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 (427)
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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 Harmon10 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 Harmon10 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
The Evolution of Our Kitchen
Ahh, the joys of being Penna Dutch... and obsessed with food. When my great-to-the-fourteenth ancestor, John Jacob Dreibelbis, came over as an indentured servant, he was given a parcel of land after working for seven years. His son, Jacob B, was the one who founded the farm at the end of town. Nowadays, owning a piece of land implies you're rich. Then? Dirt poor. The kitchen still has two shadowboxes of glued fish bones in patterns from the suckers they net-trapped in the river, the only part of the fish that's inedible.
By Meredith Harmon11 months ago in Feast
Hansel and Girdle
My brother was being a rather large pain in the tuchus again. I don’t mind him using me as his dressmaker’s model, really. He makes some really awesome stuff, and I get to look good. He’s got a bunch of like-minded friends, and they do my hair and makeup too. And then they mutter about “vision” and “aesthetic” and drag me places for photo shoots.
By Meredith Harmon11 months ago in Fiction
Offshoring
I didn’t know which one was about to blow their gasket, so I kept an eye on all three of them. And let me tell you, it’s frikiastikós difficult to tell them apart on a good day. They keep shuttling themselves into each others’ positions, and none of us can tell them apart any more.
By Meredith Harmon12 months ago in Fiction
The Muses of Song
I’ve wandered around quite a lot over the years. No, I no longer have a corporeal body. I haven’t had one in millennia, though the poets still ascribe one to me. And please don’t get me started on those Eros-struck painters and their lascivious paintings! Really, guys, go take a cold bath. A long one. My cousin Boreas will supply you with lots and lots of ice.
By Meredith Harmon12 months ago in Fiction
