Hideaway (a short story)

    The door is locked, bolted, boarded up.  They won’t think of looking for me here if I keep to myself.  In this dark room, I sit alone in the corner, quiet, silent as possible.  I barely want to breathe.

    I hear them out there, beyond the door.  Moving, always moving.  Sometimes with purpose, but sometimes they just can’t stop.  If not physically, then verbally.  Always the unbearable noise.  They can’t shut up or stay still, unlike me.  

    I can stay perfectly still, as far away from the door as I can get.  As far away from them.  They taught me to be afraid of them.  In little ways at first, but then I learned how truly damaging they can be.  This is why I must lock myself away from the pain and agony that is…

…other people. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~
2026, John L. Harmon 

Freak Out, 
JLH

P.S.  click a pic for another short story…

~~~~~~~~~~~~
A totally biased list of books and a couple of short stories you should read in 2026…
📚 

booking freakboy: BLOOD SPLATTERS QUICKLY by Edward D. Wood, Jr. (2014)

I am in the third month of a cheap three month trial of Audible.  Of course, I searched for some of my favorite authors, such as Ira Levin and Jacqueline Susann.  Yes, this search also included Ed Wood, the infamous cross-dressing filmmaker.  I truly did not expect to find any audiobooks of his work, but lo and behold, there was one.  

BLOOD SPLATTERS QUICKLY collects a variety of stories from Ed Wood originally published in pulp and nudie magazines in the early 1970’s.  Much like his filmography, the stories cover Ed’s favorite genres.  Horror, crime and sex fill each page, or track, as the case may be.  There is little doubt these stories are from the late, great Wood.  Dialogue is occasionally lifted directly from his films (“Beware. Take care.”) and Angora sweaters are featured more than once. 

Like other short story collections, there are hits and misses.  A few of them really stand out for me.  “Dracula Revisited” felt like a love letter to Bela Lugosi as a man investigates the myth of the legendary vampire.  “The Night the Banshee Cried” is about an undead woman roaming fresh from the grave and it was easy to picture Vampira from PLAN 9 FROM OUTER SPACE.  As for Ed’s penchant for wearing traditionally feminine clothes, he used it to best effect in the title story “Blood Splatters Quickly” as a man seeks revenge for his sister’s death. 

As I’ve said in past reviews, Edward D. Wood, Jr. might have been heterosexual, but he wasn’t straight.  Two stories involving queer men dares to break stereotypes and includes progressive ideas, highlighting Ed as an ally, at least.  “The Autograph” is about a reporter interviewing a Hollywood cowboy who has just come out of the closet.  It’s easy to picture John Wayne as the cowboy, which adds an amusing touch.  “Superfruit” is sadly not about a gay superhero, but is about a queer man seeking business advice from a friend after losing his partner.  It really is more interesting than it sounds

. 
There is one story that made me feel physically nauseous.  “Breasts of the Chicken” is about a man who pays a fortune for a very specific delicacy.  It’s so disturbing and wrong that I almost skipped this story, but the twist ending is so perfectly demented and hilarious that I forgive the unbridled grossness leading up to it. 

A confusing highlight is “Come Inn.”  Within the first paragraph, I realized I knew this story.  Turned out “Come Inn” is sort of a Reader’s Digest Condensed version of Ed’s 1971 adult film NECROMANIA: A TALE OF WEIRD LOVE.  It covers the entire plot of a young couple going to a necromancer for their sexual problems in 20 minutes.  Strangely, Wood also wrote an expanded novelization of NECROMANIA in 1972 called “The Only House.”  Having experienced all three, I’d say the film is best, but the short story is more accessible to less adventurous Ed Wood fans. 

In conclusion… 
Just like the films of Edward D. Wood, Jr, this collection of short stories intrigued me, made me laugh, caused me to raise an eyebrow and occasionally inspired an eye roll.  So, if you’re an Ed Wood fan who hasn’t read his books, BLOOD SPLATTERS QUICKLY is a good introduction to his literary world.  If you already enjoy his longer efforts, then you know exactly what to expect from these short stories. 

Freak Out, 
JLH 

P.S. click a pic ⤵️ for more Wood… 

~~~~~~~~~~~~
Escape reality with my books, some of which are available as Audible audiobooks…
📚 
🎧 

A Short Story (a short story, of sorts)

    I stare, glare at the black screen through two pieces of plastic glass.  The white too bright to reflect, refract, magnify my muddled words.  Feeling the syllables crawling, scrawling beneath this growing older by the millisecond skin.  Verbal seeds screeching, reaching for the blinding sight of others to inhale, devour, clatter in their respective collective mindscape.  Fading away fingerprints scrolling through digital pages or tips bleeding from flipping sharp paper edges in a frenzy to discover meaning in nonsense and senselessness in moments.  Watering eyes, tears or sweat blurring lines of fictitious reality and really fiction until the happy or not end is reached, achieved.  My voice spent, digits numb from popping letters into place, trying to place the seen from my head onto the dark screen floating in depth, closer than appears but so far from the soul suffocating inside.  Circling the circles surrounding sighing eyes, unable to see what others claim to see inside out.  Inside me within the lines of a short story that may never come to be.

____________
2024, John L. Harmon 

Thank you for reading or listening to my half-blind words. 

Freak Out, 
JLH 

P.S.  Escape reality through my books available from an Amazon near you…

RIVERSIDE

    It was all fun and games until it wasn’t.  They had gathered around a campfire on the man-made beach to relive their college days, not that those were so long ago.  Two years had passed since they became productive members of society. 

    Lev sat nursing a bottle of beer as the general catching up conversation landed on him.  The six others were shocked he and Adam were still together.  “Adam was always such a loner.  Never came to parties or anything,” Stacie commented as she moved closer to the drenched Derek.  

    Derek had jumped in the river first thing, now he sat half-naked, glistening in the evening light.  “Why didn’t he come with you this time, Lev?” he inquired between handfuls of pork rinds. 

    “Adam doesn’t like the water,” Lev answered with a shrug, hoping his display of nonchalance would change the subject.  

    Maybe it was the atmosphere of the fire in the fading sunlight or maybe the group was realizing they didn’t have much in common without college, but Beth pushed up her glasses and suggested telling ghost stories.  Brad groaned as Beth mentioned the Peach Lady.  They all had heard the legend.  A ghostly woman wearing a peach dress would visit the graves of those she murdered in life and if you saw her, you’d be her next victim.  “Sorry, but that’s a buncha bullshit!  An apparition can’t manifest in such a physical sense,” Brad demonstratively voiced, nearly spilling his beer on Beth.  They had been a couple back in the day, nerds in love as Derek used to call them, but the look on Beth’s face said those days were over. 

    “Ricky Jones wasn’t bullshit,” Derek muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

    “What?  Did the Peach Lady get him?” Brad asked in a fit of laughter which made Beth move closer to Marnie and Alice. 

    “No,” Marnie answered, firmly silencing the laughter.  “Ricky Jones disappeared during a paranormal investigation on campus.  We heard him scream, but we couldn’t find him.  Even the police turned up nothing.  He was just gone.”

    “I don’t remember him,” Alice spoke up, feeling ashamed.  Marnie took her hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. 

    “Most people forgot about him.”  Derek shook his head and glanced at Lev before finishing the bag of pork rinds.   

    Lev remembered Ricky Jones and the night he disappeared.  They had known each other threw off-campus meetings, but the main reason he remembered was Derek.  It had been late when he returned to their dorm room and shook Lev awake.  The typically handsome young man was a mess of fear and tears as he tried to explain the unexplainable disappearance of Ricky Jones.  Lev didn’t know what to think or say, so he pulled Derek into his bed, allowing his distraught friend to safely sob away the trauma until they both fell asleep entwined in a comforting embrace.  They never talked about that night, but Lev felt like this wasn’t the time to bring it up. 

    Stacie was about to say something, but she moved away in annoyance and disgust when Derek started coughing.  Alice moved closer, worried he was choking.  Her nurse training kicked in as Derek collapsed and began violently convulsing in the sand, but her aid seemed pointless as his body suddenly went limp.  The others stood up as Alice incredulously pronounced Derek dead, except he wasn’t quite. 

    Derek sat up and lunged at Alice.  She screamed and Marnie, usually so jumpy, raced to help, but stopped.  None of them could process the sight of Derek tearing off a chunk of flesh from Alice’s face with his teeth and then swallowing the pulpy mess.  Stacie ran screaming.  Brad vomited and passed out.  Beth tried to stop Derek as he continued feasting on Alice but his attack on her was just as bloody and brutal. 

    Within the horrifying seconds of eternity, Lev locked eyes with Marnie across the campfire.  He had once drunkenly told her Adam’s story, told her what Adam said to do if anything strange happened.  Stay calm.  Stay focused, and run.  Run to me.  Marnie’s curly hair blew back and Lev’s hazel eyes focused ahead as they ran through the night, as they ran for their lives. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
2024, John L. Harmon 

Click the pics ⤵️ to read stories which may share threads with RIVERSIDE…

Thank you for reading or listening to my half-blind words.

Freak Out, 
JLH  

P.S.  Take a holiday in the small town tranquility of Sturgeons…just don’t expect to survive… 

The Failure (a short story, of sorts)

   The ignorance was loud and astounding.  

    He sat there in stunned silence as his office coworkers spewed forth ignorance and maybe even hate.  It was difficult to say when hate and ignorance sound so similar.  Either way, he couldn’t believe his ears.

    One coworker theorized that the entertainment industry was trying to get rid of white people.  She complained how there weren’t as many white faces on television and in film these days.  He knew this was a ridiculously bigoted theory and a gross exaggeration, but he bit his tongue.  

    The second coworker agreed with the first coworker’s theory and added one of her own.  With a tone best described as disdain, she complained that when there is a white person on television or in film, they were gay.  He knew this was also a ridiculously bigoted theory and as senseless as the other, but he continued biting his tongue. 

    Deep down, his voice was screaming to put an end to this blatantly racist and homophobic exchange, but what could he say? 

    “I am the whitest white guy you’re ever going to meet and I’m as queer as a two-headed penny, but I’m thrilled to see a variety of people telling their stories, daring to show the world how we are all very much alike!” 

    He could’ve gave voice to the screaming thoughts in his head, but he didn’t.  The community where he lived was predominantly made up of white, conservative, straight Christians.  If one did not fall under all of these categories, then one had to tread with caution.  He knew his place in this so-called community and out of fear of being fired or being labeled the problem worker, he swallowed his anger and sadness over how such intense prejudices continued in the world.

    In the end, he felt like a failure for not speaking up, for not daring to shine a spotlight on the intolerance before him. 
____________
2024, John L. Harmon 

Thank you for reading or listening to my half-blind words. 

Freak Out, 
JLH 

P.S.  my queer little books are available from an Amazon near you… 📚 

The Emptiness (a short story, of sorts)

Feeling as cold as the dark, icy landscape, the bundled figure trudges alone.  How long has it been since the last encounter with another?  Too long ago and for too brief of time.  Death in this frigid atmosphere is inevitable. 

The ending began with a dimming of their star.  Theories turned to conversations.  Conversations turned to disagreements.  Disagreements turned to arguments.  Arguments turned to war.  War over their perceived differences illuminated by the dimming. 

The bundled figure comes to a halt amidst the frozen desolation with final, futile understanding.  All of the warfare is what collapsed their civilization.  Their dying star only decimated the remnants of their planet, which now drifts lifelessly through the immeasurable void.
____________
2024, John L. Harmon 

~~~~~~~~~~~~
SIDE NOTE: 
In a moment of freaky fate or creative coincidence, I stumbled upon a piece of new music, right after I finished writing the above short story, and I feel it would make the perfect soundtrack. 

Click the pic ⤵️ to listen to “Emptiness in Static” from the minds of Blue Sun Chasing x Armageddon Speaking…

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you for reading or listening to my half-blind words. 

Oh, and Happy New Year or something. 

Freak Out, 
JLH 

P.S.  click the pic ⤵️ for a different story about a different planet…

~~~~~~~~~~~~
Something to read in 2024… 
📗
https://mybook.to/Sturgeons 

Rubber Duck Lips

 (a tale of my dad)

"I can see something is wrong from here." 

This is what I said to my sister, many years ago,  as we watched our dad approach from inside the fast food restaurant.  My sister warned me that our dad had experienced a prominent allergic reaction to a new medication, but nothing prepared me for the protruding sight coming closer and closer. 

I didn't just stare when our dad entered the restaurant, I gawked.  I gaped.  I couldn't take my eyes off of our dad's swollen lips.  They weren't just fat lip swollen.  They were the after photo in a precautionary ad for botched plastic surgery swollen.  Joan Rivers would've been envious of his extremely full lips.

Just when I felt a rumble of laughter threatening to erupt, our dad thankfully told us what he wanted for lunch and found us a table.  While in line, I made a few one word exclamations and then asked her if he was in pain.  He wasn't but it had to feel weird.  I mean, seriously, his lips appeared to be at the bursting point. 

We got our lunch and joined Dad at a booth.  Dad was across from me and this provided the opportunity for a closer examination of his obvious allergic reaction.  It was then when I realized his upper lip was pushing up in the middle and his lower lip was pushing down, not unlike a rubber duck.  Another rumble of laughter threatened to out me as a horrible son, so I looked away.  Even staring out the window while eating didn't stop the rumbling.  All I could see if I had to glance in his general direction and all I could think when turned away was...Rubber Duck Lips. 

Later, when alone with my sister, I laughed loudly and a lot.  (I still laugh hysterically about it to this day and wish I had a photo)  I think I foun this terrible thing so terribly funny because of the bath toy association and because our dad appeared unfazed by his temporary condition.  (Yes, his lips eventually deflated back to their normal shape and size)  I don't think I would want to be seen in public if that happened to me, let alone eat in view of others.  Maybe it's his generation, but he doesn't seem easily embarrassed, which causes me endless embarrassment.  Like the time he wore that bear shirt to Stockman's Cafe, but that's another tale for another time.

Thank you for reading or listening to my half-blind words.

Freak Out, 

JLH 

P.S. An old tale hinting at another tale of my dad...

https://freakboyzone.blogspot.com/2016/03/only-happy-when-its-1995.html 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Go dark!

Visit Sturgeons! 

Get bent! 

Freak out! 

My books & blogs...

http://thejlhcollective.blogspot.com/2018/03/the-collective.html 

Bubba's Truck

 (a short story by John L. Harmon)

    Bubba was 15 when his pop died.  This forced the lanky teenager to make a decision.  School or work?  Someone had to take care of his mama, so Bubba took his pop's position at the factory.  His mama wished it could be another way, but her age and health limited the options available to them. 

    Bubba didn't mind the monotonous factory work.  He found the repetitive actions calming and interesting.  All the pieces of metal he assembled each day with his own hands gave him an idea.  He would fix up the old truck that had been rusting in the barn for as long as he remembered. 

    The library had a book on auto mechanics and that's what Bubba read when he wasn't at the factory or taking care of mama.  His mama didn't know of his plans for the old truck.  She was just happy to see him reading.  He read that book cover to cover and back again until he was ready. 

    On a day off, and while mama was napping, Bubba swung open the barn doors. The afternoon sun shined on the run-down truck and the sight took Bubba's breath away.  He saw beauty in the rusted shell and cracked windshield.  He saw what nobody, not even his pop, ever saw in that truck. 

    "You and I..." Bubba spoke to the truck like an old friend, "We're gonna go places." 

    Days turned to weeks as Bubba stole moments between work and taking care of mama to fix up the truck.  A daily ritual emerged early on from the routine.  When the light started to dim, Bubba climbed inside the truck's faded, torn interior and sat behind the decrepit steering wheel.  There he watched beyond the wide open barn doors as the sun disappeared beneath the flat horizon. 

    Weeks turned to months as Bubba realized it was going to be a long road ahead.  The truck was in worse shape than he expected and the book didn't fully prepare him for the extensive work.  He was disappointed, but, like when his pop died, this wasn't going to stop him.  He had his youth, his wits, and all the time in the world.  

    Months turned to years as he saved up money to buy parts for the truck here and there.  It wasn't easy with doctor bills, but he got what he needed when he could afford it.  His mama was less worried about her own health and more worried about her son.  She had watched him over the years as he woke up in the morning, walked to the factory, came home, worked on the truck and then went to bed.  All the while taking care of her.  It just didn't seem right. 

    "I wish you would find someone to take care of you, Bubba," she said as he helped her from bed. 

    Bubba learned to just say he was looking even though it wasn't true.  He hadn't caught anyone's eye and that was fine.  Friends and romance were for others.  Bubba had his job at the factory.  He had his mama to take care of and he had his truck to fix.  That was enough for him. 

    One morning Bubba woke up and found his mama dead.  He sat with her for awhile, holding her hand one last time.  Then he kissed her goodbye on the cheek and phoned the doctor.  After they took his mama's body away, Bubba went to the factory and later worked on the truck.  He didn't know what else to do, but that evening's sunset filled his eyes with heavy tears.

    There had always been some chatter around town about how queer Bubba was.  All he did was work at the factory and tinker with some old truck, but he took care of his mama, which made him a good son.  Now that his mama was gone, chatter became gossip as the years turned to decades.  Not that anyone cared enough to try and know him.  They just sat with their cups of coffee and watched and talked from a distance. 

    Bubba didn't care what others had to say.  There was still the factory work and the truck to fill his days. He just went about his life without making a fuss, even when he had to wait a couple of weeks for a part he ordered.  That was just how it was and he had the sunsets in the truck to look forward to. 

    One day Bubba's work on the truck was done.  The passing years, and Bubba's determination, had been kind to the truck.  It's fresh coat of deep blue paint glistening in the late afternoon sun took Bubba's breath away.  The passing years, and the factory work, had been less kind to Bubba.  His youth was gone, his wits were faded and all the time in the world had flown by. 

    Bubba climbed into the black-upholstered interior, using the sleek steering wheel as leverage.  He situated himself and then started the old truck up.  It's engine purred like a newborn kitten and Bubba smiled as bright as the sun shining on him and his truck.  He was going to take it out for a spin, but he was tired.  It was enough for him that he brought the old rusted truck back to life.  He turned off the engine, leaned back and watched through the smooth windshield as the sun disappeared beneath the flat horizon. 

    News spread around town that Bubba was found dead sitting in his spiffed-up truck in that dilapidated barn.  Theories ran wild about how he died.  It didn't matter that the doctor ruled it a heart attack.  Folks were gonna say what they were gonna say, and they said a lot after his burial.  They said Bubba would've been a disappointment to his pop.  They said his mama must be spinning in her grave over the fact he spent more time with that dumb old truck than with people.  They said he never really did anything or went anywhere in his pathetic life, but they could never see what Bubba saw.  Every evening since he was 15, Bubba sat behind the steering wheel, gazing beyond the barn doors at the sunset and he went places in his truck.  Places as far away as his dreams could take him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

2021, John L. Harmon 

__________________

Bubba's Truck was inspired by a talk-to-text translator mishap during a conversation with a friend about his music, which can be found here...

BLUE SUN CHASING 

Thank you for reading or listening to my half-blind words.

Freak Out, 

JLH 

P.S.  A different short story from a different time...

https://freakboyzone.blogspot.com/2014/10/devils-gulch-rd.html 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

New Month! 

New Year! 

New ! 

https://thejlhcollective.blogspot.com/2020/12/the-collective-eye-january-2021.html 

NIGHT CALLING

     "He's alive." 

    She whispers in the corner of her prison.  What else would one call a room with a solitary barred window?  The joke is on them, for they are the ones in prison.  The prison of denial. 

    "I saw him." 

    She whispers and softly laughs.  There he was on the night the sky burned.  Stumbling from the fire as if the flames somehow returned him to the world.  He melted into the darkness before she could call his name.

    "Henry." 

    She whispers and quickly covers her mouth.  The forbidden name brought her to this prison.  She said it to them.  Shouted that he lived but they scolded her.  Moral girls do not venture out at night unescorted.  Sane girls do not imagine seeing phantoms.

    "He was flesh." 

    She whispers and wipes away tears.  He was real but moved in a dream.  Someone learning to be new.  Was he not the same man she listened to?  Coins for conversation, unlike the other boys.  Conversations and confessions that would have brought him here.  

    "I'm not mad." 

    She whispers and closes her eyes.  Squeaking wheels shriek into her prison.  Which night is it?  Clanking metal keys thunder into her ears.  Is it her night?  Creaking hinges scratch at her mind.  Is it the kind one?  The one with the promise? 

    "You are not mad."

    The night nurse whispers.  She enters the small room, leaving the cart in the corridor.  The suffering, disheveled creature huddled in the corner turns to see and visibly relaxes.  She kneels and locks eyes with the patient. 

    "This is the night." 

    The night nurse whispers the promise.  A faint smile shines from the patient's smudged, tear-streaked face.  She chose this tragic soul with one glance of loneliness.  Whose loneliness?  Such thoughts no longer mattered.

    "You will be strong." 

    The night nurse whispers, drawing close to the patient.  How many lives has she transformed?  She lost count long ago, but she senses this will be her last.  Brushing away tangled blond hair, she moves closer.  A white film slides over her obsidian eyes.

    "You will be beautiful." 

    The night nurse whispers before sinking her fangs beneath skin.  She drains the pain and memories away.  Close to the edge, but leaving a breath of life.  Specific preparations must now be seen to, but they have all night.  Gently wrapping a peach-hued scarf around the patient's neck, she cradles her in the darkness of the asylum.

    "You will be forever." 

2020, John L. Harmon 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

This story may share threads with...

INTO THE FOLD 

LAST MOMENTS 

 

SCAR TISSUE 

A GRAVE SITUATION 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you for reading or listening to my half-blind words.

Freak Out, 

JLH 

P.S. A different post about different vampires...

http://freakboyzone.blogspot.com/2016/10/booking-freakboy-salems-lot.html

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In case you want to give the gift of words this holiday season...

viewAuthor.at/JohnLHarmon 

Tricky Treat Thoughts (October 2020 in Hindsight)

 I know October still has another day, but the library is closed on Saturdays because of the pandemic. 

 

I am pleased with my blogging this month.  Some spooky posts mixed with some personal stuff filled these digital pages.  I was excited to continue my supernatural short story series.  Click INTO THE FOLD if you want to jump in.

I actually released a video for The FreakOptic Files in October.  While it is not a Halloween video, it is all about a Halloween color.  Watch FREAK ORANGE A GO-GO below...⤵️

In book news, the year of Dinkel continues!  A reader from the UK sent me a photo of his copies of my two paperback books.  It always amazes me when someone takes a chance on my words.  I secretly hope he is enjoying DARK EXCURSIONS and VISION BENT while having tea.   

On a personal note, the mother of one of my best friends passed away this month.  I've known this friend (she inspired Dark Excursions) and her mom since 1996, the year I moved to Omaha.  My half-blind eyes prevent me from driving, but I was able to attend the funeral online.  It was initially weird to watch a live streaming funeral.  It felt like  I was intruding on something private.  However, I was ultimately thankful this option was available. 

Thank you for reading or listening to my half-blind words this month.  As for November...all I can promise is I'll keep blogging as long as the library remains open during these turbulent times. 

Be well...

Stay safe...

Freak Out, 

JLH 

P.S.  It was 5 years ago this month when I released DARKENING STURGEONS as an e-book....

Ben Straker is dealing with abandonment issues, a potential romance and a town on the verge of chaos after a series of mysterious disappearances...

getBook.at/DSturgeons 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Collective Eye will open late in November, but here is one more look at October...

https://thejlhcollective.blogspot.com/2020/10/the-collective-eye-october-2020.html