Creative Crossroads

So…today marks the one year anniversary of when I got my critiques for the third draft of my fantasy novel Beautiful Monster. Ever since then, the quest to rebuild it from the ground up has gone…slowly. I’ve written back stories for Honey Valley (the main setting) and the Magetan religion (part of the elven culture). I’ve also created character sheets for anybody with a first and last name so that I can keep their extreme tendencies in check. I’ve taken several trips to Google Land so that I can learn more about the psychological aspects of my story. But as far as editing and rewriting the actual novel goes, that shit hasn’t happened yet. I’m taking plotting instead of pantsing more seriously this time around and I don’t want to fuck up on an apocalyptic scale like I did last time.

But here’s where my creative crossroads come into play. You see, the reason progress has been so slow on Beautiful Monster is because of all the mental exhaustion I’ve been experiencing throughout the year, which I owe to autism burnout, schizophrenic avolition, and the world being a general cluster-fuck of tiring news. Any little bursts of energy I do have are spent on other projects such as book and movie reviews, poetry, shorts, etc. I wear a lot of hats as a writer, but I only have one head. The creative process would be much easier if I was a hydra or a hellhound.

Beautiful Monster is a long-term project that will extend beyond draft number four. The last time I published something tangible on paper was in 2020, when I submitted Emilio & Marigold to the Hollow Hills anthology Raining Cats & Dogs. The last time I published something on my own was in 2018 and that was my third poetry collection Lunatic Justice. I’m not saying I’m in a rush to continue my legacy of publishing, but if Beautiful Monster isn’t going to see the light of day for a long time, it’d be nice to have something to tide me over until then.

I have a backlog of short stories and poems that could easily fit into another collection. I have 78 fantasy shorts, 69 nonfiction shorts, 83 contemporary shorts, and 252 poems that are just sitting in my folder doing nothing. Shorts and poems are less time-consuming to edit and rewrite since there’s less to keep track of than a full-length novel. But I also realize that some of these shorts and poems have aged poorly throughout the years and shouldn’t go into any collection whatsoever. Hell, Keith Richards drinking a jug of expired milk has aged more gracefully than some of my creative writing pieces. 

The best thing to do about this backlog is to hire beta readers to look them over and see which pieces will make the cut and which ones won’t. I’m also keeping my ears open to any suggestions on how the ones that have aged badly can become the best versions of themselves they can be. Don’t kill a bad story; fix it. But as I look at the prices of some of these services, I’m wondering how much it would cost to do fifty micro-stories or a hundred poems in succession, which is how these collections are going to be packaged. Would I be charged per poem or story? If so, how much would fifty or a hundred of them cost if there’s a minimum price? And now I feel like I’m a contestant on the Price Is Right. I better not overbid or else those sad horns will blast in my ears.

Here’s what I need advice on. Should I reduce the number of hats I wear as a writer and focus specifically on Beautiful Monster or should I take a minor detour and put out another collection just to keep my workload from becoming monotonous? Ultimately, it is my decision on what I want to do, but it’d be nice to hear other opinions as well. What do you guys think?

Heath Riggs the Clumsy Cowboy

 The sum’bitch who said hanging on isn’t a good thing never had to worry about their equilibrium over a mud pit. Have you ever tried to wash mud and pig shit off of clothing with nothing but a Tide Pod and a spinning machine? Neither of those stains are coming out without a fight. But it was a battle that Heath Riggs was not prepared or willing to fight. When I was contacted on Deviant Art in early 2011 for an RP request, I figured it would be some nice D&D fun with orcs chopping off elves’ heads and gnomes picking the pockets of arrogant kings who sat their asses on purple cushions. Unfortunately, it turned out to be anything but.

My recollection of this particular role-playing session is fuzzy at best, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I don’t remember this woman’s name nor do I remember the name of her character. No, I’m not just protecting her identity, I seriously don’t remember. All I know was that she was so adamant about me getting a Yahoo Messenger account so that we could do this in real time instead of posting it as messages on a board somewhere. 

Without coming off as rude, she did have a bit of an aggressive streak when it came to asking for this role-play. She MUST know when I’m available to play. She MUST know how she can reach me. She MUST know why I’m having trouble accessing a Yahoo account I haven’t touched since the W administration. Red flag city, here I come. Come to think of it, I do believe there is a place where red flags are prominent. John Cena knows of this place since he had to apologize to their government for calling Taiwan a country.

So what was the premise of this role-play that the mysterious woman was so desperate to get out of me? What could possibly be so important to require my writing skills and RPG knowledge? Is it a trip to outer space to shoot lasers at aliens? Is it a dungeon crawl that involves throwing axes and shooting arrows at fire-breathing dragons? Is it a wrestling RPG where Triple H is serving up sledgehammer shots and graveyard burials like he didn’t steal the latter gimmick from The Undertaker? No, no, no, not even close. She wanted this role-play to take place on a cattle ranch. She was the farm girl, I was the cowboy known as Heath Riggs. Why Heath Riggs? Because I chose it and she was okay with it. Heath reminded her of Heath Ledger’s role in Brokeback Mountain and Riggs reminded her of pickup trucks in the rural area in which the RPG took place.

Unfortunately, Heath Riggs’s name was the only badass thing about him. As the newest cowboy at the farm girl’s ranch, he came off as awkward to be in conversations with. Okay, not so bad just yet. I’m an awkward conversationalist in real life, so it’s bound to come out in my role-playing of Heath’s character. He and the farm girl talked about his newbie status. They talked about his past employment. They talked about his past relationships. They talked about how this totally ranks low on the weirdest experiences Heath has ever had. I don’t have a script with me, so this is the best I can do as far as show don’t tell goes. Pretty mundane stuff in the lives of socially weird people. Not exciting at all. The cowboy in question wasn’t of the Sergio Leone variety. He was just a guy who fiddle-fucked around with the animals.

And then…from out of nowhere…my role-playing partner decides that Heath Riggs will slip on a puddle of mud and pig shit and get his clothes stained beyond recognition. I didn’t decide it. She did. Her character laughed like she just watched an episode of America’s Funniest Home Videos. Come to think of it, if this happened in real life, it would probably take home the grand prize on that show. Maybe with the winning purse, Heath wouldn’t have to work at a mediocre ranch anymore! But until then…another slip in the mud (which sounds like a Pink Floyd song if they played country instead of classic rock). And another. And another. And another. Heath looked like his candy bar namesake, but less appetizing. Nobody would be eating him that afternoon, least of all the giggling farm girl.

Obviously, I wasn’t having a good time in this RP. I almost fell asleep on multiple occasions. My butt was numb. My jaw was clenched tightly. I needed to get the hell out of that Yahoo chat room. I finally told the woman that I had to get going for the day and secretly hoped she wouldn’t chew me out over it. She was aggressive enough in getting me to role-play with her in the first place, so why wouldn’t she be possessive over my spare time like an obsessed yandere? But to my surprise, she was understanding. We said our goodbyes in a way that was just as uneventful as it would have been for Heath Riggs and the nameless farm girl.

Now…one thing you need to understand about me is that I had and still to an extent have a hard time saying no to people when I’m feeling uncomfortable. It could be a trauma response, but agreeing to unsavory conditions to keep the peace was what I did best back in 2011. I was never prepared to deal with getting yelled at or being made to look like the bad guy for standing up for myself. Maybe it’s because I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up and keeping friendships was too important to me, even if they weren’t healthy ones. Even as I type this, I realize that I’d rather be lonely than share a space with toxic people. The woman in question wasn’t what I’d consider toxic, but I did have qualms about telling her that the RP wasn’t working out. I ghosted her for weeks on end. I didn’t go anywhere near Yahoo Messenger.

I dreaded the day when she would eventually contact me on Deviant Art and ask me where the hell I was. I knew it was coming. I knew I couldn’t get through 2011 without having to face that day. So when she finally asked where I was, I took a chance. I told her the RP wasn’t working out for me. I told her that I preferred fast-paced adventures like the D&D campaigns promised. I told her that it wasn’t anything against her. I told her that Heath Riggs’s clumsy cowboy gimmick was boring me to tears. I was expecting to get chewed out like a wad of bubblegum. I was expecting to look more villainous than Voldemort and Dolores Umbridge put together.

But instead…she understood where I was coming from. No grudge. No backlash. No venom of any kind. She understood and it was okay with her that I didn’t want to continue. I gave her a digital hug and the two of us went our separate ways. The name Heath Riggs would eventually be recycled into a debt collector character in a cyberpunk short story who went on a local news show to spill industry secrets and make the pervy anchor look like a buffoon on live TV. There was no real reason for him to be named Heath Riggs other than the fact that it sounded cool. There was no Brokeback Mountain reference. There was no need for an eighteen-wheeler. Just a guy named Heath who betrayed the debt-collection industry by exposing their greatest weaknesses. At least Heath didn’t slip in pig shit this time, although, one would argue that the news anchor more than qualified for the role of pig shit.

The lesson of the day, my young grasshoppers, is to speak up when you’re uncomfortable. It takes a lot of bravery to do in the face of kind people. It takes even more bravery to do it in the presence of your family and friends. But if they don’t know, then nothing will change. Yes, you may be labeled a villain for saying no. But the bigger question is, why isn’t the other person a villain for forcing you into a situation you don’t want to be in? You’re chaotic neutral at worst, but the pushy bastards who want to keep you under their thumb are fifty shades of lawful evil. 

You can wear the dark cloak, but they can wear the QAnon shaman furs. And besides, what’s the worst that could happen to you for playing the role of villain? You’ll have fewer friends, sure, but being on your own is better than being surrounded by toxic assholes. At least you’re good company. At least the darkness of your solitude will give you some cool rumination. A toxic asshole will give you trauma and heartache, neither of which are worth retaining for their comfort.

This is a lesson I have yet to learn myself even though I’m preaching it like a mega-church wing-nut. I haven’t prepared myself for ultimate loneliness. Maybe it’s something I should talk with a therapist about. Maybe when I do, I can bring up the Heath Riggs example as to why it’s beneficial for me to stand up for myself. For some toxic people, I’m risking not only a lack of friendship, but sometimes a beating and ridicule. You know what? Put me in the ICU for all I care. I’ll get the best medical treatment I’ve ever had while you’re rotting in a prison cell. As it turns out, taking toxicity too far is fucking illegal. I’m not worth going to prison over, no matter who you are. You think losing my friendship is lonely for you? Prison is lonelier. It lasts longer, too. So, bring it on, world!

"The Ever-Burning Light" by K.L. Cottrell

 BOOK TITLE: The Ever-Burning Light

AUTHOR: K.L. Cottrell

YEAR: 2015

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Contemporary Fantasy

GRADE: A

January 11th, 2021. That was the date I officially began reading this novel. Just a few days before that, Trump supporters stormed the US Capitol in an attempt to overthrow the government. With the world turning to dust, I needed all the positivity I could get to override my own depression and anger. And that’s where the magic of K.L. Cottrell’s writing comes into play. Yes, the Light Trilogy has a lot of horrific violence and demonic enemies, but none of that stops the overall presentation of this novel from having a positive aura. The main characters genuinely love each other and there’s not an ounce of toxicity between them. Their Light Force magic depends on them being optimistic in order for it to work. Ridding the world of evil monsters isn’t an easy job by any stretch of the imagination, so why do it alone when you’ve got awesome people to share that experience with?

Speaking of which, guess who gets his own redemption arc? Rafe a.k.a. Marienne’s ultra-jealous ex-boyfriend. I’ve been hard on him in my reviews of the first two books in the Light Trilogy and rightfully so. I kept wondering why he turned out to be Light rather than a Hellion, Crazy, or Tatt. To finally see him turn over a new leaf and become a better human being is refreshing to me. It’s not like he committed genocide in the first two books; he was just an insufferable jerk. He’s perfectly qualified for a redemption arc. In fact, I got a little teary eyed every time I saw him make progress against his own demons. That was different! I like that!

You know who doesn’t get a redemption arc? Leuan Cain, the head villain in charge of it all. He has the ability to seduce ordinary people into believing everything he says. And when he doesn’t get his way, he destroys everything and everyone with dark magic. It’s not just shadows and tricks. It’s suffocation. It’s exhaustion. It’s insanity and horror. It’s guilt and shame built up over all this time of fighting evil. If Donald Trump had dark magic abilities at his disposal, he too could do everything Leuan Cain does in this novel. That’s scary to think about. But if Marienne and Gabe can believe in the power of their own love, they can believe in their ability to murder Cain once and for all.

Everything clicked into place for this novel. The violent and torturous parts of the book hit so hard that even the reader will feel them for days. The loving and emotional parts of the book will bring the reader back to heaven in no time at all. This couldn’t even be considered “toxic positivity” because it feels genuine and heartfelt. That’s because the author believes in everything she’s writing. She believes in love. She believes in friendship. She believes in redemption. Every one of those traits shines through brilliantly in her novel. All in all, this was a lovely way to wrap up a wonderful trilogy. It’s almost as if the readers will walk away from this experience with their own form of optimistic Light magic. This book deserves not only an A+, but it deserves to exceed the 100% barrier.

All You Ever Gave Me

If the stack of papers on Rosalina Grayson’s desk got any higher, her apartment would need a sunroof. Her grading assignments would be even more repetitive since her students insisted on using the “raindrops on the window” device every…single…time. In her mind, the definition of insanity wasn’t doing the same thing and expecting different results. It was grading the same papers and expecting a reprieve. “I need a bottle of beer. I need one now.”

She strolled down the street to El Segundo Convenience not giving two shits or a flying fuck if her fleece pants and wool sweater gave off an air of laziness. She washed her long brown hair that morning, so that was a plus. Hopefully, the smell of deodorant would cancel out the booze odor that was about to float from her mouth like an acid rain cloud. Being single and having no roommates would have made masking the beer stench obsolete, but still…

She adjusted her glasses and trudged through the entrance of the convenience store, bell clinging, but nobody calling out to welcome her. Then again, being welcome wasn’t a feeling she was used to among students she gave a shitty grade to. The more she dwelled on the inevitable, the more appealing that bottle of Olde English was. In fact, it seemed to have a heavenly golden glow the closer Rosalina got to it. When she untwisted the cap and took a sip, it was like liquid heaven soothing her dry throat.

“You can’t drink beer in the store,” said the clerk behind the counter.

“Sorry about that. How much do I owe you?” Rosalina approached the counter and her eyes lit up just a little bit when she saw who was jockeying the register. “Raf? Rafael Ortiz? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Miss Grayson.” Underneath his puffy black hair was a facial expression that reeked of tiredness and disappointment. His ratty gray T-shirt and faded blue jeans showed that he gave even less of a shit about this job than he did before. “That’ll be three dollars for the beer.”

Rosalina dug a five dollar bill out of her pocket and paid for the beer, continuing to drink it now that it was accounted for. “How’ve you been? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. Congratulations on getting that degree.”

“Eh...” Rafael crossed his arms and rubbed his temples like he was trying to send a subtle message wanting to be left alone.

“So…what are you writing these days?”

“Nothing.”

Rosalina chuckled. “No, seriously, come on, what are you really writing these days? You’re an English major. You’ve got to be writing something.”

Rafael’s tone was slightly amplified when he placed his hands on the counter in frustration. “That’s what I said, I’m not writing anything. At all.”

Rosalina gave an awkward frown. “Oh…I see…So let me see if I’ve got this straight: you spent all that money getting an English degree and you don’t write anymore? Raf, you had potential.”

“I had all the potential in the world, but all you ever gave me was a fucking C+.” He went back to folding his arms and sulking.

“Wow. Do you talk to all women like that or just the ones who give you legitimate criticism? See, that’s your problem, Raf, and that’s what a lot of students these days don’t get: whenever a teacher gives you a mediocre grade, it’s never personal.” Rafael gave her an incredulous look. “Okay, maybe not with all teachers, but for my class, it was never about getting personal. Just because I gave you a grade you didn’t like, doesn’t mean I didn’t think you had potential.”

“Potential doesn’t pay for groceries, Miss Grayson, much less for a bottle of Olde English.”

“That’s true. And that’s why you have to keep working on your craft, so that you don’t get mediocre ratings anymore. The more you do something, the better you’ll get at it. If nothing else, you’ve got a degree that you can wave in people’s faces whenever they give you a hard time.”

Rafael slammed his palms on the counter, leaving a tiny scratch in the glass above the lotto tickets. “A degree? A degree? You mean the world’s most expensive piece of paper?”

“Okay, I’ll admit that college is way too expensive for my liking. I’d love nothing more than to have progressive politicians do something about this, but…”

“It wasn’t just you, Miss Grayson.”

“…Pardon me?” She took another sip of beer hoping he wasn’t going to say what she thought he was going to say.

“You weren’t the only one who thought of me like that. You want to know what my GPA was when I graduated from college?” Rafael leaned in closer. “Two…point…five…”

“…Ouch…yeah, that stings…”

“It does sting. And I happen to be allergic to venomous stings.”

In the middle of sipping her beer, Rosalina gave an approving, “Mmm!” Once she had a clear mouth, she pointed at Rafael and said, “See that? That’s a good line. That shows you have potential. Personally, I would have taken out the word venomous, but other than that, you could use that line in a story someday. Or a poem, either way.”

“Miss Grayson…listen to me…” Rafael’s voice lowered to an intense hush. “I don’t have potential. I never did. That’s why I work here now: because it’s the only job that will let me make at least a little bit of a dent in my student loan debt. Nobody would pay a penny for the words I’ve written. In fact, one teacher said I should be the one paying him.”

“Okay, that’s a little overboard, I agree, but…”

“Miss Grayson…I’m going to die behind this counter. That’s not a suicide threat. That’s not a prediction. That’s a prophecy. This is the only job I’ll ever be good at…what? Something wrong?”

Rosalina sighed in disappointment. “You forgot to give me my change for the beer.”

Rafael opened the register and gave her two bucks. “I guess that doesn’t make me a very good clerk, does it. Almost worthy of a C+, right?”

She tucked her head and almost missed her pocket when she put away the change. “Actually, I was thinking more like a D-, but they’re practically the same thing…at least in your mind, anyways. I’m sorry that my class was a waste of time for you. Have a nice life, Rafael. If you ever want to change your mind…I’m in the directory…maybe…I don’t know…” She sighed in defeat. “Goodbye, Raf…I’m sorry you don’t believe in yourself…”

“It was bound to happen one way or another.”

“I guess so.” Rosalina trudged out of the store sipping her beer the entire way. The more she thought about that conversation, the bigger her swigs became. She didn’t even care if she was stopped by a cop for public intoxication. Maybe she belonged in prison for the crime of denying an entire generation their dreams. She crossed the street, not caring about the honking car almost hitting her. She was lost in her own world as she continued sipping her beer.

At first she thought nothing of the screaming going on in the convenience store. Something about opening the “goddamn register”? Something about not being a “hero”? None of those things mattered nearly as much as the sound of gunfire, which caused Rosalina to drop her beer bottle on the ground and retreat for cover behind a garbage can. She held her knees to her chest and shivered while the robbers fired even more bullets and swore like sailors. The crash of the register echoed in her ears and made her tuck her head further into her knees. Her only saving grace was the sound of gangsters laughing and driving away with their stolen loot.

Rafael was right. He was going to die behind that counter and he just did. He never did have potential because corpses didn’t pen the next great American classic. Rosalina wanted to think that a necromancer in somebody’s story would bring Rafael back to life and make his memory immortal again…but immortality was never meant for mediocre students. All that promise…gone. His soul was crushed by his 2.5 GPA and his body was crushed by a hailstorm of bullets.

All Rosalina had to say about this was…”I need another beer…”

She could have just as easily went back into the store to grab a freebie, but she didn’t want to see Rafael’s body mangled by bullets. She couldn’t even hear him breathe. All those grating noises…and then there was just silence. No spitting up blood. No shallow breaths. He was gone. All gone. But in reality, it was the college, Rosalina included, who pulled the trigger, not the robbers.

“I definitely need another beer…”

"Gary the Four-Eyed Fairy and Other Stories" by Frank Mundo

BOOK TITLE: Gary the Four-Eyed Fairy and Other Stories
AUTHOR: Frank Mundo
YEAR: 2011
GENRE: Fictional Short Stories
SUBGENRE: Contemporary
GRADE: Mixed

Let’s talk for a minute about the writing style of this book. It is easy to digest, which means reading sessions will generally last longer for audience members who tire too quickly. However, there are times when the style is a little TOO easy to digest. If we’re talking actual digestion, I was hoping for the middle ground between tough dry meat and a breath strip. Unfortunately, I got the breath strip end of the spectrum. There are times where he tells instead of shows (especially in the opening story). There are fight scenes and other dramatic moments that go by too soon. Some of the language sounds like it’s objectifying women. And then we have the repetition. In case you didn’t know it, the little girl in the first story smells like bologna. Don’t believe me? The author will tell you a gazillion times. This could be a literary technique I’m not privy to, but Frank Mundo does this throughout the entire book and it’s more noticeable than Gary’s bruises in one of the later stories. Because of these elements in the writing style, stories that were supposed to be emotionally impactful came across dryly.

Awkward writing style aside, that doesn’t mean I couldn’t pick out favorites when it comes to entries in this collection. The second story, Remorse, has two different narratives going on at the same time and they’re both tragic in the way they end. One narrative is about a college student falsely accused of rape and the other is about a sickly grandmother who wants JT (the main character) to kill her and put her out of her misery. Remorse was painful to read about and I mean that in the good way. I consider it one of the best stories in this entire collection. But it’s not without its glaring problems, namely the way Frank Mundo handles the subject of rape accusations and the intricacies of consent. In his mind, if someone gets drunk on beer and has sex afterwards, all bets are off and there is no case. Not the most sensitive way to handle such a topic. While false rape accusations do happen (albeit rarely), it does make me wonder how Frank Mundo views women and it worries me. He even refers to the accuser by a particular below the belt body part. The story still hit me where it hurts given how both narrative threads ended, but still, it can also rub people the wrong way in a negative light.

A Friend in Need, on the other hand, was appropriately handled. It’s a story about a college kid trying to write a letter to the parents of his deceased roommate. What’s the catch? The deceased roommate, Walter Garcia, has a drawer full of child pornography. The main character has to carefully word his letter so that he doesn’t offend the parents while also not masking his own disgust with Walter. And because he’s writing the letter on an old-fashioned typewriter, he keeps throwing away the pages whenever he makes a mistake or hates his writing in general. This story is one example where the simplistic writing style doesn’t hamper the emotional impact of it all. Frank Mundo can get away with it this time around. Not all the time, but this time around. The simplistic style allows for a speedy narrative and that’s the kind of pace you want when talking about a guy who’s struggling with his racing thoughts. This story is another one of my favorites from the collection.

There are times when it’s hard to enjoy this book, but enjoy it I did. Throughout my reading journey, I kept asking myself what kind of grade I would give it. Would I fail it because of the haphazard writing style? Would I pass it based on the content alone? After wrestling with myself in a mat classic, I settled on three stars out of five. Not the worst, not the best. It’s simply just there. Having given this book a mixed grade, would I recommend it to other readers? I guess it depends on the reader in question. In general, though? That’s going to require some more self-wrestling.

Bouncing Between Fantasy and Contemporary

***BOUNCING BETWEEN FANTASY AND CONTEMPORARY***

Whenever I’m trying to decide what’s next to write, I always ask myself what I’m not writing enough of or what I’m writing too much of. I’ll go through entire phases where I write just contemporary or just gory fantasy on-and-off. In 2018 alone, I’ve written three first draft novels that could be classified as drama. Silent Warrior is a high school drama that takes place in the present day and Incelbordination would also fall under the educational category.

Beautiful Monster? Well, that technically could be classified as a fantasy since it had elves, but there’s no magic system. Plus, the focus of the story was more about Windham’s PTSD rather than a mystical journey of sorts. I guess Beautiful Monster would be more of a drama than a fantasy in that respect, though one could debate that it falls under magical realism.

What about 2019? What have I written since January of this year? American Darkness 3 stories, yes, of course. I’ve rewritten Beautiful Monster from the ground up and I still consider it to be more drama than fantasy. Emilio & Marigold could technically be a fantasy by virtue of the lead villain being a giant who lives in the clouds. But in reality, that was more dramatic than fantastic as well since I’ve basically turned the story into one big debate over soft vs. hard parenting.

Commonsense would dictate that the genre of a story shouldn’t matter to me as long as the story itself is a compelling and entertaining read. Maybe I have done pretty well for myself with these dramas I’ve written over the last year and a half. But here’s where it starts to get tricky. Because I’ve been away from the fantasy genre for so long, I’ve found myself…I don’t want to say losing interest, because that will always be my bread and butter. It’s just that I haven’t had enough fantasy material in my diet, that’s all. When a muscle in your body doesn’t get enough exercise, it atrophies. Same thing goes for interest in the fantasy genre.

Another reason for me wanting to get back into the fantasy genre seems petty on the surface until you consider I’ve been a trusting fan of this celebrity for over a decade prior to his live TV rant. Of course, I’m talking about Bill Maher. I recently gave up watching his shows. I don’t even watch his New Rules segments on You Tube anymore. My loss of love for him has been a long time coming, with his many prejudiced statements about millennials, transsexuals, Middle Easterners, feminists, fat people, and other groups of people being prominent reasons why.

But then he threw a huge hissyfit about people who enjoy Stan Lee’s work, labeling them as “immature” and “idiotic”. Superheroes, fantasy creatures, and sci-fi adventures are my livelihood and Bill Maher just shit all over it because he’s a crabby old Baby Boomer. Getting back into the fantasy genre just to piss him off? Good enough reason for me! Goodbye, Bill Maher. You used to be cool, now you’re just a shitty old man. I’m a geeky millennial and I’m proud of it!

So…what kinds of things could I start writing again now that I’m awaiting the right opportunity to have Beautiful Monster critiqued? Well, I don’t want to work on a full-blown novel right away, because I’ll have my hands full with editing the shit out of this new version of Beautiful Monster. Plus, I’m not quite done getting Emilio & Marigold into tiptop shape. What about short stories? Poison Tongue Tales 3? Sure, I can do that! In fact, here’s a synopsis for what will be my contest entry for the WSS this week. It’s called “3:16” and it’s for a “Black Widow” prompt.

CHARACTERS:

1. Death Marshal, Mummy Hammer Fighter
2. JoJo Tornado, Human Aeromancer
3. Marilyn Manson and His Band
4. Audience and Bouncers

PROMPT CONFORMITY: The venue is called The Black Widow Amphitheater and it has a dark fantasy gimmick, complete with bouncers in hooded robes and Halloween lighting.

SYNOPSIS: A Marilyn Manson concert is taking place at an outdoor festival, which prompts conservative wizard JoJo to try and knock the electricity out with her wind magic. Her reckless spell casting causes her to tip over a stage prop onto the statue grave of an ancient creature known as Death Marshal, thus waking the angry beast from his sleep. Because Death Marshal is a mummy, he inherits knowledge and wisdom on the fly. He picks up a discarded Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirt and takes on the Bionic Redneck persona as he “stomps a mud hole” into JoJo and “walks it dry”.

It’d be worth it just to watch Bill Maher shit his pants. Then again, he does that enough already, which is why he probably wears Depends underneath his Men’s Warehouse suit every time he goes on TV. Is “3:16” the most philosophically powered story I’ve ever written? Will it make you question life? No! It’s just for fucking fun! Enjoy yourselves! I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight! By the way, my sign-off phrase is what the narrator says in the closing credits for Tales From the Dark Side, another TV show that is likely to trigger Bill Maher. Man, I’m really letting him have it tonight! Goddamn, that feels good!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I have seen the mystics play there once or twice, but I knew they had a reason. Enchantment plays its cards all right. Hand in hand with the workings of the season. Legends can be now and forever teaching us to love for goodness sake. Legends can be now and forever loved by the sun. Two and two go so close together whether there is hope that is torn apart. In the words of all that’s singing. Hand in hand, the beginning is at the start. Legends can be now and forever teaching us to reach for goodness sake. Legends can be now and forever loved by the sun. Who sings of all of love’s eternity? Whose shines so bright in all the songs of love’s unending spells? Only lightning strikes all that’s evil, teaching us to love for goodness sake. Hear the music of love eternal teaching us to reach for goodness sake. Legends can be now and forever teaching us to love for goodness sake. Sweet songs of youth. The wise. The meeting of all wisdom. To believe in the good in man.”

-Tangerine Dream singing “Loved By the Sun”, another piece of art that will drive Bill Maher bat shit insane-

***POST-SCRIPT***

Remember a blog entry I wrote months ago about my Muse of the Year for 2019? I thought it was going to be Dita Von Teese. I thought she was going to bring my creativity to new heights. But then I just ran back into the proverbial arms of 2018’s MotY, Sarah-Jane Redmond, who played Lucy Butler on the 1990’s TV show Millennium. Hey, there’s another show that will make Bill Maher’s head explode! It’s technically in the thriller category, but it has occult elements in it, such as Lucy Butler being a demon from hell who only uses her human form to seduce men into doing awful things.

"Little Birds" by Hannah Lee Kidder

BOOK TITLE: Little Birds

AUTHOR: Hannah Lee Kidder

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Fictional Short Stories

SUBGENRE: Contemporary

GRADE: Pass

In her debut book, Hannah Lee Kidder’s stories are short, sweet, and to the point, but they pack the most powerful punches in their tiny spaces. Even stories that are only a sentence long are capable of tugging at the reader’s heartstrings with oftentimes brutal force. The subjects she touches on include rape, suicide, breakups, and elderly dementia to name a few. These topics aren’t there just to shock the reader; they have a purpose beyond that. You will be so in love with this book that you’ll wish it was longer.

My favorite short story in this book has to be Wolverine Frogs, the one that deals with the always raw subject of rape and the trauma afterwards. The main character wishes she could have claws like a wolverine frog so that she’ll be better equipped to fend off future attackers. She’s so traumatized that she’ll unleash such amphibian fury upon anybody who gets too close to her, innocent or not. This is such a realistic portrayal of psychological trauma that the trigger warning was absolutely necessary. As a reader, you want her to recover even though that’s not always a truthful outcome. You’re genuinely worried that she might do something to hurt herself in order to alleviate the pain. Wolverine Frogs is without a doubt the most heart-wrenching story in this collection.

My second favorite story in this book is Cane Sprouts, which tells the tale of a young New York lady who returns to her grandparents’ trailer near the Bayou. Again, realistic portrayals of the subject matter at hand are what you can expect. In this case, we’re dealing with elderly dementia. The grandpa mixes up names, gets lost in the middle of fields, wanders everywhere with a broken shotgun, and wakes up from naps in an even more confused state than when he’s already awake. This is heartbreaking to watch as this kind of behavior is usually the precursor to death. The main character’s guilt over not being able to see her grandparents as often as she can is palpable during these moments of elderly confusion. That’s what makes the story so believable and raw.

My third favorite story in this book could be considered micro-fiction seeing as how it’s only two to three pages long. But like I said in the intro, sometimes the shortest stories pack the biggest punches. Of course, the story I’m referring to is He Wrote Me a Song, which details the budding friendship between a nameless female high school student and another kid named RJ. She would always loan him pencils and he showed his gratitude by writing a beautiful song for her. Gratitude is a powerful thing, especially to people like RJ who’ve had it rough over the past few years with people looking their noses down at him. The smallest gestures can have the biggest impact. However, before the main characters’ friendship could blossom…well, let’s just say that your waterworks will be well deserved by the time this story is quickly over.

Some would argue that these stories rely too much on shock value to get their points across. I respectfully disagree with that assessment. These stories have a purpose and that is to be as real and honest as possible. The shocking conclusions are just a small part of the overall bigger picture. If someone in your life is hurting, be there for him or her. Show that person that you care and that everything will be okay in the end. You don’t really know what you’ve got until it’s gone. That’s what Little Birds means to me and that’s why it receives a passing grade.