful women and wealthy men. They followed Job to his home that evening to eat and drink. Job slaughtered every animal he had to provide for all his guests.They filled his house until each were nearly shoulder to shoulder. Many drank until they passed out. Many ate until they couldn't eat another bite.

The Spirit returned to see that Job's house was full of people eating and drinking. Curious, the Spirit disguised himself as a beggar, and tapped on the door. Job answered, and spoke,

"Who are you that you wish to speak to me?"

"I'm just a poor man," said the Spirit. "I have nothing, but I have heard of your generosity."

Satan appeared behind Job, disguised as a rich man, and whispered in his ear, "This man wants to take what is yours. You should send him away before he offends the other guests."

"Please, sir. I'm so very hungry. Any food will suffice." But Job's heart hardened.

The Spirit revealed himself to Job, but Job did not recognize him. The Spirit spoke, and said,

"Job, it's me. I know you. I've always known you, and always loved you. I gave you this house, those clothes, and that food. You must remember..."

"Liar!" yelled Satan. "How dare you suggest that this is anything other than rightfully his? Send this man away at once, before he gets any crazier ideas."

"Please, Job. Please let me in. I..."

But Job shut the door, leaving the Spirit outside.

The Spirit wept.

Job lost all his wealth that night. He lost his health soon after. He spent his last days of life sick and cursing the God he never knew for never being fair to him.

Thursday, December 5, 2013


Harrison's Smashwords profile

Thanks for taking the time to learn more about me by visiting this blog. This is a neat way for introductions, but it can be a bit of an eyesore to read even short stories in a web browser. If you would prefer to get my work downloaded to any device-Kindle, and Nook or their respective apps, iBooks, any format at all!-then don't hesitate to follow the link at the top of this post to my Smashwords profile. From there it's just a few clicks until you're reading in whatever way you prefer. Of course, if you don't have any of these devices or apps you can still read everything in its entirety on any web browser.

Again, I can't express how much it means to me that you've visited. Come back often to check for updates. I'm working all the time to write new stuff! Take care.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

C'est la mort: A Knight Named Kathryn (Fan fiction from the world of Dark Souls the video game)

It smells like shit in here.
This is the first thought that enters my mind when I wake up naked on the stone floor. Well, I'm not entirely naked. I do have a rag around my waist to cover my cock, and a broken sword; whatever great gods or goddesses I have to thank for that, I don't know. The only other thing I have is a silver pendant which hangs down around my neck. Turning it over in my fingers, I find a name carved into the back, Kathryn. I suppose that's my name. I'm trying to remember my name, or anyone's name for that matter, but all my memories are like vapors in the wind. I'm not even sure what my own face looks like. I'm trying to remember my life before this prison cell, but perhaps this has been my life.
While I'm lying here among the filth and bugs contemplating the nature of my existence a door opens in the ceiling above me, and light pours through to blind my eyes. A body then falls hard to the floor. Up above in the opening there's a silver figure with black eyes staring down at me. For a moment, this apparition looks familiar, but at the same time looks like nothing I have ever seen. With a nod the only other soul I know is gone as mysteriously as it came.
As my eyes adjust back to the darkness of the cell, I find hope has found its way inside this dark place to take root in my heart; I find a way to persevere; I find a key
Its tied around the neck of my new cellmate, but I don't think he will mind. I'll have to remember to find whoever decided to help me. Perhaps he or she is the god I should thank for the hope I have, created from these small blessings of clothes, a weapon, and a key.
Perhaps he or she is the devil I should curse for putting me here, and giving me the hope to continue fighting a war I can't win- all in an excuse to torture me.
With the key in hand I place it inside the lock until I hear a click, then hesitate. My mind races back and forth from the world that lies outside these walls and what it may contain, to the spot where I was laying- cold, uncomfortable, but familiar. I look down again at the poor soul lying dead and decaying on the floor. We all rot somewhere, I suppose, and if I can choose, then I'm not going to spend the next eternity slowly going crazier than I already am, falling apart at the joints while the bugs eat my skin.
So I turn the key, open the door, and run. I run past the other beings stuck here with me. They seem so far gone as they're crying into their own hands, or laying about here and there on the floor paralyzed by their growing madness. I get the feeling they have been here for much longer than I. I fear I share their fate.
I take mind-dizzying turns and ladders, stairs and archways. I run until I lose the way back to my cell. I run until I find more hope, this time in the form of a bonfire. A few soft breaths into the coals and the warmth fills my body, and chases the chill out of my bones. I shiver in front of the flames, and squeeze myself into as little space as possible to warm up. As I'm staring into the fire absentmindedly, twiddling the pendant around my neck, I somehow find a will to keep moving. I run my thumb over the name over and over, each time saying it aloud in my head...Kathryn... Kathryn... Kathryn.
There's only one place I can go to find answers-onward. The stone double doors ahead beckon me through. They are quite beautifully adorned, but I can tell they are heavy just from looking at them. I summon all of my strength to push them open, but they barely budge. Harder, and harder I push until my bare feet begin to slide out from under me. I give it everything I have to move them a few inches. I'm exhausted already, but I don't see an other way out, so I keep pushing. Slowly, inch by inch they open enough for me to get through. I stop to catch my breath, before sliding myself sideways through the rock.
On the other side there's a courtyard with a small bit of sunlight pouring through the corner. As I walk though, still trying to regain my strength, an unholy beast at least ten times my size falls from above and mashes me hard into the ground. The monstrosity wields a club the size of one of the columns supporting the very building around us. He mashes me again and again with his hammer. I can no longer move. It's two hits before my vision goes black. As the demon continues to relentlessly punish me for my sin of trespassing on his ground, I fade out of thought and time.
"Kathryn...Kathryn," I can hear my own voice saying. "Kathryn, I'll come back for you....Kathryn." From the dark I see a light brighter than the sun approaching me from the distance. As it moves closer I can slowly make out a face. Then, I am engulfed in a memory
We stand surrounded by corn stalks. She is smiling her beautiful smile with her red hair flowing down around her face like a waterfall of flame.
My Kathryn.
She reaches out to take my hand, but I am slowly falling out of reach...then further...then further. Until the darkness takes me again.
It smells like shit in here. This is the first thought that enters my mind when I wake up beside a bonfire in a strange place. I am naked except for a single rag wrapped around my waist, a broken sword, and a silver pendant around my neck. Turning the metal over in my fingers I see a name engraved on the back, Kathryn. I suppose that's my name.

Thursday, November 1, 2012

"Everybody Knows Not to Ever Go Wishing at the Oak"

Everybody Knows Not to Ever Go Wishing at the Oak-

This took too long to write. I'm embarrassed to say that it took me four weeks to write so little. I hope you enjoy the poem. Thanks for visiting my blog. Please come back often to read more. Take care.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

The Substitute

I had a teacher once, a substitute. He was only there for two days while our regular teacher was at home nursing a cold. He wore a white oxford shirt with a black tie, black blazer, black pants, and black shoes; none of which actually fit him, but rather hung around his frame. His thinning hair was slicked back, and he wore a pair of plain-rimmed glasses over his long nose. When I saw him in the classroom instead of the usual Mrs. Chafin, I immediately glanced at the chalkboard to see “Mr. Tramble.” I was relieved. He was very silent; sitting still at the front of the class in the teacher’s chair as we students poured into the room, took our usual spots in the hard, wooden desks, and retrieved from our Power Ranger and Cinderella backpacks the appropriate workbooks, paper, and pencils.

“Clear your desks,” he said in a monotone voice. Now, I was confused at first, but looking at the stack of papers in his hand I assumed it was a test. No substitute had ever given a test. Substitutes put on movies or let us play games. Having a substitute meant you got an extra recess, basically. He remained silent and stoic as he passed each of us a single piece of white copy paper, and a black no.2 pencil sharpened perfectly to a point.

He grabbed a small, hardback book from the desk. Its cover was falling off, and its spine was tearing. He opened to his bookmark, and wrote in chalk on the board beside his name, “’Spirits of the Dead’ by Edgar Alan Poe.”

 I was only in the fourth grade.

As he dictated we diligently wrote the words of Poe. He had to stop every few words as all the hands raised in unison to ask for spelling. Around five lines in he just started spelling most of the words. However, all requests for definition, of which there were plenty, were denied. “Look it up in the dictionary,” he said, without even looking his head up from the page.

 We were only in the fourth grade.

Just as he finished spelling the last word of the last line the bell rang. He closed the book, and didn’t say a word as we all ran out of the classroom in a mad dash for the double doors to freedom at the end of the hall. I got on the bus, and unfolded the white piece of copy paper. I read it. I read it again. I read it ten times on the way home, and twenty times before dinner. I couldn’t pronounce most of the words, but after finding a dictionary I did my best to learn what they meant. After dinner, I sat in the floor of my room with pencil in hand staring at that other side of the creased copy paper. I wrote line after line, doing my best to rhyme. I erased, I wrote, I erased, and then wrote some more. I worked hard until bedtime on a poem of my own. “Dead Spirits” I titled it. Granted, not the most inventive name, but I was quite satisfied. I went to sleep smiling with the knowledge that Mr. Tramble would read my poem and love it. I imagined him loving it so much that he would read it aloud to the class, who would love it also. He would run to other teacher’s classrooms, and read it to them.

They would all think I was so smart for a kid in the fourth grade.

Tomorrow passed with my masterpiece snug inside my pocket. I reached down several times to feel the paper outline just to be sure I had not lost it. I read my poem at lunch and recess, and each time I read it I loved it more. As we entered the last class of the day, Mr. Tramble was seated at the teacher’s desk again. I could barely contain my excitement as I walked over, pulled the creased, worn paper out of my pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the desk in front of him. He picked it up, and read down the page in silence while his face showed no sign of approval or distaste.

“What is the 8th line of your poem?” he asked. I had no idea. I rattled my brain for a moment, but could not answer. My smile faded. “How long did it take you to write this?”

“I wrote it yesterday after dinner,” I responded.

“So, one day?”


He glanced over it one more time before handing it back to me. “You should have spent more time on it.”

I was only in the fourth grade.

I was crushed. During the rest of the class I could not think of anything other than how much I hated my poem. What was I thinking? I basically stole the words from the other poem, and rearranged them into something new. It was so stupid. I couldn’t believe the fool I had made of myself.

That night I read the poem to my parents. They loved it.

“Honey, can you believe how smart our kid is? And he is only in the fourth grade,” they said to each other.

The next day our regular teacher, Mrs. Chafin, was back to teach. I showed my poem to her, and she loved it. She went to all the other teachers to show them. They all stopped me in the hallway to tell me how great it was or how proud they were of me.

“I read your poem! Great job, kid!”

“Hey, here comes the next Dr. Seuss!”

"I read your poem! It was so good! You're so smart to just be in the fourth grade!"

I threw the poem in the trash on my way to the school bus. I should’ve spent more time on it.