Byron Hadley from Shawshank Redemption: Captain of the Guards, Master of Phil Labonte's Lower Intestines

 

Upcoming Character Drawings

Well…you guys saw my political cartoons and hopefully you’ve enjoyed them so far. Now I’m going to start uploading drawings of my characters, particularly ones who will appear in my two novelette collections Lysergic Fairytales and Tacky Tuesday. When I’ll finish the damn stories, I’ll never know, because schizophrenia’s been fucking with my energy and my general wellbeing. I’m drawing characters as a way of keeping hope alive. I will finish my writing someday, even if I have to take forever to mentally heal. Until then…meet the cast and crew!

Two-Sentence Horror Story: Pacific Blue Balls

Detective Miller placed a comforting hand on top of Francine’s and said, “I’m going to need the links to your revenge porn pictures so that we can gather evidence and put this creep behind bars. Also, I watch Pacific Blue for the riveting drama and I read Playboy for the articles.”

American Grass-Touchers Association

When you touch the grass with your bridal gown

You too can be the Star of the County Down

But that’s miles away from the place you stay

A ticket to ride would cost your annual pay

Think globally, use your pleasant demeanor

Act locally, that’s where the grass is greener

Take Princess Puppy-Duppy to the public park

Take in the sunshine and symphony of barks

Too much drama on the information highway

Holy war on Sunday, fight night on Friday

Working your ass off, come home to a new grind

Let’s see who’s narcissistic, let’s see who whined

Pick a side, any side, just pick the right one

Reach through the screen with a loaded gun

It doesn’t work like that, you simping tankie

Your face is neon red and your ass is achy

Let’s go to the movies, have a few beers

Put some club music in our bloody ears

Blast down the road in the highest gear

Make memories that last years and years

The American Grass-Touchers Association

We’re the friends you love, the easiest vacation

Your brain will thank you, quiet down for a change

No more schizophrenic songs in a tone-deaf range

Friends are forever, your idols never knew you

Ask for an autograph, they’ll say, “Screw you!”

No one needs a pedestal five miles high

Don’t let them say otherwise, it’s a grifter’s lie

We got your back just like we got the check

We got the gasoline, ain’t no car wrecks

We got the hugs, we got endless fun

I enjoyed this night, let’s do another one

When you hit the sack, you’re still awake

Anticipating more memories you’ll make

Your phone is buzzing, let’s check the drama

Or let the sandman sing you to sleep like mama

Give Me the Weapon

So…have any of you watched a movie or TV show where an attacker is threatening people with a weapon and someone pleads with him to hand it over?

“Give me the gun. Don’t do this.”

“It’s okay, just give me the knife. Please.”

“Give me the crowbar before you do something you’ll regret.”

It makes for some intense drama, no doubt…unless of course the weapon isn’t a basic one and has a complex name.

“Give me Excalibur. Please.”

“Give me the Dork Slayer before you hurt somebody.”

“Give me the Shadow Edge before something bad happens. I’m begging you.”

And just like that you’ve gone from dramatic tension to the audience busting up with laughter.

A History of Violence

MOVIE TITLE: A History of Violence

DIRECTOR: David Cronenberg

YEAR: 2005

GENRE: Thriller

RATING: R for violence, language, and sex

GRADE: A

A story about a diner-owner saving his establishment from a robbery would have been thrilling enough on his own. But where exactly did Tom Stall get his fighting skills from? It wasn’t just blind luck. He didn’t take martial arts courses. Maybe he was ex-military, but why would an ex-military guy suddenly have mafia goons calling him Joey when his name is clearly Tom? He’s hiding something, not only from the town that praises his actions, but also his own family. The growing tension between Tom and his family is a focal point of the story’s drama. The more that comes out about him, the more isolated he becomes from the one he loves. I was going to dock this movie a point for a sometimes slow pace, but that slow pace actually helps intensify the drama. Tension needs time to build. In the case of the audience, they’re going to feel all the hate and anger that Tom and his family feels towards the ones who wronged them…right before they implode on each other. If you have a history of violence, the cycle will eventually repeat itself. Building tension and sending anxiety through the audience are this movie’s strong suits.

But of course, you can’t call the movie A History of Violence and not have a good deal of violence in it. Tom Stall’s punches, kicks, and limb breaks are so brutal that they’re satisfying to watch as they happen to everyone who messes with his family. But the cherry on top of the blood-covered sundae came from Jack Stall, Tom’s son, who had been bullied all year at school by a redneck named Bobby and his friends. Jack just absolutely wrecked Bobby and it was so delicious to watch. As a former bullying victim myself, I love watching these kinds of scenes. Of course, Tom isn’t happy with how Jack handled it, because that’s not how his family solves problems…but Tom totally does as he slaps his son for smart-mouthing him. Pot, meet kettle. But that just widens the divide between Tom and his family, so blatant hypocrisy adds to the building tension that the movie does so well.

I won’t spoil the ending for everyone, so I’ll speak as vaguely as possible. By the time all is said and done, we don’t know if the main problem is solved. We don’t know if Jack will face repercussions other than suspension for the pounding he gave Bobby. We don’t know if Edie (Tom’s wife) can carry on with her marriage. We don’t know if Sarah (Tom’s daughter) will stop seeing monsters at night. But most importantly, we don’t know if this cycle of violence will continue or if everything falls apart. Normally, this kind of open-ended storytelling is ideal for producing a sequel, which I wouldn’t be against. But even without a sequel, this is effective storytelling because it leaves the audience with anxiety-inducing questions long after it’s over. They’re free to exercise their imaginations. It’s not even confusion they feel. It’s a genuine interest in seeing the story beyond its ninety-six minutes. By renting space in the audience’s head long after it’s over, A History of Violence truly did its job of telling an effective story.

Everybody played their roles to perfection. The violence was satisfying whenever it happened to the bad guys (Bobby included). The drama was never in a cool state even after those bad guys get their comeuppance. It started off slow, yes, but that’s something I’m willing to forgive since the rest of the movie kicked it into high gear with the action and drama. If you feel like your patience is being tested, keep watching it all the way through, because you’ll get everything you want and more…even if the ending leaves you with more questions than answers. A History of Violence gets five out of five stars.

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!

Mass Transit

 The idea of chowing down on a Hawaiian pizza and BBQ chicken wings made Reese Lee’s mouth water. But in this Peter Pan bus station, it was only an idea and nothing more. It was something that would have to wait until she made it back to her college town. Considering that breathing air in this bus station was worse for the mouth and nose than giving a rim job to someone with a stomach virus, even the idea of getting potato chips from the vending machine was a taboo.

All she could do was sit cross-legged in a chair (preferably one without bubblegum stuck to it) and study for her final exams. Burying her nose in her text book was more appealing than allowing body odor and cigarette smoke to melt her face off like acid. It was even more appealing with new age music blasting in her headphones while she kept her hoodie up. Everything about her screamed “Do Not Disturb”. But who was listening? Certainly not the other patrons.

There they were milling all around the station waiting for their respective buses to take them to their destinations. Some of them had long greasy hair that hadn’t been washed since the Obama administration. Some of them burped loudly enough to jolt Reese out of her studying trance. A scraggly old man in a trench coat puked on the floor, the puddle resembling a prehistoric tar pit. A weary-eyed mother sat on the floor and attempted to rock her crying baby to sleep. A man in overalls and a MAGA hat lit up a cigarette and puffed like a diesel train.

This isn’t worth it…none of this is worth it, Reese thought to herself as she tightened the draw string on her hoodie. No matter how many times she pored over various psychological terms in her textbook like Gestalt and Jungian, they wouldn’t stick in her overcrowded mind. Her brain felt as though it had Novocain smeared all over it. Her eyes watered from the intense smells. Her jaw clamped down so tightly that she was getting a headache. She could just as easily step outside for fresh air, but that would mean potentially missing her bus back to college.

Then again, it might not have been a bad outcome considering that a man a greasy leather jacket marched up to her reeking of alcohol and trash. “Ten-HUT!” he shouted. “The purple monkeys are coming to take our brains! STOP THE STEAL! Blar-blah-BLAR!” He marched to the bathroom, but not without leaving Reese a quivering mess in her seat. Her eyes watered once again, but not from the pungent miasma.

It’s not worth it…it’s not worth it….none of this is worth it…

As Reese tried to steady her nerves with deep breathing exercises (the ones she learned from her psychology classes), the mother from earlier approached her, the baby in her arms fast asleep. With yellow teeth and chapped lips, she asked Reese, “Do you have a cigarette?”

“No, I don’t. Sorry.”

“Come on, just one cigarette! I’m stressed out!”

“I told you, I don’t have any.”

“I’ll kiss your feet if you give me one!”

Bile rose up from Reese’s throat. She threw her textbook to the ground and rushed for the ladies’ room. Unfortunately, time was not her best friend as she vomited on the ground before she could make it. Her stomach contents burned her throat while her eyes watered some more. A few droplets of nose pudding mixed with her biological swamp brew on the ground. Nobody said a word when the motor-oil substance from the old man hit the floor. But once Reese’s acids flew from her lips…

“Fucking gross, lady!” yelled the guy in the MAGA cap. “Is that what they teach you in that lib-tard school of yours?”

Reese wiped the sewage off of her face with the back of her hand before unnecessarily apologizing. The heavy breaths she took wouldn’t do much for cooling down her throat considering the air was thicker than that of a burning building. But heavy breaths she took anyways.

She took even more of them when an obese man in an American flag T-shirt grabbed her butt and squeezed as hard as he could. “Ow! Ow! Let go! You’re hurting me!”

“I bet that shit hurts real’ good, little lady!” said the pervert before hacking and laughing at the same time. Reese was able to pry his fingers off before dashing for the exit. The pervert laughed at her some more when she slipped on the black puddle from earlier. Her back collided with the cement ground and knocked the wind out of her lungs (not that it was good air to begin with). Her MP3 player and headsets broke on the way down, but not nearly as badly as her spirit.

She used the nearby arcade cabinet to pick herself up before (successfully) dashing out of the bus station and into the clean night air. The breeze gently blew against her white-hot face. Every shaky breath she took was pure heaven to her throat and lungs. In fact, it was the only thing about this night that could be described as being remotely close to heaven. She rested her sore back against a graffiti-splattered wall and sunk down to her butt, bursting into a full-on crying session.

The whole reason she went to college in the first place was to study psychology and become a licensed therapist. But even with this wealth of knowledge, she knew the people in that bus station were beyond help. The healthcare system failed them. The world failed them. But she had zero interest in helping them now. 

If that whole bus station burns to the ground with them inside…I’d never be depressed ever again…

While she couldn’t find a gas can and matches with her blurry eyes, she did see something that was almost as destructive: a lead pipe lying on the ground. A rusty lead pipe with a little bit of moss grown over it, because of course it was. She wiped her eyes dry and picked up the non-moss end of the pipe. She could bash a lot of brains in with this weapon. Not that they had brains to begin with, but it’d be a nice visual for her healing.

“I’ll kill them all…I’ll fucking kill them…” she sniffled.

“What did you say? Hello?”

That familiar voice came from her smart phone, which thankfully wasn’t damaged in the slip and fall thanks to the case she bought for it. She must have pocket dialed someone during the whole kafuffle. That someone was her mother. Hearing her voice again was another factor in cooling down her aching lungs and throat.

“Mom? Are you there?”

“Reese, are you okay? Did I just hear you say you’re going to kill someone?”

“Um…” she sniffled. “No, I was just…I mean…Mom?...I can’t go back inside the station. I hate it there!”

“What’s wrong, honey?”

Reese had a hard time forming words through her tears.

“Do you need me to come pick you up?”

“But…I have my final exam soon…”

“That’s not what I asked you. I asked you if you wanted me to pick you up and take you home.”

“…Yes! That’d be wonderful.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Hang in there.”

“I love you, Mom!”

“I love you too, Reese. Bye.”

In all this time of studying psychology, Reese had forgotten the most important lesson of all: self-care. Even the most hardworking minds needed to rest. Even straight A students weren’t immune to mental health crises. If her professors didn’t understand these things, they had no business teaching psychology. In that case, studying at this college wasn’t such a good idea after all.

As for the lead pipe, Reese gazed at it for a while, feeling the rusty metal grate against her sensitive skin. She had thirty minutes before her mother got her out of this hellhole. She still had ample time to smash heads and drop corpses. But if she went through with her violence against the mentally-ill bus station customers, she had no business being a therapist in the first place. And if that was true, then learning psychology from these uncaring professors was like a toxic relationship that would never end.

Reese dropped the pipe and allowed it to roll across the sidewalk. “I hate this place. But I hate the system more…” She pulled her knees to her chest and sobbed into her legs some more.

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…”

Pants Down

Red-handed, pants around your feet

Dirty ass pasted to the toilet seat

Porno magazine covered in dude soup

Should I give you more time to regroup?

You got caught, you’re fucking busted

No need to have your fingerprints dusted

It’s your fault, own up to the mistake

Before I find one of your limbs to break

You’re sorry? Why do I not believe you?

I’m not the one who’s trying to deceive you

You spent a whole lifetime telling me lies

This is where I finally cut our damn ties

Pants down and fake tears on your face

As you scramble to find another place

Pants down and your whole life story

All of it is drama and none of it is glory

Pants down and Mary-Sue privilege

Nobody in town sees you as the villain

One day you’ll piss off the wrong guy

And he won’t care when you cry

Rest in pieces when you convert to Jesus

Bang on heaven’s gate for all four seasons

Stealing from me has all led up to this

I hope you enjoyed your riches and bliss

I know I enjoyed the lesson I just learned

That trust isn’t easy and must be earned

One strike and you’re out, get off the plate

Before I leave your nuts in a sterile state

Batter on deck, play baseball with your balls

Thunderous crack echoing off the walls

I’m in love with my newfound courage

As I finally pull these theater curtains

On toxic people and toxic friendships

On future prisoners, courtroom defendants

Somewhere over your heavenly rainbow

Is a lot more of the same old, same old

Secretary

MOVIE TITLE: Secretary

DIRECTOR: Steven Shainberg

YEAR: 2002

GENRE: Erotic Drama

RATING: R for language and sexual content

GRADE: Fail

When you notice that this movie is an erotic drama and you see that James Spader’s character’s last name is Grey, your mind probably jumps to a decade later and a certain novel from E.L. James that generated controversy. Maybe this movie was a prophecy of sorts. I don’t see why not. Spader’s character’s first name is Edward and yes, that name also sounds suspicious considering where E.L. James got her inspiration from. Edward Grey is a sharp-dressed attorney who hires secretaries for the sole purpose of inflicting BDSM punishments on them whenever they make even the smallest of mistakes. He’s a well-to-do employer who takes full advantage of the power he has over his employees. Sound familiar? Not exactly a healthy relationship that’s built to last.

The imbalanced power dynamic is most evident when Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character, Lee Holloway, becomes his latest charge. She starts the movie by exiting a mental hospital after struggling so long with self-harm. While the act of cutting and bandaging herself is a realistic behavior of someone with her mental illnesses, it plays a little too well into the BDSM relationship. Edward Grey spanks her repeatedly and she gets off on that. Let me repeat that back to you, not unlike a secretary typing a letter for a powerful attorney: a woman who finds psychological healing in harming herself finds sexual pleasure in being harmed, by someone with too much professional power, no less. I’ll let that sink in for a little while.

But perhaps I’m reading too much into this. After all, one of this movie’s thousands of subgenres is comedy. Comedy shouldn’t be taken too seriously, right? I’d agree with that sentiment if it wasn’t for the fact that I didn’t laugh one single time throughout this movie. I could have watched an orphanage burn to the ground and it would have made me laugh harder than this movie. Was I supposed to be impressed by the over-the-top portrayal of BDSM culture? Was Lee Holloway’s awkwardness supposed to make me chuckle? Maybe it’s just dry humor and belly laughs weren’t necessarily required. Maybe I’m too dumb to get the punch line. Whatever the case may be, I think the word “comedy” can be removed from this movie’s list of subgenres and it wouldn’t suffer much.

Up until the ending, this movie had loads of potential. It could have been a dark story about the power imbalance between boss and subordinate. It could have been a struggle with mental illness. Edward Grey’s small moments of guilt could have encompassed the entire story and I would have been fine with that. While I won’t spoil the ending, I will give away the fact that as the movie draws closer to it, the overall tone becomes happy and romantic. That’s right. Taking advantage of a vulnerable, mentally ill woman is seen as a healthy relationship dynamic. Maybe this movie was a prophecy after all. Thanks, but no thanks. This movie gets a failing grade because it reminds me too much of Fifty Shades of Grey. And for the record, the sex scenes are just as vanilla.

"What I'm Not" Officially Canceled

***”WHAT I’M NOT” OFFICIALLY CANCELED***

It’s not often than I scrub a piece of creative writing I did off the face of the internet. The last time I did it was in 2014 with a PG-13 erotica short story called Tainted Love. Six days after my 29^th birthday, this stinker managed to piss off the entire world with the way I objectified the lone female character and glorified her Stockholm Syndrome. I own that black eye on my track record and promise never to do those horrible things again. So what could I have possibly written this time that would deserve such a thorough cleansing from the web? I’ll tell you what it was: the first and final episode of What I’m Not.

I’ve had the idea for What I’m Not for as long as I’ve been fantasizing about having a You Tube channel. Many of my closest friends encouraged me to do my own You Tube project and I’ve been hesitant to give it a try, for fear that the ungodly amount of stress would send me into a schizophrenic hell all over again. But let’s say for instance that I had the guts to bare my soul to the world in front of a phone camera. What I’m Not was supposed to be a vlog series detailing all of my worst mistakes as a semi-professional author. In other words, it was a cautionary tale to rookies to not fuck up as badly as I did. I made the mistakes so nobody else would have to.

In theory, this would actually be a good idea. I don’t have much in the way of writing expertise except for what not to do. I still can’t craft a 3D character worth a damn. I still don’t know what the fuck a “character-driven story” is. What I’m Not would have been a comedic and lighthearted look into my worst decisions. So when I wrote the first episode, which was about admitting unemployment to strangers, audience members, and bosses, I decided to have a little fun and pepper in some jokes here and there. I was so excited to have this episode written that I didn’t even proofread the damn thing before posting it. That in and of itself would have made a fine idea for a What I’m Not episode.

When I finally read what I had written (twice), I was frozen with horror. There’s no way in hell writing this awful could have come from my imagination. I’m not even talking about first draft standards, because let’s face it, all first drafts by their very nature suck. This episode was by far, no exaggeration, the WORST thing I had ever written. It was so bad, in fact, that I scrubbed it from the internet before it had the chance to be critiqued. At least with the first draft of Beautiful Monster, it had potential despite the glaring flaws in the way I handled the subject of rape. At least with the first draft of Silent Warrior, it was…well…something! This episode of What I’m Not was a disaster from the get-go. It had no such potential. My big fat ass cat Oswald could have written a better episode than this and all he does is lie around and piss himself while waiting to die.

The tone of this episode could only be described as a whiny rant. I whined about my job hunting past. I whined about classism in dating. I ranted against people who were just trying to be nice and make small talk with me. All of this was supposed to be done in a comedic tone, but trust me when I say there was nothing funny about what I had written. A burning orphanage is funnier than this. Childhood cancer is funnier than the garbage I had written. Lily Singh’s “comedy” is funnier than…eh, you get the point by now. Wouldn’t want this blog entry to be a whining mess either, so I’ll quit while I’m ahead.

After I had wiped this episode from my social media pages and taken a few deep breaths to chill my anxiety, I questioned whether or not future episodes of What I’m Not would be just as bad as this one was. Fearing the answer might be an emphatic “fuck yes”, I decided going forward that the What I’m Not series had to be permanently canceled. I’m sure there’s a market for advice on what not to do as a writer, but I’m not the salesman. Not anymore. But did these episodes have to be funny? In my mind, they did, because that was the only thing they had going for them. If I tried to make the episodes serious, it would have sounded even whinier than before.

While my social media accounts have a small audience, You Tube would have had a lot more eyes on it. Can you imagine if I translated my writing into a video and a gajillion people saw it? I consider myself fortunate that I can toe the line between a private citizen and an internet personality. This is not a microscope I want to find myself under. This is not a hill I want to die on. If I ever decide to do a nonfiction series again, I’ll need a different topic and it’ll have to be a topic that doesn’t require a comedic edge. I can be funny from time to time, but not all the time. I don’t have the charisma to keep my funny streak going forever and ever. Drama is much easier than comedy, but whining will not be tolerated.

Will I ever create a You Tube channel given that What I’m Not turned out to be a dud? I think I’m more comfortable writing my nonfiction out instead of being in front of a camera. Yes, I know that staying in the comfort zone is supposed to be a bad thing, but then again, so is falling so badly on my ass that I can’t recover. My You Tube audience wouldn’t have let me hear the end of it. At least on Deviant Art, Good Reads, and Blogger, I don’t have to worry about supreme failure, because the audience for those platforms is smaller. But a small audience won’t bring me a great deal of success. Then again, success doesn’t always amount to fame and fortune. Everyone’s idea of success is different and sometimes it doesn’t mean being glared at under the world’s most powerful electron microscope.

If this blog entry sounds too whiny to keep my message consistent, I apologize profusely. I don’t know who was really looking forward to the What I’m Not series, but it’s been officially canceled as of now. My main priorities at the moment will be editing Beautiful Monster, reading my books, drawing my pictures, and watching my movies. Drawing and movie watching in particular are both excellent ways to get away from the writing grind and restore some of my lost energy. Sure, I write reviews for every movie I watch (Star Wars Episodes VII-IX be damned), but at least I have the energy to do those by the time the movie is over. Funny how that works out. As far as Beautiful Monster is concerned, I still have chapter seven staring me in the face, but that’s okay because it’s not a time sensitive project. Editing jobs aren’t supposed to be. Slow and steady wins the race. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I want to go home, take off this uniform, and leave the show. But I’m waiting in this cell, because I have to know: have I been guilty all this time?”

-Pink Floyd singing “Stop”-

How the Grinch Stole Christmas

MOVIE TITLE: How the Grinch Stole Christmas

DIRECTOR: Ron Howard

YEAR: 2000

GENRE: Holiday Fantasy

RATING: PG for comic mischief and bullying

GRADE: Pass

There’s a reason why people who hate Christmas in real life are referred to as Grinches. They’re also called Scrooges and Bah-Humbugs, but being called a Grinch is a special kind of dishonor. Not only do you not want to enjoy the Christmas spirit yourself, but you’ll do anything humanly possible to make it miserable for everybody else, whether it’s playing cruel pranks or stealing presents. That’s the story Dr. Seuss got us all used to. But in this movie, we don’t see evil for the sake of evil. Sure, the Grinch was bullied as a kid and that’s what made him hate Christmas. Adding a traumatic back story doesn’t always equal goodwill, but this time it does. A green hairy monster loved by nobody and shunned by the wicked. If we’ve learned anything from The Joker in 2019, it’s not to mess with the disenfranchised. You will feel for the Grinch. You will cheer for him. And when he causes mayhem, you’ll laugh your head off.

A lot of this sympathy for the Grinch was helped magnificently by Jim Carrey’s performance as the title character. He’s not just an angry green monster. He’s eccentric. He’s comedic. He’s delightfully villainous. Whether it’s something as simple as the way he walks, eats, and dances or his witty dialogue that rolls off the tongue naturally, Jim Carrey has you by the throat the instant you start watching the movie. If Ace Ventura, The Mask, and The Riddler were injected into The Grinch’s rotten, yet damaged soul, that’s how Jim Carrey’s version of this character would be. But he’s not just comic relief. He’s nuanced to the point where everything he says holds water. This movie is often categorized as a drama-comedy and that combination of genres embodies Jim Carrey’s character perfectly. I’m not sure if he won an Oscar for his performance, but it’d be a crime not to give him one. I know, I know, it seems laughable to do so, but is it really?

You know who else had a convincing performance in this movie? Taylor Momsen, who portrayed little Cindy Lou Who, the only character in the Who village with enough commonsense to see Christmas for what it really is: capitalism in disguise. She knows full well that Christmas should prioritize family love and friendship over materialism, which is why she nominates The Grinch to be the Cheer Meister, because if anybody needs love, it’s him. Taylor Momsen portrayed her character as a sweet, bubbly, optimistic child who wouldn’t hurt a fly. That makes her message of family love more believable than the bombastic Mayor’s “buy, buy, buy” rhetoric. Sure, she’s not taken seriously at first because she’s a child and there’s ageism running rampant. But don’t worry, because Taylor Momsen would eventually grow up to become the lead singer of The Pretty Reckless. Not bad for a little one!

Movie reboots get a bad rap for being worse than their source material, but that’s not the case with How the Grinch Stole Christmas. In fact, I’d say it surpasses the original cartoon from the 1960’s. The Grinch has a more colorful personality, Cindy Lou Who is as sweet as a bug’s ear, and everybody else is living in those two lead characters’ world. Step aside, Mayor; you’re the real Grinch around here. A passing grade will go to this holiday classic. Wow. I can’t believe I’m calling a movie made in 2000 a classic. I’m getting old! Then again, if growing old was a bad thing, there’d be no Pretty Reckless and boy, do I need my rock and roll!

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.

A Dog's Journey

MOVIE TITLE: A Dog’s Journey

DIRECTOR: Gail Mancuso

YEAR: 2019

GENRE: Animal Drama

RATING: PG for mild violence

GRADE: Extra Credit

An Australian Shepherd named Bailey enjoys life on a farm with his puppy parents Ethan and Hannah. He also loves their granddaughter CJ and has sworn to protect her no matter how many lives it takes him to do so. An alcoholic mother, a slew of bad boyfriends, and a dwindling music career all serve as obstacles for CJ growing up. The one thing she can count on is always having a puppy-duppy by her side despite the negative influences around her. Can this series of dogs help CJ find her way into a comfortable and loving life?

There wasn’t a single dry eye in the move theater when I saw this. Even though I take medication that keeps me emotionally numb, I also couldn’t help but shed a tear or two. Every death, every heartbreak, every cancer diagnosis, and every tragedy in this movie meant something. I wouldn’t have teared up for characters I didn’t care about, but CJ and her many dogs are incredibly deserving of not only the audience’s attention, but love as well. CJ may be the most lovable human character of them all, but even she’s not above making foolish mistakes from time to time. Her imperfections make her a suitable vehicle for our emotions. When she cries, you cry. When she’s happy, you’re happy. When she conquers the world, you too feel inspired to do so. That’s a lot of tears for a lot of moviegoers.

As many lovable characters as there are in this film, they couldn’t bring you those much-needed tears without their foils. Gloria, CJ’s neglectful and emotionally abusive mother, is very much deserving of your scorn. But even she can be redeemable, which is more than the audience will ever say about CJ’s criminal boyfriend Shane or her arrogant suit-wearing boyfriend afterwards named Barry. It’s toxic people like these that remind the audience over and over again never to make the foolish choices that CJ had the misfortune of making. These villains wouldn’t make good puppy parents. They wouldn’t even make good casual acquaintances. The sooner CJ is rid of them, the better off she’ll be. It’s heartbreaking to watch these people invade her life, but it’s necessary to keep the conflict strong and the audience’s eyeballs wet.

And of course, Bailey wouldn’t be able to protect CJ as much as he has if not for the power of reincarnation. This is a powerful theme in the movie, especially when the dead dogs run through a wheat field to cross the Rainbow Bridge. There are critics of reincarnation out there and they very well could be right. But there’s no denying the comfort it brings to owners of deceased pets. It doesn’t even have to be a religious deal. It could just be comfort for comfort’s sake. I had a spunky all-white cat named Simon who crossed the Rainbow Bridge in 2011. Two years later I adopted an equally-spunky cat named Tori, whom I jokingly call Simon 2.0 because of how similar they are. It could be a coincidence, but even my atheist heart doesn’t have it in me to ruin the magic for pet owners, let alone the moviegoers who shed many tears in the theater that evening.

It’s rare when a movie hits me where it hurts the most. I usually watch a movie with the idea that I’ll like it, but not much beyond that. I didn’t just like this movie. I loved it. It made me believe in the power of animal companionship all over again (not that I ever questioned it). Our fur babies depend on us to provide love and care. I’ll keep doing so for as long as I live. I consider it to be my life’s purpose, above my writing career even. That’s what A Dog’s Journey means to me and that’s why I’m giving it an extra credit grade. Congratulations, puppy-duppies: you’ve earned every broken heart.

Comedic Obligations

***COMEDIC OBLIGATIONS***

When you’re a writer and you feel obligated to include certain elements in your story, you can often find yourself not knowing what the hell you’re doing. For example, there’re a lot of TV shows, movies, and books out there that have shoehorned romances, so you feel like in order to stand a chance of being above average, you too have to have a romance despite not having the necessary experience or interest. The same thing is true with comedy. Although George Carlin remains one of my strongest comedic influences, not even his material is capable of making me into a carbon copy of him, which he wouldn’t want anyways because of his strong individuality. I can be funny sometimes, but when I feel obligated to make a joke in my stories, the writing suffers badly and I have to go through yet another round of editing. Tonight I’m counting down the three cringiest examples of jokes or cleverness gone badly in my stories. Why three? Because that’s three cringes too many.

I should go ahead and say that all three major examples come from Poison Tongue Tales, the first drafts at least. You won’t find the jokes there now, thank god. Let’s begin with the major money line from Stone Cold, a short story within that tome about a barbarian (surprise, surprise, surprise) who wants revenge on a warthog sorcerer and a female dark paladin for killing his wife. The barbarian wins the battle, but not without feeling like his heart is going to explode and a vein in his brain is going to pop like a balloon. While the female dark paladin is laying on the ground on her way to the afterlife, the barbarian leans down and says to her in a sexy voice…”Maybe I’ll get some practice on you before I meet my wife in heaven.” Practice doing what, you say? Well, if you can’t figure that out, I’m not going to tell you. Either way, you should be appalled at that, which is why that line no longer occupies my story.

And then the other two examples come from the same story within PTT. That story is called Streetwalker and that title alone should already have you feeling anxiety bubble up in the pit of your stomach. The main villain, another barbarian (what a goddamn shock), wants to buy the services of a wizard prostitute to celebrate a major victory in battle. The prostitute turns him down, so instead of paying the full price, he tries to get it for free by attempting to rape her. Being that she’s a wizard and that she’s using her prostitution money to fund her magical education, the hooker throws every kind of elemental spell at the barbarian’s way. Fireballs, lightning bolts, poison bubbles, shadow spears, glacial spikes, you name it, she’s throwing it. She thinks she’s won the fight, but the spells have absolutely no effect on the barbarian. So what does the would-be rapist say? He says…”In order to cast the spells properly…you need the world’s biggest magic wand!” In the words of my beautiful beta reader Marie Krepps, “Why doesn’t he just shoot her already? I’d rather get raped than listen to another one of his bad jokes.” You and me both, Babe-a-Licious Mondo. You and me both.

That Emmy Award-winning zinger should have been the end of it for Streetwalker, but it wasn’t. Instead the audience was treated to yet another “clever” piece of writing. It wasn’t really a joke nor was it intended to be misogynistic. It was just my obligations creeping through yet again. So what happens in Streetwalker (SPOILER ALERT) is that the barbarian has his way with the prostitute and leaves her bloody and bruised in a dark alleyway. Yes, she managed to knock is money bag loose (his actual money bag, not his testicles, you fools!), but even with all of that gold at her disposal, she still feels guilty for “allowing herself” to be raped in the first place. As part of this self-imposed guilt trip, I, the narrator, describe her ordeal as…(gulp)…I’m not sure if I should say this, but I’m going to if it means proving my point…the prostitute’s rape was…”a permanent part of her resume”. I can hear the dry heaves coming from miles away. Absolutely barferrific. No call for that. It got so bad that when Marie was writing her critique notes, she said, “Let’s keep this between you and me.” I couldn’t agree more, but here it is out in the open.

I didn’t count down those three examples because I wanted a laugh track to magically appear in my room. I counted them down because I wanted to be free from my obligations of putting comedy and/or clever lines in my writing. Yes, comedy is nice every once and a while, but only when done by a true master. Whenever I get into a heated argument with someone, my brain shuts down, so I can’t quickly access a savage one-liner to defeat my opponent. Why should I expect the same thing from my characters? Because Hollywood told me to do it? Because they do it so well in the WWE (which I still don’t watch anymore)? Why can’t two people just have a passionate conversation full of vitriol and curse words? Why does everything have to be funny all the time?

Now that I think about it, the funnier a movie or book tries to be, the more it comes off as bathos to an otherwise emotional moment. Bathos is defined as a descent from emotional highs and it’s usually achieved through comedy. Marvel movies have been accused of doing this a lot, especially with anything featuring Iron Man and his actor Robert Downey, Jr. When you rob your audience of an emotional high, you’re stealing a major part of the movie-watching experience. I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I get hit in the feels, I don’t want my attacker to use kid gloves. That’s why I like books like The Perks of Being a Wallflower and The Savior’s Champion. Sure, they have witty dialogue peppered here and there, but it doesn’t diminish the dramatic action of their respective stories.

I have not yet mastered the balance between (good) comedy and punches to the feels. I’ve been an amateur/professional author since 2001 and I still can’t do it. Is this something I should work on or should I abandon it altogether? Is comedy really that important or should I emancipate myself from the chains of obligation? See? Even that last line sounded too over-the-top to be considered comedic gold. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like laughing at bad jokes, keep climbing the mountain!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

Chapter seven of this ongoing rewrite is edging towards the horizon. Windham managed to free himself from the shackles and now he needs to not only escape Shelly’s castle, but beforehand has to draw blueprints from the inside and collect a handsome payday from Shadow Asylum. Can he keep his emotions in check long enough to not spoil his escape? Can he watch one of his own being sold to a paying aristocrat without snapping again? Whatever the case may be, I’m free from the chains of comedic obligations, so there won’t be any jokes about Nickelodeon Slime Cannons or some shit like that (some of Shelly’s sex slaves are teenagers).

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

If Fred Durst started his own airline company, would he call it Air Bizkit? It makes me worry about the cabbage and broccoli platters he’d serve to the coach passengers. At least they wouldn’t have to worry about the plane running out of fuel, although the weather would always be cloudy up there.

***POST-SCRIPT***

Okay, so I’m not completely emancipated.

Everybody's Rock

The corny commercials on TV rotted Clark Hall’s brain into mush and froze his heart into an arctic glacier. The sounds of his girlfriend Sydney Farrow sobbing only a few feet away from him did nothing to bring him out of his trance. Even when Sydney took a few seconds to blow her nose or sob even louder, she couldn’t get her boyfriend’s undivided attention. She wiped away her tears with a napkin and finally asked, “Are we going to talk about this?”

“Nope,” said Clark without even thinking about his answer. Instead he just flipped through channels in a vain attempt to find something that will rejuvenate his porridge mind.

“Say something!” shrieked Sydney.

“Something.”

After one last wipe of her drenched face and smeared makeup, the pajama pants and tank top-wearing Sydney ripped the remote control out of Clark’s hand and turned the TV off. All he could do was stare her down with a frosty expression, not even a little burst of energy. With her hands animated, Sydney freaked out when she said, “Clark, why won’t you talk to me?! Just once I’d like to have a real conversation with you! For god’s sake, do something! Sing! Dance! Anything! Do anything at all!”

“Anything?”

“Yes, anything at all!”

Taking her words literally, Clark moseyed on over to the kitchen table and sprinkled salt n his own head. “There, I did something.”

Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, Sydney asked, “What the hell’s wrong with you?! Are you fucking insane?! You knew damn well what I meant! You’re taking a serious situation and ripping the piss!”

“Serious? You want to talk about seriousness? How am I supposed to take you seriously when you keep crying every damn day?! Every fucking day, it’s the same thing! More tears! More drama! More bullshit! You know why I watch so much television? Because it’s the only thing that can take me away from your horseshit!”

Holding Clark’s hand in hers, Sydney wept, “Please, stop talking like that! You’re scaring me!” In typical Clark Hall fashion, the stone cold lover dropped to his knees and rattled off in devilish tongues. Sydney finally snapped, “You’re scaring me!”

Seemingly taking this conversation seriously, Clark stood back up and gazed into his girlfriend’s damp eyes. “You’re scared, huh? That’s okay, baby girl. I’m scared too. I’m scared of where this dramatic diarrhea will take us. I’m scared of never being able to feel happy again. Your sadness is making me sad! The only difference between you and me is that I’m not allowed to cry, seeing as how I’m a man and all.”

“Nobody said you couldn’t cry, Clark!”

“Bullshit! That’s bullshit! I hear people say that shit everyday! I’m always the one who has to be the strong superman for everybody! I’m the one who has to be everybody’s rock! I remember being a kid when I rode my bike and landed on my ass! Did anybody let me cry? No! Not one fucking person! Not my dad! Not my mom! They both wanted me to be a so-called real man! Well, congratulations, fuckers! I’m a real fucking man now!”

Taking her boyfriend’s hands once again, Sydney delicately said, “You can cry in front of me if you want, Clark. I won’t judge you. I’d never judge you for something like that.”

“Yeah right! If I start sobbing, who are you going to have left for comfort? Huh? Who’s going to be there for emotional support? I don’t even know how to fall to pieces! Twenty fucking years of pissed off feelings, Sydney, and I ain’t done a damn thing with all that rage! Now what?!”

Eyebrows furrowed, teeth clenched, skin pink, and muscles tensed, Sydney’s rage boiled over when she whispered, “You want to cry? Go ahead, Clark. Do it. Do it! Cry, damn it! Show some emotion for the first time in your fucking life! Be the man I fell in love with so many years ago! The one who wrote me all that poetry! The one who didn’t give a shit what anybody else thought of him! Come on, damn it, cry! Cry!” Her last few words were punctuated with shoves to Clark’s chest.

He brushed his hand through his thick brown hair and used his Pink Floyd the Wall T-shirt to air himself out, but no tears came. Not one drop. Just clenched teeth and a pointed finger. “You can’t do this to me, Sydney. You’re not going to break me. Not tonight, not ever!”

Sydney brought Clark’s face over and planted a wet kiss on his lips, get a few teardrops on his shoulders in the process. The boyfriend’s eyes widened at the gesture while the girlfriend remained pissed off and intense. “Now cry, damn it. Cry! You have my permission even though you never needed it. Open those floodgates!”

Clark’s breathing intensified while he tried in vain to hide his face from his girlfriend. His muscles tightened, then relaxed, then tightened, then relaxed again. His face was concentrated on his black socks and teal sweatpants. Twenty years of being pissed off. Twenty years of nothingness. Twenty years of emptiness. It all resulted in a primal scream of the F-word followed by several punches to the couch cushions. It didn’t matter how hard he punched, because no amount of toughness could prepare him for what came next.

The first tear dropped on the couch pillow. Then the second. Then the third. And then they swarmed and multiplied until the emotional dam finally exploded. For the first time in Clark’s life, he felt absolution from being “everybody’s rock”. He tried hard to suck back his tears, but it was too late: the floodgates had permanently opened. “This isn’t fair,” he muttered. “This isn’t fair!”

As Clark sobbed some more, he felt Sydney’s fingernails gently scraping down his back while the softness of her other hand petted his hair like a kitty. She whispered in his ear, “Of course it’s fair, honey. Don’t fight it. Let them come.”

“How? How could I let this happen?”

“It’s okay, Clark. I love you. I always will. Scoot over, I want to lay next to you.” The two of them snuggled together on the couch sobbing silently into each other’s arms. It was as Clark prophesized: more drama. More tears. More bullshit. More awkwardness. But it felt right. It felt as though this was where the conversation was meant to go all along. Twenty years of bitterness could never have become twenty-one no matter how hard Clark tried. He didn’t remember much from that night, but only because he fell asleep on the couch shortly after, taking Sydney’s cherry kisses with him into dreamland.

By the time the butt crack of dawn came shining through the apartment window, Clark Hall was so drained that he didn’t even have the energy to open his eyes, which were still damp, salty, and fiery from the night before. The only difference was that Sydney wasn’t in his arms anymore. Clark slowly picked his head up off the pillow and saw that she was drinking coffee at the kitchen table, still in her tank top and pajama pants.

The psychologically emancipated boyfriend peeled his body off of the leather couch and stumbled towards the table to join his equally drained girlfriend. A cup of coffee was already there waiting for him. He took several sips of the sugar and cream-drenched stimulant, but still couldn’t wake up. If he spent eternity on that couch, it would be alright with him.

Breaking the awkward silence, Clark asked, “Did you want to talk about last night?”

“Did you?”

“No, not really,” said Clark as he stretched his arms out. “I have to be at work in an hour. All that crying drained me the fuck out.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I don’t even want to go today, but it is what it is. Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow?”

“…Yeah…tomorrow…”

The two of them absentmindedly sipped their coffee while the lessons of the previous night struggled to sink in. Would tomorrow be another dramatic spell? Would Clark spend more time in front of the TV? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep and maybe take a sick day. But just like with all things in life, it was back to the grind again. Just another day, just another lousy paycheck. “Tomorrow…tomorrow…I love you…tomorrow…” Clark sang in his head.

Cold

VERSE 1

I gave up on helping you a long time ago

The tears in your eyes continued to flow

You never wanted help, never wanted peace

The negativity never really wanted to cease

You argue even after being proven wrong

Your heart is weak, your ego is strong

I’ll never help those who won’t help themselves

I guess that makes my heart cold as hell

CHORUS

You wonder why I act so cold

Because this shit is getting old

Sick of watching drama unfold

It’s the final time you will be told

VERSE 2

Believe it or not, I was once in your shoes

But I turned negativity into the oldest news

Took me many years to see clearly now

At my kind of age, I’m feeling damn proud

My ego was once the size of good old Texas

I had no interest in cleaning my own messes

I hated the world with a burning passion

If I hadn’t listened, I’d wear funeral fashion

EXTENDED CHORUS 1

You wonder why I act so cold

Because this shit is getting old

Sick of watching drama unfold

It’s the final time you will be told

Call me heartless, call me cold

Your hand was never mine to hold

Take a chance, be brave and bold

Or sleep underground covered in mold

BRIDGE

I’ve never been great at the toughest love

Now my new role fits just like a glove

You’ve pushed my buttons too many times

With the number of times I’ve heard you whine

EXTENDED CHORUS 2

You wonder why I act so cold

Because this shit is getting old

Sick of watching drama unfold

It’s the final time you will be told

Call me an asshole, call me a bastard

Call me anything, it doesn’t matter

You’re going to listen if you like it or not

Wipe away your tears and bubbly snot

The Chicken Shit Scale

***THE CHICKEN SHIT SCALE***

Just to clarify, no, this journal topic has nothing to do with the last topic, which was about cowardly villains. It’s about a certain idiom we’ve all heard at least one point in our lives: “Making chicken salad out of chicken shit”. In other words, it’s a blunt way of saying that you’re going to make the best out of a bad situation. Sometimes you can make a delicious salad, other times you’ve still got a big heaping plate of chicken shit.

I know this because back in 2006, I tried to make chicken salad out of chicken shit with a movie script previously called Pumping Filter. It was drenched with violence and slurs that made absolutely no sense in that context, so I took the script to a woman named Heather for evaluation. Despite the fact that we couldn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things and our professional relationship was a complete failure, Pumping Filter, now called Snakes in a Cage, was slightly better because of her critiques. Unfortunately, the newly christened Snakes in a Cage has been deleted from my archives because in the end it was still a heaping pile of chicken shit. A lot of my past creative writing projects have met this fate and perhaps the silver lining in all of this is that they are learning experiences I will have forever.

Today in 2017, I face the chicken shit dilemma once again. As many of you know, I’m currently shooting towards finishing three different anthologies for publication: American Darkness 2 (contemporary drama), Poison Tongue Tales 2 (sci-fi, fantasy, and horror), and the newly christened Lunatic Justice (dark poetry and heavy metal songs). I also have three first draft novels that I finished a long time ago that need to be looked at: Filter Feeder (environmental fantasy), Watch You Burn (psychological fantasy), and Demon Axe (musical fantasy).

When I eventually put the finishing touches on the anthologies, that will be when I present my beautiful beta reader Marie Krepps with choices as to what she wants to work on. I’m not saying I’m incapable of making my own decisions or that my love of surprises has spiraled out of control. I’m saying that some of these first drafts are better than others (despite the fact that all first drafts by their very nature suck ass). The question I need to ask myself is, which ones are easier to fix and which ones will completely drain me?

In an effort to answer this question, I came up with something called The Chicken Shit Scale, where I rank my first drafts on a scale of one to six, where one is the worst rough draft (and therefore needs a LOT of work) and six is the best (easy breezy lemon squeezy). Is it better to make chicken salad out of chicken shit or is it better to make more diamonds out of…well…diamonds! Sorry, that last analogy sucked, which doesn’t help my case for making the most out of a bad situation. Anyways, here are my rankings for my first drafts:

1. Filter Feeder
2. Watch You Burn
3. Demon Axe
4. Poison Tongue Tales 2
5. American Darkness 2
6. Lunatic Justice

I want you to notice that I’ve grouped the novels, short story anthologies, and the singular poetry collection separately. In my experience, short stories and poetry are easier to correct than a full-fledged novel since there aren’t as many variables to deal with. I put Filter Feeder on the bottom of the list because…well…have you seen it lately? It was written a long time ago, so naturally the more recent ones, Watch You Burn and Demon Axe, are going to overwhelmingly outrank it. American Darkness 2 outranks Poison Tongue Tales 2 because I feel like with the latter I’m writing the same story over and over again with different characters are different circumstances. It’s the same ass beating on repeat, which is pretty much what WWE is, but I watch that weekly anyways. Lunatic Justice ranks the highest because people seem to love my poetry anyways, as noted by the grades reviewers have given my previous poetry books Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage and Necrograph (I swear I’m not trying to stroke myself…maybe).

When the last three items on the list are complete, then that would be a good time to recruit Marie’s services so that I can have a singular focus in my creative work (editing). I know she’s been pretty busy lately and money isn’t coming easy for her, so that’s why I’m treading lightly with this one. To be honest, I’ll pay her whatever she wants because it’ll be worth it in the end. I trust her judgment no matter what the project is. Plus, she’s got a wicked sense of humor. Regarding the “magic wand” joke in the Poison Tongue Tales story Streetwalker, she said, “I’d rather get raped than listen to another one of [Ryan Brock’s] stupid jokes.” She’s brutally honest, but she’s right on the money with that one. Did I mention I trust her completely?

So what will it be? Will I make chicken salad out of chicken shit or will I…uh…uh…make golden earrings out of gold? (What the fuck was that?) We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***CREATIVE WORK***

Besides this journal, I haven’t done any creative work today, so nothing has changed since the Cowardly Villains blog. I might as well put on my “Please Don’t Make Me Do Stuff” T-shirt, because that’s how I feel today.

***MUSIC JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What does the lead singer of In This Moment say every time she does a commercial for underwear?

A: Even in these Hanes you can’t Jockey.

***POST-SCIRPT***

If you can make chicken salad out of that chicken shit joke, by all means, go for it. Hehe!

Tribes

PLAY TITLE: Tribes

PLAYWRIGHT: Nina Raine

OPENING YEAR: 2010

MATURE CONTENT: Language

GENRE: Family Drama

GRADE: Mixed

Verbal sparring is the conversation of choice within a Jewish-British family that consists of rightwing nut job father Christopher, detective novelist mother Beth, schizophrenic college student Daniel, spitfire opera star Ruth, and the centerpiece of this play, the deaf translator Billy. Their already volatile situation is made worse when Billy finds romance with another deaf person named Sylvia, who teaches him sign language. Billy believes that Sylvia has been more supportive of him than his own family and the two move into an apartment together. The common theme of this play is finding acceptance in a world that seems to be closing in around the oppressed.

This play is divided into two acts and I can safely say that the second is better than the first. The first act serves as an introduction to all of the dysfunction within Billy’s argumentative family. While I understand that building up to the climax has to start somewhere, the first act felt unrealistic to me as far as fighting goes. It seemed like the characters were arguing for the sake of arguing. Instead of resolving their differences, the family comes off as total jerks that nobody wants to relate to. Sure, there are some funny lines in there, but humor is subjective and I only laughed three times during this whole play. My favorite line has to be when the father makes a joke about how having sex with an ugly woman is like “sticking your cock in a cement mixer”. Every other piece of dialogue comes off as childish and mean-spirited. I bet there are families like that out there, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to be around them.

The second act was a breath of fresh air compared to the first. Instead of mindless bickering that doesn’t feel organic, you get true emotional situations. Arbitrary anger is replaced with pain, heartbreak, and passion. You can feel Sylvia’s heart shattering into a million pieces when she talks about feeling alone in this world even among a group of other deaf people. When Billy throws his Santa hat in frustration, you’d better have some tissues in your pockets. When Daniel’s stammering habits come back to haunt him, you want to be part of his hug with Billy near the end. Even though they had a blandly angry script to work with in act one, the actors did a phenomenal job in carrying the drama through. Imagine what they can pull off when the emotions are believable and relatable on a deeper level.

Speaking of believability, Daniel’s schizophrenic quirks struck a chord within me. As many of my readers know, I’ve been a schizophrenic since 2002, maybe earlier. The struggle to shut up the voices, the feeling of despair, the voices interrupting during important conversations, the insulting language in which the voices speak, those were all things I could relate to when it came to Daniel’s character. By the time the play was over, I was rooting for him to get better. In act one, however, he acts like a major pain in the ass and in many cases a verbal bully, which is why it took so long for me to relate to him. But relate to him I did. I even had to remind myself that erratic behavior is a common symptom of schizophrenia. Lord knows I’ve done some crazy stuff during the early onset of my disease.

Somewhere in the scuffle of hateful dialogue, there are messages about accepting each other for who we are, being free-thinking individuals, and being supportive when it truly counts. You might have to wait a while for the more tender parts of the play to show themselves, but it’ll be worth the wait. Some of the banter might remind you of your own family, though hopefully not to that extreme. If you’re not overly sensitive when it comes to dysfunctional family matters, then I would advise you to buy a ticket to see this play. Patience is a virtue, which is true for living with crazy characters and watching this performance. I believe a mixed grade will do just fine.