Meredith Harmon
Bio
Mix equal parts anthropologist, biologist, geologist, and artisan, stir and heat in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country, sprinkle with a heaping pile of odd life experiences. Half-baked.
Achievements (21)
Stories (435)
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Something's Gotta Give
I’m not drunk enough to write out this story. Which is a shame, since I’m highly allergic to alcohol. As in the “one mouthful and take bets if the ambulance gets here in time” scale of things. And I can’t even chug a soda, because that would spike my diabetic self into the stratosphere.
By Meredith Harmon10 months ago in Psyche
Perchance to Dream. Runner-Up in 500 Word Shockwave Challenge.
I wasn’t too thrilled when the new neighbors moved in. Look, I don’t care if they’re gay or not, really, but… did they have to be next door? Oh, don’t look at me like that, I just don’t want to be close enough to hear their extracurriculars, and you know this development’s walls are paper thin. One can only do so much with noise-cancelling headphones.
By Meredith Harmon10 months ago in Fiction
No Contest. Runner-Up in The Life-Extending Conundrum Challenge.
They don’t know how angry I am. Nanobot technology was supposed to heal bodies, right? Knit up torn tendons, fix broken bones faster, snip out those nasty cancer cells. Once the side effects were made known, hunh, suddenly no one without a couple million in the bank could even hope to find it available.
By Meredith Harmon10 months ago in Longevity
Cavernous Appetite
I am so tooth-achingly sick of virgins! Who thought this was a good idea? This isn’t tender meat – there’s hardly any meat on the bones! Not fattened up properly, not raised on proper feed, not ripened, and dressed up in enough extras that peeling them isn’t even worth the drama. And the screaming! Can’t they make their tribute fall asleep beforehand, so I don’t have to do it all myself?
By Meredith Harmon11 months ago in Humor
The Edge of the Line
Some days, I really hate my strange brain. I have this great idea for a movie, or maybe a script. Some typical white teen types go on a Grand Adventure in the perceived Wild West, and whenever they get in a pickle, it’s the POCs that get them out of trouble. And in every outdoor scene, in the background, there’s this stereotypical Mexican worker type having a siesta beneath a sombrero, lying under a saguaro cactus. But he’s the one who comes up with the sage advice or clever idea, and points them in the right direction, and by the third scene some of the other background characters (same people) are realizing that they’re non-player characters in some twisted reality. They try to ask the Mexicano what’s going on, but he’s always vanished by the time the camera pans back. At the conclusion, the Hollywood-acceptable skin tones go off to their acclaim, real or imagined, and the extras finally get to ask the Mexicano what’s really happening. Dropping the typically-used accent, he shows them all that the cactus is a transporter, and opening the door, asks if they want to go on their own adventure. The eager extras pile in, and the cactus winks out of existence.
By Meredith Harmon11 months ago in Critique
Background Characters
Oh, sweet Saint Jerome, not another pair. Do I have SUCKER printed on my forehead? This is the fifth pair of idiots this week, coming into our border town with their stupid selfie sticks and flip flops and no amount of sunscreen in sight and put down that scorpion this instant are you trying to kill yourselves? Go home! Don’t come to the desert in spring unless you know what you’re getting into!
By Meredith Harmon11 months ago in Humor
Softer Mountains
Dearest Hank, What a commotion! If it weren’t for the fact that it’s your farm, and all I did was join you in wedded matrimony, I would resign the whole dad-blamed place and run away. As soon’s you left, my Pa saw them dollar signs a-swimmin in his head, and tried to take the farm for hisself. Tad, bless him, must be feeling all of fourteen years and reared up on his hind legs and roared at my father to git off the property. That’s our boy! But then turned around and musta been seeing them dollar signs hisself, ‘cause suddenly he wanted to plant the whole property in wheat! No hay for the cattle, no corn for the hogs, just wheat! And tried to take MY herb garden for his first field, and the rose bush you planted for me! I took the ax outta his hands and boxed his ears something fierce, telling him in no uncertain terms what would happen to his arms if he so much as laid a finger on what’s mine by right. Son or not of ours, Tad’s gotten a bit too big for his britches, and I’ll still give him a whuppin if he thinks to do it behind my back.
By Meredith Harmon11 months ago in History
