Pulled Molars

Blog of current wish-he-were, will-soon-be author, Boyd A. Harrod.

What’s going on with me.

So, I’ve been quite poor at updating this. To be honest, my computer is becoming more and more of an overly technical radio/typewriter/occasional television set and its functionality beyond that is starting to frighten me — nevermind the internet and all its gas-bagging, which sometimes seems like a bottomless pit of everything that makes me socially anxious built right in the middle of my own room. 

Because of this all I’ve given you is some little practice pieces (I’ll stop that, I promise) and a picture of a slothtronaut or astrosloth or three-toed astroslothonaut – whatever you want to call it – and I feel like I owe whoever (myself, maybe) a real update. So, without further ado, here’s what’s going on with me:

  • I’m studying Graphic Design. I don’t intend to use the certificate I receive from this study for anything in particular.
  • I’m having my wisdom teeth out on Thursday, which is great but doesn’t tide over well with my fear of teeth and anything tooth related (but get to take codeine in the mean time; ye! silver lining).
  • I’m reading Stephen King’s memoir, “On Writing”, and wondering why I haven’t until now.
  • Among others, I’m also reading Neil Gaiman’s “American Gods”. Out loud. To my girlfriend. 
  • I’m currently rewriting a boring manuscript and making it fun. I hope to send it off and get my rejection letter next week sometime.
  • I’m learning how to make trip hop. I’m probably pretty terrible at it.


What’s happening with you? 


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The Credoroium Part Two: Sequeloroium.

I tumbled backwards, coming to sit side-saddle on the dusty, brick floor that had gone a thousand years undisturbed, causing a surprising pillow of soot and sand to pout out from beneath my thinned, feather-weight frame. Looking down to see my legs, my pants strung about my ankles after they’d loosened and fell during the time I was fixed to the Credoroium, I could see how frighteningly gaunt they were. It was as though I had not been fed nor exercised in a decade and it felt likewise, the surprising carry-on weight of my head pulling me forward, resisting my body’s urge to slump back in the opposite direction in a desperate bid to die.

Hudson wouldn’t let that happen, and neither would I. I struggled to keep my eyes open, to fixate them anywhere around the tomb, now a-glow with orange, the embers accelerating around me faster and faster. Concentrating on anything moving or otherwise proved impossible, so I started small and tried to invoke an image of what I must’ve looked like – to scare me, to summon that want to stand and work out a way to reverse the curse, and, all-forbidding, not to convince myself of defeat, or fall to rest and never wake, which I felt would soon be the case.

In my mind, gaunt was a matter of fact. I saw my eyes, the space around them bruised dark, outlining the skeletal cavity in which they are set. The light from the ember-like fire that spins around me, pacing audibly fast, slightly revealing the contours of eye-balls behind my closed lids, but nether-the-less,their darkened state making my head look much more like an empty, sovereign skull than one with skin or muscle stretched over to conceal its unsightly macabre. Taking in to account that I could feel my lips cracking, and that I had not been able to shut my jaw, I envisioned my teeth as yellow to keep with the exaggerated image I’d created. I imagined my hair thinning and falling out. It all came together as horror. There was no certainty to any of this, of course, but the thought was successful in waking me, and, thoroughly disturbed by myself, I’d found that desire to fight.

As I pushed off the ground my wrist suffered a severe fracture. I hadn’t felt it, at least, I was not pained by it, but I knew it had happened. Once I was erected, I glanced at it to see the bone had broken through my paper skin.

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The Credoroium (flash fiction)

I slammed my hand down flat on the page. The Credoroium responded with a sizzle, its pages corroding, some kind of flame shooting out from the tips of my fingers reducing the paper to ash. The walls of the tomb shouted, thunder clapped about my ears causing them to pop before deafening the sound. I slumped as the bones of my spine pushed themselves apart as though wedged by opposing magnetic slates. All my energy was being syphoned by the book and was taken with the ash as it floated towards a hollow point in the ceiling.

The patterns inside the empty funnel sparkled, for every piece of ash sucked up through it an ember twirled down and flew around the room. I remembered Hudson telling me that the book would ask I touch it and no matter what I was not to oblige. But it had beckoned me, convinced me that through nothing more than the wander of my palm I would be given my dreams and more and I whispered back to it ‘Anything.’

Imagine Hudson’s face if he stood beside me. There, a gleam in his eye, his worry about the Credoroium’s power and my complacency forfilled. No doubt, he would try to wash it away with premeditated concern to no avail. I would be scorned at, at times he might run out of things to yell at me, struggling between sounding fearful on my behalf and jeering at my dismay. If I’ve never seen Hudson terrified, I surely would have now. If he were here.

But I was alone in the tomb with Credoroium pulling the life out of me, surrounding me with it in some kind of automated ritual.

My eyes sunk in, my cheeks thinned. I felt the horror of my face as the muscle deteriorated and my skull fanned out from behind my skin. Thankful to have not been able to see myself in such a state, soon, to my horror, my arms followed suit. They became thin, too, and it frightened me greatly to see every bone in my hand and forearm, every vein, nerve, and the space between where there was once pockets of flesh.

It took all that was left of me to tear away.

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Do sloths have fingers? (Not a post about sloths or fingers.)

I’m aware we all have a soft spot for cuddly, furry animals. Well, supposedly. The internet is awash with cats, after all, and if we didn’t surely that space could be better used (or it could in a world without porn). Even while I type this my own dog, Hahn, is sitting on my bed, like he’s not meant to, with a shoe is his mouth, which he isn’t meant to have, staring at me, and I can’t help but just let him do it. I’m a push over, just because he’s covered in fur and I’m relatively hairless.

But what really gets me right in the cute-receptors are drawings of furry, cuddly animals in space suits.

This one is of a sloth.


In other news, I just printed an early draft of a story I’ve been working on for submission to an anthology (I have all the details written on my hand as a reminder, but I won’t tell you just yet) to get it proof read before I send it off.

I’m just warming my fingers, getting ready to cross them.

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101, 101

It’s 1:01 AM when it occurs to me I must be tired, because I have totally just noticed those numbers are a palindrome, and I’ve told myself time and time again that one shouldn’t make palindromes from digital clocks. That would make for fifty-seven palindromes per day (sixty-five if you’re the military type), and I think we could all agree that’s far too many to be watching out for.

A palindromist that excessive, obsessive, would never get anything done. Frightened to miss the next turn of the clock, presumably beading with sweat (or shouting some nonsense about Scheherazade).

I know I have to stop watching the clock when it displays 1:11. Did I really just wait for those consecutive Ones? I should get something done. A primary blog post, perhaps. To introduce myself.

(Arbitrary, really).

My name is Boyd A. Harrod, and I just didn’t want to leave this space blank. I’m an aspiring writer of mostly science and speculative fiction. I live in Brisbane, Australia.  As of 1:21, the day of this post, I am twenty-three years old.

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