My Top 10 Fantasy Creatures

A few weeks ago, Jenna Moreci made a You Tube video counting down her top ten favorite fantasy creatures. While I don’t have an Author Tube account, I do have a list of my own. So thanks, Jenna, for the inspiration…and for being an awesome author…and for being a funny You Tuber. Anyways, here’s my personal list:

1. Cabbits from Tenchi Muyo

2. Calcobrena puppets from Final Fantasy 4

3. Demon clown from The Brave Little Toaster

4. Haunted house ghost from Adventures in the Magic Kingdom

5. Luck dragon from The Never Ending Story

6. Marching hammers from Pink Floyd the Wall

7. Moogles from the Final Fantasy franchise

8. Phanto from Super Mario Brothers 2

9. Protoss zealots from Starcraft

10. Shy Guys from Super Mario Brothers 2

And for an honorable mention, I’ve got Slimer from The Real Ghostbusters since we both have bottomless stomachs and hearts of gold. ^_^

Terrible Flaws

 Anytime a book, movie, or TV show receives praise for having “flawed characters”, it makes me wonder what exactly those flaws were. Are all flaws created equal or are some more forgivable than others? Can characters with the least forgivable flaws find redemption by the end of the story or does that come off as forced? Are some character traits considered flaws when they don’t deserve to be? Do villains’ flaws (aside from the obvious) have to be conquered just like the heroes’?

I’m asking all of these questions because I’ve been in this writing game for many years and I still haven’t mastered the art of the flawed character. I’m always afraid of making a character so flawed that they’re no longer likeable in any capacity. Even dumpster fire human beings can be liked by the readers, but how do I achieve this? Well…let’s run these questions through a battery of tests, shall we?

Suppose you have a protagonist (like every story does). He’s got acrobatic fighting skills, he’s got magical powers for days, and he’s perfected the art of the insult. He wears spiked metal armor and carries a sword bigger than his entire body. He’s got long purple hair that has probably been washed with Head & Shoulders more times than he’s been in combat. He’s got striking golden eyes that can weaken the knees of every woman around him. His major flaw? He’s a genocidal lunatic. He doesn’t just go in for the kill. He destroys entire groups of people until they’ve gone virtually extinct. He feels no remorse for his actions and openly mocks any group that he’s wiped off the face of the earth. 

Are you cringing in disgust yet? Why? You like flawed characters! Killing large numbers of people is a HUGE flaw for somebody to have. I certainly hope he can overcome it! Now that I think about it, there is an example of someone like this. His name is Vegeta and he’s from the Dragon Ball franchise. In the beginning of the series, he killed off entire populations from any given planet and sold the planet for a quick buck. Near the end of the series, he’s a loving father and husband, but he’s still salty as fuck. Despite his murderous past, Vegeta is still the most popular character in the series.

Alright, alright, alright, that’s just one example of a successful flawed character, though. Maybe genocide isn’t enough to turn people off (which actually scares me a little bit). Okay, how about this: you’ve got a protagonist (noticing a theme here?). He’s rich beyond his wildest dreams. He’s got more abs than he knows what to do with. His business suits, sports cars, and summer homes all cost him more than the national debt allows. He can sex up any woman from the moment they smell his cologne. 

His major flaw? He’s got a serious case of flatulence that could trigger climate change and successfully take away Greta Thunberg’s future. What? You like flawed characters! His farting gets in the way of his romantic life and political aspirations, so it’s a real flaw! He can easily overcome it by getting a colonoscopy and finding out what the fuck is going on in his ass. But once he finds out what’s actually in there…then the plot thickens quicker than one of his diarrhea dumps. Could you get behind a character like this? Hopefully, not literally since we’ve established that his farts smell like dead skunks and toxic waste.

Okay, maybe bathroom humor isn’t your thing. It certainly isn’t mine. So how about this: you have a protagonist (yet again). He’s a five-star general who commands the respect of everyone he meets, even people outside of his jurisdiction. When he tells you to do pushups, it won’t matter if you just got your COVID vaccine, because you’ll do them anyways. When he tells you to run ten miles without stopping, it won’t matter if you’re bound to a wheelchair, because you’ll find a way. 

His major flaw? His voice is so cartoonishly annoying that subordinates only do what he says so that he’ll shut up and leave them alone. That’s not respect for authority; that’s hatred for irritating people. When the time comes to actually take him seriously, nobody listens to reason, because the general’s voice shatters their eardrums every time. Do you still think all flaws are created equal?

Now I don’t want any of you to think that I’m advocating for Mary-Sues and Gary-Stus. Maybe there was a time in my childhood when beefy barbarians who never lose were appealing to me. Maybe there was a time when undeniably hot chicks won me over just because. But as I got older, the shine wore off in a big fucking hurry. You think Alex De Large from A Clockwork Orange would have become as iconic as he was if he took the role of an axe-wielding ninja-knight who remained undefeated forever? You think Vic Mackey from The Shield would have been convincing as a corrupt LAPD detective if he didn’t occasionally lose from time to time? We don’t want to see our favorites lose, but if they don’t, then the story becomes boring and nobody cares.

But at the same time, we have to come to terms with what flaws we’re willing to forgive and which ones make a character impossible to love. Maybe the flaws we can’t forgive are overcome by the end of the story. Maybe a Klansman who uses the N-word five hundred times in a two-minute conversation can see the light and become so far to the left that he falls off the spectrum completely. Maybe a CEO who makes money off of his impoverished employees can become homeless and experience the plight of his underlings firsthand. So maybe the question isn’t, “Is this flaw bad?” Maybe the question is, “Can this flaw be redeemed?”

By that logic, even Cthulu can be redeemed despite the fact that he’s an intergalactic squid who destroys worlds effortlessly and drives the survivors to infinite madness. Maybe Cthulu has a slight moment of guilt when a feral child tries to reach out to his heart. It’s one thing to drive adults to madness, but feral children never had a chance to even acquire a first language. So Cthulu’s heart is broken beyond repair, but his universe is not, so he creates paradise out of his destruction. Would you still find it in your heart to forgive this flawed character despite what he did to get to this point? Did Hitler need a hug? Does Donald Trump need tender loving care? Does Vladimir Putin need a girlfriend who will cradle his head in her lap and stroke…whatever hair is left on his head?

I guess it all boils down to whether or not you as a reader believe in redemption arcs. I personally can’t get enough of them as long as they’re not rushed and forced. If you don’t want spoilers for A Dog’s Journey, then stop reading and have a nice day. Gloria is a toxic mother who spends her nights partying and drinking rather than taking care of CJ and her dog. So what does Gloria do? She gets sober and reconnects with CJ, giving her letters from her father that later serve as creative fuel for her songs, thus launching a successful music career. That’s one example of a redemption arc I can get behind. Gloria is indeed a flawed character, downright disgusting at times. Neglect and abuse are horrible things to do to a child. And yet, she won me over by the movie’s end. Well done!

Perhaps the lesson I’m trying to teach myself is to not be afraid of the flaws I give my characters. I have enough faith in my writing abilities that the characters can be redeemed by the story’s end. And if I haven’t done that, it’s okay, because that’s why our stories go through multiple drafts worth of edits and rewrites. Unlike a brain surgeon, you don’t have to get it right the first time if you’re writing a story from scratch. Be bold. Be brave. Let your book babies take flight. You can’t cradle them forever and if you do, you’re worse than the mother from Pink Floyd the Wall, a movie with a VERY flawed protagonist, yet one who is easy to root for.

The Chehalis Video Store Incident

 A few years ago, I got rid of my VHS copy of Pink Floyd the Wall in a bout of spring cleaning. It’s currently sitting in a thrift shop somewhere waiting to be bought if it hasn’t already been. If you asked me about this back in the mid-90’s, I wouldn’t have thought that the movie would end up being one of my favorites of all time. Never mind the fact that I was a pre-teen in the mid-90’s and The Wall is an R-rated movie (for good reason). Then again, I never cared about age limits and neither did my parents. But this isn’t a story about being too young to watch an R-rated movie, no, no, no. After all, there are certain movies that disturb the shit out of the audience regardless of how old they are, examples of which include The Human Centipede, Hostel, Saw, and of course, Pink Floyd the Wall.

Papier-mâché masks with two holes for the eyes and one hole for the mouth. If you were a character from The Wall and you wore one of these, it meant you lost your individuality and were successfully bent to the will of your corporate masters. It also meant you were going to eventually be ground into hamburger meat so that you’ll look even LESS distinguishable from your conformist peers. The masks alone could make you question your love for cheese. The hamburger scene will make you into a permanent vegetarian. And that’s just one music video! The Union Jack morphing into a bloody cross will make you question what kind of sauce is covering your meatball sub. A crudely-drawn monster morphing into a literal and figurative giant asshole? If that happened in 2020, the toilet paper would be gone long before the pandemic.

But long before the movie even starts, your formerly untainted eyes will feast upon the artwork on the cover: a screaming face with an excessively wide mouth, a bloody chin, a bloody shoulder, hideous dental work, and a blue background that will make you question your need to ever drink water again. I dare you to find this artwork and give it a big old smooch. Go on! I dare you! Chicken! Wait a minute…did I say chicken? Was I being a hypocrite just now? I would have been if it was the mid-90’s. Pink Floyd the Wall and its artwork terrified the shit out of me during that time. My limbs would shake. The color would drain from my face. My blood would go cold at the mere suggestion of watching that movie. One time my leg shook while I was resting my foot on the bed and tying my shoe.

Every time my mom and dad took me and my brother to Sight and Sound Video Store in Chehalis, Washington, there was always the looming threat of somebody wanting to rent Pink Floyd the Wall and subjecting me to the horrors within. But why would I want to admit to being scared of it when Pink Floyd was one of my favorite bands at the time? Sure, I grew up in a progressive family, but that didn’t mean I didn’t feel at least some obligation to hide my fear from those around me. Besides, my family wasn’t the only influence in my life. My classmates at Chehalis Middle School would have caught wind of it if I let the cat out of the bag. My family is progressive, Chehalis is not. Macho conservatism was the norm in this god forsaken town. Any weakness on display was mocked and ridiculed until the end of time, giving way for even more weaknesses to be revealed by proxy.

One day at Sight and Sound, the secret came within razor-thin closeness of being out. It didn’t help matters that on the back wall of the video store, there was a big fucking Pink Floyd the Wall poster with that disgusting, hideous face looking down upon everybody who dared enter the store. I kept my head tucked low and hurried to the kids section where my eyes could be averted. What would I rent that wasn’t the world’s scariest rock opera? The Three Stooges? Donald Duck? Mickey Mouse? Dick Tracy? Before I could make my official decision, my parents come up to me and tell me that Sight and Sound is selling CD’s and T-shirts in the back of the store, which was in direct eye-contact with the vomit-inducing face.

My mother read my emotions like a book despite my best efforts to hide them. The color draining from my face, the sad expression, the dewy eyes, the beating cold sweat, they all prompted my mom to finally ask…“What’s wrong?” This was my opportunity to bear my soul and to “break down the walls” so to speak. This was the friendlier version of Gerald Scarfe’s judge telling me to expose my feelings to the world. But instead, the conversation went like this:

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You look sad.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to cry.”

“I’M FINE!”

The conversation kept going on and on with “I’m fine” and “what’s wrong?” responses until I reluctantly agreed to go with dad to the back of the store to check out their CD’s and T-shirts. I stared that Pink Floyd poster right in the face and was ready to melt into a puddle…until I didn’t. The nasty-looking face no longer had control over me. But why? Why the sudden loss of fear? Was I exposed to it so many times that it became meaningless? Was this truly the Law of Diminishing Returns? Whatever it was, I looked at Pink Floyd CD’s and T-shirts with Dad regardless. Surprise, surprise, my dad wanted a T-shirt with the screaming face on it and it still didn’t melt me like a snowflake. Would I eventually feel this kind of courage towards the putty-faced masks in the actual movie? I wasn’t about to press my luck, so we didn’t rent it.

I thought that would have been the end of that. We’d get our movies, CD’s, and T-shirts and then get the fuck out of there. But then the four of us ate at a Chinese restaurant across the street from Sight and Sound. It’s amazing that I still had an appetite for Chinese food considering everything I just went through. We were sipping on our drinks waiting for the food to arrive when my mom asked…

“What happened to you in the video store?”

“Nothing.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“You were walking with your head down when we went into the store. Was somebody picking on you?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“NOTHING IS WRONG! I’M FINE!”

She seemed intent on asking me over and over again until I spilled the beans. At this point it wasn’t a mother asking about the welfare of her son. It felt more like an interrogation. We even had the hot lamp above our table to complete the effect. But I kept on denying that anything was wrong until the conversation ran its course. She even shushed me when I got too loud, but I stood my ground. “Nothing is wrong! I’m fine! I’m not sad! Nobody was picking on me!”

In a town full of gun control opponents, I dodged the biggest bullet of them all. But what would have happened if I admitted to being afraid of Pink Floyd the Wall and its movie artwork? Would I have been forbidden from going to see Roger Waters in 2000? Would I have been labeled a wuss by everyone around me? Would the bullying I experienced in my freshman year of high school have been worse than it already was? The latter might have been true since I solved all of my disputes at the time with violence and screaming. Wusses and violence don’t exactly go hand-in-hand, after all.

But an even bigger consequence to admitting my crippling fear was that Pink Floyd the Wall wouldn’t go on to become my favorite movie of all time. I wouldn’t have received that message of protecting my individuality at all costs. I would have blindly believed anybody who told me my creativity was no good. I would have stumbled into mediocrity and not given two shits about it. Think of all the TV shows, movies, and books I would have missed out on if I admitted to being afraid all the time and allowed authority figures and bullies to tell me how to think. I might not even have a writing career if that was the case. I could have received the “be yourself” message from any piece of media, but where else was I going to get it from that had “Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2” playing in the background? The music spoke to me and so did the movie.

I’m not saying that everyone should keep their fears a secret all the time. That’s just what I did and I may have done some serious damage to my psyche by doing that. Not admitting fear is the same as not admitting other things in life such as being bullied, being abused, being mentally ill, being in pain, or god knows what else. Silence is your worst enemy in a world where everyone wants to tell you what to believe and how to think. If you don’t think for yourself, there are plenty of Hitlers out there who are willing to tell you what life is all about. If you don’t stand up for what you believe, there are plenty of drunken spouses out there who will beat it into your brain, literally and figuratively. Stand for something…or you’ll fall for anything…right into a sausage grinder!

Disturbing Tropes

***DISTURBING TROPES***

Yes, I know we’re two months removed from Halloween and this particular topic’s expiration date has passed. But then again, I don’t fucking care! I see a lot of Author Tubers counting down lists of their favorite/worst tropes depending on what the genre is. Jenna Moreci did a Worst Family Tropes video and the final item on her list reminds me too much of Jeff Foxworthy’s “You Might Be a Redneck” jokes. And then you have Erin Kinsella being as sweet as can be when listing off her favorite romantic tropes. I don’t have a You Tube channel, but I want to list off tropes of my own, so that’s why we’re gathered here today, my dearly beloveds. Today I’m listing off my top six most disturbing tropes in any genre. If you agree or disagree with anything on this list, I’d love to hear it.

***LOSS OF INDIVIDUALITY***

Our minds are the last safe havens for us as human beings. Without our individuality, we are nothing. In high school, I was very protective of my individuality and I have Pink Floyd the Wall to thank for that. The school kids in that movie lose their individuality and that’s why they all wear creepy putty-faced masks: because they all look and act the same. In this case, the teacher is responsible for their conformity because he’s a bully. He reads Pink’s poetry out loud and humiliates him in front of the classroom. Therefore, every time he writes poetry, he’s going to think of that traumatic moment and not want to do poetry anymore, hence why he wears a putty-faced mask. School is just one place where a child can lose his individuality. It can also happen in church, in cults, and even in their own homes. When you lose the ability to decide for yourself, you give up what makes you special.

***ANIMAL TRANSFORMATION***

When I say animal transformation, I’m not talking about shape shifters who willingly change into other species. I’m talking about when it happens to somebody against their will. When you transform into an animal, you lose all credibility as a human being and your individuality goes up in smoke. We saw this with Disney’s version of Pinocchio when the kids were all transformed into donkeys after partaking in “sinful” behavior. Believe it or not, I can find an even more disturbing version of this trope. In Cowboy Bebop’s fourth episode, Gateway Shuffle, an eco-terrorist group creates a virus that transforms ordinary human beings into primitive monkeys. They decide to use the virus on one of their own, Harrison, after he makes a mistake during an attack. Watching Harrison locked in a small cage and transforming into a monkey was easily the most disturbing moment in Cowboy Bebop. Yes, he’s a bad guy, but even I had to have sympathy for him.

***FALSE IMPRISONMENT***

Prison by itself is a scary place to be. The guards are bullies, the prisoners are bullies, and there’s no reprieve from the constant assaults. The US has the highest prison population of any country, but that’s not what I’m talking about today. What if the imprisonment of another person was because of a civilian and not the police? What if it’s a pedophile holding a child hostage for decades at a time? What if it’s a drug cartel holding someone’s wife hostage in exchange for money or information? What if it’s a deprogrammer holding a non-brainwashed person hostage and forcing him to lose his individuality? Jaycee Dugard’s story of being raped for eighteen years straight by a complete stranger will always disturb me, so much so that I wish there was a hell just so her attacker could burn in it for all eternity.

***SPIDERS, SCORPIONS, AND SNAKES***

The three S’s, ladies and gentlemen. The three motherfucking S’s. They’re tiny, they’re creepy, and they love to bite and sting humans for virtually no reason. One of the three S’s is bad enough on its own. But just imagine the horror of being trapped in a room with hundreds of these disgusting creatures. Crawling on your walls, crawling on your body, eating you alive as you struggle to get them off. It’s the reason why I’ll never watch Something Wicked This Way Comes or Eight Legged Freaks ever again, as they both have spider scenes. What about that Indiana Jones movie where Indy is trapped underground with a bunch of snakes? Fucking forget it, man! Yuck!

***HEAD VOICES***

As a schizophrenic, I have personal experience with this. Disembodied voices telling you negative things? Creepy! Now imagine responding to them out loud in a public place. Not only will the voices grow more aggressive the more you fight them, but those who share the public space with you will either give you funny looks or they’ll back as far away from you as they possibly can. Even with those head voices, you’re the loneliest motherfucker on planet earth. Luckily, I’ve never had to be institutionalized, but if I was, that’d be yet another example of false imprisonment. Mental hospitals are prisons for the psychologically ill. They committed no crimes, yet they can’t leave whenever they want to nor do they get freedom or rights of any kind. That’s a prison in my eyes.

***HEAD SHAVING***

When I say head shaving, I’m not talking about my bimonthly visit to Hair Masters to get a buzz cut. I’m not even talking about cancer patients having their hair fall out after chemotherapy. I’m talking about when head shaving is done to an unwilling person as a way to humiliate and dehumanize them. We saw this in V For Vendetta when Natalie Portman was captured by the totalitarian government and had her head shaved completely bald. We see this in prisons all the time when newbies get their heads shaved for no other reason other than the fact that the guards are assholes. And going back to that theme of loss of individuality, yes, head shaving can be yet another way to make a large group of people look exactly the same. There’s nothing inherently wrong with being bald, but against your will at another person’s hands? Not cool. And definitely creepy as fuck.

***CONCLUSION***

So what about you guys? Do you have any tropes that you find disturbing? Let me know in the comment section. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight! Hey, there’s another disturbing trope: the theme music from Tales From the Dark Side!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

Over the past few days, I’ve been working on getting Beautiful Monster in tiptop shape for yet another round of editing. I’ve written a new prologue where Queen Llewellyn Xavier gives a Magetan sermon to her flock and I’ve edited the newly minted chapter one where her brother Windham Xavier has a traumatic episode prior to his stealth mission. Both chapters have something in common: the main protagonists don’t act like overdramatic babies anymore. Crying was such a common thing in my most recent draft, so much so that the characters came off as drama queens rather than people who are actually in pain. That’s something I intend to change as I’m going through these chapters. That way, when Windham finally does cry near the story’s end, it’ll be special and warranted. Wish me luck!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Before you judge me, take a good hard look at yourself. You don’t know me, but you’re draining me of mental health. A lie based on popular opinion. I want to die, ‘cause I can’t be forgiven. The world is caving in all around me. I see myself as a vulgar monstrosity. My mind collapsed into a technical mess. I can’t deal with the guilt I have to ingest. Locked in a room void of humanity. I’m in a black hole suffering endlessly. Opening my eyes is worse than death. That’s why I keep on holding my breath.”

-Alien Weaponry singing “Holding My Breath”-

No Singular Goal

***NO SINGULAR GOAL***

I’ve been writing novels and short stories for a long fucking time, yet I only noticed today how almost none of my novels have singular goals within the plot. Instead the main characters accomplish smaller goals on the way to a climax that may or may not be part of the linear structure. It’s weird. There are singular goals in other stories, but not mine. In Harry Potter, the goal is to kill Voldemort. In Star Wars, it’s to kill Darth Vader and destabilize the empire. In Lord of the Rings, it’s to destroy a powerful ring by dropping it into a river of lava. In Silent Warrior, the main goal is to…um…In Beautiful Monster, Windham Xavier wants to…uh…heh…In Incelbordination…Oswald Crow wants to…oh, I give up!

Okay, let’s use Incelbordination as an example. At the beginning of the story, Oswald Crow wants a girlfriend, or to at least have sex for the very first time. But then he meets Antero Magnus and wants to rage against the world. Then he sees how coo-coo his followers are and wants to bring Antero to justice. And then once that’s out of the way, he wants to sort out his life and find a real girlfriend again, which he doesn’t do. Does this seem like a cluster fuck to you? I’m sure it does. But we’re just getting warmed up!

For the sake of argument, when I refer to Beautiful Monster, I’ll only refer to the god-awful drive-by abortion first draft, not the rewrite I’m currently working on. Windham Xavier goes on a mission to spy on Shelly Atwood. Then he wants to get away from her. Then he wants to make sweet monkey love to Tarja Rikkinen for no damn reason. Then he wants to keep his job at the formerly known Paladin Cross. Then he wants to kill Orpheus Rinehart. Then he wants to survive and start a new life with Tarja. And then…reasons?

Still not convinced of how crazy my plot structures are? Let’s do the same thing for Silent Warrior. Scott George wants to stop having traumatic visions. Then he wants to stick it to his history teacher. Then he wants to fuck the history teacher’s daughter. Then he wants to get out of jail. Then he wants to graduate high school. Then he wants to be a psychological counselor at his high school. And then he wants to…he, uh…UGH!

These plots would all sound chaotic to any sane reader. Windham Xavier, Scott George, and Oswald Crow have no singular goals that define the entire story. They’re just playing in by ear and changing their minds as new events take place. Are there a whole lot of stories out there with this kind of narrative? I’ll try to think of a few.

In A Christmas Story, Ralph wants to get a BB rifle for Christmas. Then he wants to get an A++++++ on his essay. Then he wants to decode Little Orphan Annie’s message. Then he wants to beat the shit out of Scut Farkus. Then he wants to eat dinner at a Chinese restaurant after the Christmas turkey is ruined by the Bumpus’s dogs. And then once he shoots his eye out, he wants to…he wants to…he, uh…DAH!

In Pink Floyd the Wall, Pink wants to survive life without a father. Then he wants to stick it to his Scottish teacher. Then he wants to grow up and be a rock star. Then he wants to get married. Then he wants to shut everybody out. Then he wants to have a pseudo Nazi rally and then put himself on trial when things get out of control. And then he wants to…uh…Jesus…UGH!

I’m sure there are other examples of chaotic storytelling out there, but I can’t think of anything beyond those two I just gave. Truth be told, I’m not even sure if refusing to have a singular goal in mind is the right or wrong thing to do. I suppose a case could be made that these stories of mine are slices of life, where random occurrences and constant changes of opinion are part of reality.

Think about it for a minute. Does anybody’s life really have a singular goal? And if so, what do they do when it’s achieved? Does their story end right there? Do they live the rest of their lives riding out this goal or do they miraculously have a heart attack and die at the story’s conclusion?  Life is full of twists and turns. It’s not a linear path despite what these other stories tell you. If it was a linear path, the ending would be too easy to predict. But this is just my opinion and I could be missing something here.

I’d like to think that a story’s unpredictability lies within the hows, not the whats. Yes, we know the good guys will win in the end. But if you want to know how they survive these insurmountable odds, you have to read the whole fucking thing. But what if the ending is negative? Again, it’s all about the hows. How did the hero fuck it up that badly and how does life go on now that he’s no longer a factor? With a chaotic plot, you don’t have to worry about these things too much because you don’t know what to expect. You’re looking for the whats AND the hows. But again, this is just my opinion and if someone wants to prove me wrong, I’ll give you all the chances you need to do so. I could be wrong and I wouldn’t even know it until someone told me.

Are there any other examples of chaotic storytelling that I’m missing? They do exist, I’m sure, but most of my media intake comes from linear plots revolving around a singular goal. In Black Panther, the Wakandans want to defend their kingdom from evil forces. In Wonder Woman, she wants to make Ares pay for his sins against her people. In X-Men, Charles Xavier’s students want to keep Magneto from killing all humans despite the fact that humans are prejudiced against mutants.

In Occupy Wrestling (which actually is published), Mitch McLeod wants to win the KDW World Championship. Then he wants to keep it. Then he wants to put his boss in jail. Then he wants to protect his girlfriend from hideous monster wrestlers. Then he wants to bring down his boss’s monstrous empire. Then he wants to…uh…uh…damn it! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! What you do once you get to the mountaintop, that’s up to you. I certainly hope that’s not your singular goal in life!

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

RANDAL: Can’t we do something about those two stoners hanging around the convenience store all the time?

DANTE: Why? What’d they do now?

RANDAL: I’m trying to watch Clash of the Titans and all I can hear is those two screaming about Morris Day at the top of their lungs.

DANTE: I thought the fat one didn’t talk much.

RANDAL: What, am I producing an A&E Biography about them?

-Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back-

***POST-SCRIPT***

While I’m playing the waiting game with Emilio and the Scratching Post (which is finished, by the way), I’ve been keeping busy with reviews of the shortest books I own. You’ll also notice a short story called Goddamn Dog. Well, I’d also like to get back to writing Beautiful Monster during this downtime. I believe it’s been at least a whole month since I’ve touched this project. That’s way too long. When it comes to chapter 17, I’m having a hard time deciding if I should tell the story through Windham’s eyes or Tarja’s. Windham is still in the Shadow Asylum basement being tortured by Kody Savage. Tarja is on her way to rescue him. Maybe I can split this chapter into two parts? Hmm…

The Last Child Comedian

***BEFORE I BEGIN***

Just a quick heads up to readers of Beautiful Monster: chapter eleven will be featured exclusively on Wattpad and nowhere else due to its strong sexual content. You won’t need a trigger warning this time, because the sex will be consensual (and maybe a little pornographic, depending on my own personal knowledge of sex). This chapter has been a long time coming, though it’s only the beginning of a much larger story of recovery and sensitivity.

***THE LAST CHILD COMEDIAN***

Many of you already know this, but when it comes to my sense of humor and my writing, George Carlin has always been one of my biggest influences. He swears like a sailor, he’s unafraid of being censored, he’s poignant as hell, and best of all, he’s funnier than a motherfucker. Speaking of which, “A father is a motherfucker.” That’s a direct line from George Carlin and it got my laugh motor going at the time. Thank god he came into my life when he did, because my sense of humor was suffering as an early teenager slash little kid.

Before Curious George became part of my comedic repertoire, I had guys like Johnny Carson and Benny Hill giving me my fill. There’s nothing wrong with either of those two comedians, but there was something wrong with the way I’ve processed their jokes into my own creativity. They told a lot of adult jokes that I wasn’t old enough to get yet, so all I had was their G-rated material. And from those jokes came some…questionable material on my part.

I knew it was questionable because when I told these manufactured jokes to my dad and brother, they didn’t laugh. Quite frankly, I don’t blame them. Want to hear my version of Jeff Foxworthy? Prepare to cringe hard. “If you fly all the way to Big Ben just to see what time it is, you might be a redneck.” Good god almighty. What the fuck? You think that’s awful, listen to this: “Why don’t criminals use pens? Because they might go to jail (pen as in penitentiary)”. Ugh. I’m cringing just writing these jokes down.

But it didn’t stop there. In fact, it got progressively worse. I’m sure my older brother remembers the infamous “Buttered Toast Shop” routine. It told the fictional story of a crabby restaurant owner with a lisp who only served buttered toast at his establishment. You couldn’t order anything else, not jam, not peanut butter, not even water. Just buttered toast. You also couldn’t dress like Wonder Woman in his diner because he’ll accuse you of wearing a diaper instead of a one-piece suit. I’ll let you all shiver for a few seconds before I continue.

And then there was a routine about a fat black guy named Tiny winning a vacation to Hawaii. Only he didn’t pronounce it the way people normally do. He pronounced it “Hwy.” That’s it. That’s the punch line for this whole joke. People would constantly try to correct him, but he just kept calling it “Hwy”, so he had his vacation revoked. I bet some alternative right motherfuckers would eat this shit up, but not my brother, who rightfully told me that my sense of humor was for little babies.

And then it got worse once again. My next routine was about an airline traveler who wanted to go to Japan, but kept getting his ass kicked by ninjas. In fact, the ninjas told him in a butchered sing-song accent, “We are the Japanese ninjas and we’re going to kick your butt!” Okay, so just don’t go to Japan. Problem solved. But then this traveler kept going to other countries and getting his ass kicked by ninjas. “We are the [Insert Foreign Country Here] ninjas and we’re going to kick your butt!” Even when he was on an airplane over the Pacific Ocean, he’d still get his ass kicked by international ninjas. Not one laugh. Not one goddamn laugh was earned that day. I can’t imagine why. Oh, excuse me. I can’t imagine “hwy”.

I didn’t watch my first George Carlin HBO special until I was fifteen years old. It was a VHS version of “Doing It Again”, where he talks about euphemisms, politically correct language, dog turds, and anything else that would make the censors rip their hair out. I watched these comedy bits and I thought to myself, “I want to do that!” So I took myself over to The Matrix Coffeehouse in Chehalis, Washington and performed George Carlin routines from memory. “If crime fighters fight crime and fire fighters fight fires, what do freedom fighters fight?” And of course, some wiseass from the crowd just had to yell, “Freedom!” Even so, I probably got more laughs doing this than I would have talking about a fictional Buttered Toast Shop.

It was from that George Carlin special along with the movie Pink Floyd the Wall that gave me my strong sense of individuality. I could crack offensive jokes and listen to devilish music without ever once caring what other people thought of me. I still take that nonconformist attitude into my adult life, though I’ve calmed down just a little bit during those lengthy years. Thank you, George, for bringing me the mental emancipation I needed from dull G-rated comedy that makes no goddamn sense. He’s been dead for a whole decade now, but I still keep his comedy close to my heart.

The lesson for the day: if you must process creative fuel and form your personal identity around it, don’t let anybody tell you you can’t do this or you can’t do that. Do what feels right to you. Do what makes you happy. Unless you’re a serial killer, in which case, you should probably surrender yourself to the authorities. Other than that, try not to crack under the pressures of society. They don’t care about you and your dreams. They only care about keeping the machine moving, a machine which grinds individuality into pieces of homogenous meat. I told you Pink Floyd the Wall had a strong influence on me! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***COMEDY ROUTINE OF THE DAY***

“Let’s take a look at some of these food words, particularly “old-fashioned”. When you hear the words “old-fashioned”, you’re supposed to think, “Oh, this goes back to the old days!” Right! The old days! Before we had sanitation laws. Before hygiene became popular. When botulism was still considered to be a sauce. Old-fashioned is supposed to give you a warm feeling. It makes you think about your grandma. Well, I don’t know about you, but when I’m picking out food, I don’t want to picture ninety pounds of wrinkles in a black dress…with a big hairy mole sticking out…and an infected lip.”

-George Carlin, 1937-2008-

Fan Fiction Group Therapy

***FAN FICTION GROUP THERAPY***

I know this blog entry will sound ironic considering my last one was about how I don’t want to take time to decompress after a negative event. But just because I don’t want to, doesn’t mean others can’t benefit from it. I don’t project my insecurities on other people. I will say, however, that I’ve never been part of a group therapy session before, but I imagine it’s a lot like an AA meeting or a prayer clique. Since this is my group therapy session we’re talking about, there will obviously be some differences. For refreshments, there won’t be juice and cookies. Juice and cookies? What is this, kindergarten? How about some of the good stuff for a change? Hot wings! Pizza! Cheeseburgers! No, they’re not healthy for you, but then again, neither is a sugar-frosted cookie with a billion calories in one serving. The juice also probably contains high fructose corn syrup, which is worse than sugar in many ways.

Why am I writing a blog about group therapy? Because in all my time of taking in fictional stories, I’ve seen a lot of characters who clearly need it. They’re fucked up, they’re tearful, and for some of them it may be too late, but that doesn’t mean we can’t try. So here it is, ladies and gentlemen: my fan fiction group therapy roster. We’ll all get together and talk about our feelings while dining on something other than sugar and corn syrup.

***MILLENIUM: LANDON BRYCE***

I’ve beaten this topic to death in a previous blog entry where I incorporate Otherwise’s music into the canon. But that doesn’t make Landon Bryce’s induction into this group any less important. Look at him, he’s a wreck! He was held hostage by a lovey-dovey demon named Lucy Butler and brainwashed into believing that he was mediocre instead of brilliant. He could have gone places. He could have skyrocketed past the glass ceiling. Unfortunately, we never got to see future episodes of Millennium where Landon gets to rise above his kidnapping scenario. More than likely, if he believes the bullshit he was fed while he was being cuddled and kissed by Lucy Butler, then he’ll have a hard time holding down a job because he doesn’t believe in himself. He’ll also want to remain single because every woman he goes out with looks like Lucy in the end. Eat the cheeseburger, Landon. Eat it! It’s soul food!

***FINAL FANTASY VIII: SQUALL LEONHART***

If you’ve played this videogame before, you might admire Squall’s ability to give absolutely zero fucks about the people around him. No emotional attachments, no love interests, no friendships, just Squall Leonhart and a Linkin Park CD, though Linkin Park’s first album wouldn’t come out until a few years after Final Fantasy VIII. But really, can you blame Squall? He grew up in an orphanage and was left behind by the one person he thought he could trust: his older sister. He doesn’t want to get his heart broken again, so he tells the world to fuck off. Is anybody really that independent? Human beings are social animals by nature, so all of this wall-building has to make Squall lonely and depressed deep inside. He can fantasize about isolation all he wants, but even he wouldn’t be able to survive such an environment. Have a slice of pizza, Squall, and think about your future.

***FINAL FANTASY VII: CLOUD STRIFE***

He couldn’t save Aerith, he couldn’t save himself, and he still has no fucking clue what “Dilly Dally Shilly Shally” means. Not even the love of Tifa Lockhart can snap him out of his depressive funk. In fact, the two might be having marital issues that they can’t work out on their own, so perhaps group therapy will be Cloud’s saving grace. He’s got a lot to talk about whether it’s his past battles, his love triangle, or being washed up in a river full of toxic waste. And when he holds a chicken wing in his hand and tries to take a bite, the other group members will notice how aggressively his hand is shaking. It could be PTSD. It could be depression. Or it could be a case of not having anymore fucks to give.

***PINK FLOYD THE WALL: PINK FLOYD***

I’m talking strictly about the adult character in the movie, not the actual band members, although Roger Waters in particular could use some group therapy. But it’s true, the adult version of Pink just needs someone to talk to about his lost father or his abusive teacher or his cheating wife or his smothering mother. But instead, he builds a wall around himself and lets nobody in, not unlike Squall Leonhart. Within the confines of this wall, he goes bat shit insane and smashes his hotel room to pieces. How do you convince a guy with this much insanity to join a group therapy session? It’s not easy, but I hear the Sparkling Ices taste quite lovely, especially the out-of-stock green apple flavor.

***STREET FIGHTER ALPHA 3: CODY TRAVERS***

Everything seemed to be going Cody’s way, especially in his original videogame Final Fight where he rescued his girlfriend Jessica and freed Metro City from the Mad Gear gang’s clutches. But then Cody was locked up in prison and transformed into a monster of a human being by the harsh system. He escaped twice as muscled and half as emotional. He doesn’t want his old girlfriend back. He doesn’t even want to rekindle his friendships with Guy and Haggar. All he wants in this world is the thrill of combat and then he’ll kindly step back behind the jail bars. If he does join group therapy, it’ll most likely be the judge’s order, though it’s hard to say no when a plate of steamed spinach is waiting for you.

***OBSELIDIA: GEORGE***

I’ve also talked about George in another blog entry, but to bring you up to speed, he starts out in the movie thinking love is obsolete since it’s just chemicals in the brain fucking with you. He worked in a library and a female customer flirted with him only to be turned down for that specific reason. And then George meets his philosophical equal in Sophie and the anti-love myth is dispelled forever…at least until Sophie is revealed to already have a boyfriend by the movie’s end. Poor George. Poor, poor George. Have a seat next to Cody and enjoy a chicken wing. The chicken wing doesn’t mind that your heart is shattered into a million pieces. In fact, the worse condition your heart is in, the better it is for the chicken companies!

***THE PERKS OF BEING A WALLFLOWER: CHARLIE***

All this high schooler wanted was a circle of friends he could share is life with. He gets everything he wants and more when he meets step-siblings Patrick and Sam. Charlie falls head-over-heels for the lovely lady Sam, but is careful to keep his distance because he doesn’t want to ruin their friendship. He almost gets kicked out of the group permanently and that alone would have warranted group therapy. But then he regains the keys to the kingdom and is dragged out of the shadows by Sam. The two begin to have sex, but then Charlie has repressed flashbacks of being molested by his aunt and is rushed to a hospital. By the time he recovers, Sam and Patrick are off to college and Charlie still has more high school to complete. He’s both “happy and sad at the same time”. Pull up a chair, Charlie. It’s going to be along road.

***CONCLUSION***

There will be tears. There will be shakes. There will be pain. But most importantly, there will be recovery. That’s what I want for all of these fictional characters. But I refuse to end our sessions with the famous speech about “the wisdom to know the difference”. They already know what they can and can’t change and what they can and can’t accept. If they want a bright future, they have to fight for it. If you fight for your dreams, your dreams will fight for you, as said by Daniel Bryan on an episode of Smackdown when he was medically cleared for in-ring competition again. Part of this fight for the future includes unleashing a shit ton of pent-up rage. So after every meeting, we’ll stand up and let the growling sounds of Max Cavalera’s voice wash over us as he sings “Blood Fire War Hate” by Soulfly. Say it with me! “Blood! Fire! War! Hate! Blood! Fire! War! Hate!” Feels good, doesn’t it? Hell, some of these characters might end up joining a metal band, so they might as well get used to saying it. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Someday, somehow, I’m gonna make it alright, but not right now. I know you’re wondering when. You’re the only one who knows that.”

-Nickelback singing “Someday”-

Silent Warrior, Chapter 1

With the third grade classroom dimly lit in shades of purple, puppet children on strings danced and twirled their way through the door. The girls wore pretty red dresses and had their blond hair in pigtails. The boys wore elegant blue tuxedos and were shaven completely bald. This waltz of perfect conformity was accompanied by the PA system’s glorious soundtrack of the Moonlight Sonata. The rhythm carried the puppet children to their desks one row at a time so as not to cause unnecessary disorder. Once they had taken their seats, the puppets slouched over with their pale white faces and rosy cheeks touching their desks.

Their strings jerked them to the upright position while another puppet descended at the chalkboard in a heap. With another tug of the strings, the clown lady with rainbow hair, a distorted face, and a frilly white dress reassembled and proceeded to write her name on the chalkboard. As she wrote, she sang a “happy birthday” style rendition of her class greeting in a condescending, Shakespearean voice. “Good morning to you. Good morning to you. Good morning dear children…”

She signaled for her students to speak up with a wave of her hand. And true to form, they completed the song in perfect unison with, “Good morning to you!”

“Very good, dear children!” said the teacher while curtseying, still using her hammy stage voice. “My name is Aloysius Striker, but you may all call me Mrs. Striker. And my, don’t you all look lovely today! All smiles, tight strings, and not a single misstep in the morning song. No disorder among you all. Do you know why? Because we are all part of something much greater than ourselves. We have the same dreams. The same desires. We are all part of…a community!”

Mrs. Striker quickly erased her name from the board and wrote in its place the word of the day, community. “Now class, would any of you like to tell me what a community is? Don’t be too shy to speak up. Your grade depends on it!” The last sentence was punctuated with a mock whip strike with her piece of chalk.

All at once, the puppets rotated their heads three hundred sixty degrees and said, “A community is a gathering of people who have something in common!”

“Excellent, children! You’ve made me very proud already! But what are some examples of communities? Oh, do please speak up. We’re all part of a community, after all!” sang Mrs. Striker.

“Churches!” said the puppets, to which Mrs. Striker gave a celebratory, “Yes!” and quickly chalked it on the board. Other examples the children gave were shopping centers, police departments, congress, and yes, even school. That last answer sent an orgasmic chill throughout Mrs. Striker’s puppet body. She even gave a sing-songy laugh.

And then the teacher’s demonic smile turned to a saggy frown when she saw one student in the back corner of the class with his head tucked firmly in his hands. No puppet strings, no puppet face, no handsome tuxedo, just a shadow silhouette and glowing green eyes. Mrs. Striker tiptoed towards this lonely student like a ballerina and towered over him with a vengeful sneer.

“Look who decided to join us today, class. Mr. Scott George, the so-called introvert! The so-called shy guy! The little boy who hasn’t crackled a smile since the day he was born! Let me show you how it’s done, Mr. George!” The children’s heads turned one hundred eighty degrees and their puppet strings morphed their faces into insane grins with monstrous teeth and worms in the backs of their throats. “See? It’s not so hard, little Scotty! But in all seriousness, why haven’t you spoke up with the rest of the class? Don’t you want to be part of a community?”

Surveying the ghastly smiles around him, Scott brushed his teacher off with his hand and said, “Not really.”

Mrs. Striker’s elongated nose touched with Scott’s forehead before she chirped, “Well, that’s tough cookies, Mr. George! Your grade depends on your participation! Your ability to get a job depends on your sociability! You are indeed part of this society whether you want to be or not!”

The teacher clutched Scott’s wrist with a death grip as she dragged the shadowy student kicking and screaming towards the chalkboard, all while the puppet students pointed and laughed at him. By the time Scott made it to the chalkboard, Mrs. Striker grabbed him by the scruff of his neck to pull him up and placed the piece of chalk in his hand. “Now then! This is your next assignment, Mr. George, and you shall not screw this up for your fellow students, but most of all, for me! I want you to write on this blackboard another example of a community! Post-haste! Chop-chop!”

Scott George shivered and cowered, barely able to keep the chalk in his hands while the students giggled at him through their noses and closed mouths. Sweat poured off of him like rain while the purple lighting turned to a single bright halogen spotlight on him. He swallowed hard and stared at the chalkboard like a monkey doing a math problem. All of these examples of a community and he couldn’t come up with one…until he piggybacked off of the shopping center answer.

With slow precision and squeakiness that made the puppet children squint and hold their ears, Scott wrote something on the chalkboard without actually seeing what it was. It seemed as though hours went by and a whole tidal wave of sweat poured off of his body. But then he finished writing what he was going to write and breathed an anxiety-crushing sigh of relief. The pregnancy-sized knot reformed in his stomach when Scott saw the children laughing their asses off as well as Mrs. Striker staring at the blackboard in wide-eyed horror. “Shopping carts?!” she cried in disbelief. “Shopping carts?!”

As the laughter got louder and Mrs. Striker’s dramatic sighs grew more obvious, Scott’s crippling anxiety morphed into white hot rage. His boiling blood gave third degree burns on his tender flesh. His neon green eyes bulged out of their sockets. Every vein in his arms and forehead looked like a stick of dynamite ready to blow. His fists were clenched tightly enough to turn even the strongest metals into powder.

In one volcanic scream, he belted, “Shut up!” before picking up a text book off of a student’s desk and smashing him over the head with it. The teacher and students alike gasped in horror as the unfortunate student’s head exploded into a pile of worms and maggots, his body limp and lifeless. The puppet strings had no choice but to pull him into the heavens while Scott watched in horror at his own sins. Students cried maggots out of their eyeballs while Mrs. Striker sobbed blood.

“Oh, Scott! How could you do such a thing to your own community?!” asked the teacher. “Now the whole system is going to crash down upon us! Why, oh, why! WHY?!” With his head hung and his voice sheepishly low, Scott muttered a nearly incoherent apology before Mrs. Striker burst into flames and clutched his wrist with purpling tightness yet again. “Oh, I’m afraid an apology’s not going to be enough, Mr. George! You’ve been causing grief to my class for far too long! Your refusal to obey even the simplest commands makes me sick to my stomach! I’m afraid there’s only one thing left to do!”

The puppet strings yanked every child back into the heavens while the classroom burst into a fiery hell all around Mrs. Striker and the convulsing Scott George. The teacher smashed every desk into splinters with one punch and in their place ascended a torture chair with leather straps and a ball gag.

“No, Mrs. Striker! Have mercy on me! I’ll be a good boy! I promise!” pleaded Scott, who was bound and gagged to the chair with constricting tightness. He tried to thrash around and break free, but with a ball gag cutting off his air supply, he quickly became exhausted. It became even harder to breathe when Mrs. Striker shoved a funnel up one of his nostrils and held it in place with duct tape.

“You’re going to conform, Mr. George, whether you want to or not!” warned Mrs. Striker in a deep, devilish voice. She tore open the flesh on her own wrist and pulled out a handful of worms with razor sharp fangs and hooks. Scott tried once again to squirm and thrash in his bindings, but they only cut deeper into his skin. With a sick smile and Scott’s gagged pleas, Mrs. Striker shoved the razorblade worms into the funnel and watched them fest up his nose and into his brain. The children descended back down into the hellfire scene and repeatedly chanted along with the teacher, “One of us!”

After an eternity of having his skull feasted on, the present day eighteen-year-old Scott George awoke from his nightmare with a deep gasp of air and pulsating nausea. As soon as he caught his breath, the teenager looked around the room for his digital clock, which read five-thirty in the morning. Relieved that this was a dream and that he still had hours before he had to get up for school, Scott plopped backwards into his bed and burped his nausea away.

“Why does this keep happening?” Scott whispered to himself. “I hate falling asleep.” Tears formed in his eyes when he realized that the only thing fake about his nightmare was the psychedelic backdrop in which it took place. He never dropped acid or smoked marijuana a day in his life. Why was he being punished for it? And most of all, why did he have to take a United States history class with a teacher who was basically Mrs. Striker with a penis?

Knowing that class was his first period of the day caused Scott to skyrocket out of his bed and dry heave in his garbage bucket. No matter how hard he puked, all that came out of his mouth was tiny streams of snot and orange stuff he couldn’t identify. Once he had finished, he sat next to his desk and breathed heavily while fighting the urge to go back to sleep. “Goddamn you, Mr. Simpson,” whispered Scott. “Why doesn’t somebody go Columbine on his ass already?”

Unused Dialogue

***UNUSED DIALOGUE***

Whether these pieces of dialogue are based in reality, dreams, or random thoughts, they somehow found a place in my mind, but not in my work. They may never be used for anything. The may be pieces of dialogue in a song. They may be used as prompt suggestions. I have no idea what the future holds for these pieces of dialogue, so I’m going to share them with you all to see if they have any true potential for anything bigger than random thoughts. Starting with…

TEENAGE GIRL: (Sobbing)

COP: What’s wrong? Are you okay? Why aren’t you in school?

TEENAGE GIRL: The teacher told me I’m too stupid to go to school…(more sobbing)

LITTLE BOY: That Lacey Sturm is so pretty! When I grow up, I’m going to marry her!

CROWD: (Erupts into obnoxious laughter.)

LITTLE BOY: W…why are you laughing at me?

CROWD: (Continues laughing.)

LITTLE BOY: (sniff, sniff)…Why?

DETECTIVE: State your name for the record.

ME: Garrison Edward Ethan Kelly.

DETECTIVE: G.E.E.K.? Okay, um. I want you to tell me again how you knew those Denny’s cooks were aliens from another planet.

ME: Because they kept making offensive remarks about Europeans.

CASHIER: Hello.

ME: Hi.

CASHIER: Is that a work uniform?

ME: No, it’s just a regular polo shirt.

CASHIER: Oh. Where do you work?

ME: I don’t work anywhere. I’m unemployed.

CASHIER: Um…okay…uh…Are you self-employed?

ME: No, I’m unemployed.

CASHIER: Oh. Okay.

TARJA TURUNEN: You’re being awfully quiet tonight.

ME: I, uh…I get tongue-tied around beautiful women, that’s all.

TARJA TURUNEN: (Giggles) That’s just adorable!

SCOTTISH TEACHER: What have we here, laddie? Mysterious scribblings? A secret code? No, drawings, no less. Drawings, everyone!

STUDENTS: (Burst into laughter.)

SCOTTISH TEACHER: The laddie reckons himself an artist!

STUDENTS: (More laughter.)

SCOTTISH TEACHER: (Showing off the drawings.) And here we see Eddy from Ed, Edd, n’ Eddy performing oral sex on Kevin.

STUDENTS: Eww!

SCOTTISH TEACHER: While Kevin is standing on top of a coffin!

STUDENTS: Eww!

ONE STUDENT: Holy shit!

STUDENTS: (Laughing.)

SCOTTISH TEACHER: (Mouthing) Watch your language!

STUDENT: Sorry.

SCOTTISH TEACHER: (Showing off more drawings.) And here we see Bambi with a rope around his neck, a ball gag in his mouth, and a dildo in his arse!

STUDENTS: Eww!

SCOTTISH TEACHER: And the dildo has the words written on it, “Deer spear”.

STUDENTS: Eww!

SCOTTISH TEACHER: That is NOT how sex works! (Slaps artist’s hand with a pencil.) Pervert!

MISS SCHNEIDER: So, does anybody here have an example of what a community is? How about you, Garrison?

ME: Uh…shopping carts?

STUDENTS: (Laughter.)

ME: Shut up! (Pounds one of the laughing students over the head with a text book.)

MATT MCNAMARA: I just watched The Faces of Death. (Sick smile.)

SEAN MCNAMARA: What do you watch that shit for?!

MATT MCNAMARA: Because it’s cool!

CHRISTIAN TROY: Because he’s a serial killer in training.

MISS GRADY: Garrison, do we allow gum in Chehalis Middle School?

ME: No, we don’t.

MISS GRADY: And why is gum not allowed in our school?

ME: Um…I don’t know.

STUDENTS: (Laughing.)

ME: I don’t want to say anything! Call on somebody else!

MISS GRADY: Anybody else want to give it a shot?

Anybody want to take a guess as to which categories these pieces of dialogue fall under (fact or fiction)? I suppose it doesn’t matter, because this blog entry is as far as they’ll get…maybe…I don’t know…I’ve tried using dreams as creative fuel before and it ended disastrously. Maybe these dialogue snippets will be part of a larger song, kind of like how “Song of Myself” by Nightwish had a whole bunch of dialogue near the end; although, Tuomas Holopainen has me beaten in the songwriting department by a country mile. Speaking of Nightwish, I wonder what Marcelo Cabuli will think of me calling his wife “beautiful”. What about Lacey Sturm’s husband finding out a little boy had designs of marrying her? Anyways, we’ve got ears, say cheers!

***POISON TONGUE TALES 2: THE RIGHT TO REMAIN PSYCHOTIC***

Yesterday was a fine day for PTT2 action as I’ve penned a short story called “Where’s My Damn Money?” Now it’s onto the next one, as Jay-Z once said. This new story will be called “Robo Heck” (a lame ass play on words for Robotech, and yes, I’m trying to think of a new title for it, so back off). Here’s the synopsis for it:

CHARACTERS:

1. David Masters V, Human Mech Pilot
2. Amalia Strom, Amazonian Viking

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: David crash lands his giant robot on a tropical island and spends most of the day trying to fix it so he can get back to his military base. Amalia, the giantess who owns the island, wants to crush David underneath her foot and “make the world a better place for women”. In her words, men are responsible for creating war and David is part of the problem since he pilots a gigantic weapon for a living. With his mech only partially fixed, David has to fight off the Amazonian with what he managed to repair. He would also be better served to try and reason with his attacker before she completely obliterates him.

EXTRA NOTE: Remember what Bastian said in The Never Ending Story: “It’s just a story! It’s not real! It’s a fucking story!” Well, he didn’t drop an F-bomb, but the sentiment is the same: don’t make too much out of that synopsis.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Chetty Claymore, the debt-collecting elven necromancer from “Where’s My Damn Money?”, is next on deck for this series. Yes, folks: it’s yet another guy wearing a monk’s robe. Deal with it. What else is a necromancer like him supposed to wear: flip-flops and Daisy Dukes?

***STUCK RUBBER BABY***

With Paper Towns in the rear view mirror, I’ve been reading a new book these past few days: “Stuck Rubber Baby” by Howard Cruse. Because it’s a graphic novel and easy on the eyes, I plan on finishing it sooner than later and then giving a glowing review of it. I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to give it an extra credit grade or a passing one. It’s about being a gay man in the bible belt during the civil rights era, so naturally the main character has a huge struggle ahead of him. I highly recommend it both as an eye-opener and as a compelling story.

***MOVIE QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“The video arcade is just up the street. Here, we sell small rectangular objects. They’re called books. They require a little effort on your part and make no bee-bee-bee-bee-beeps. On your way, please.”

-Mr. Correander (the grumpy book salesman) from “The Never Ending Story”-

Raggyd

***RAGGYD***

What do you get when you combine minimal reading experience, a massive ego, and four fantasy characters who have no earthly business being together? The answer is Raggyd, a medieval fantasy novel idea I had in 2004 when I took a creative writing class at Olympic College. As horrible as it ended up being, it was also the launching pad for my poetry skills. Ergo, if it wasn’t for Raggyd in 2004, I wouldn’t have published Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage in 2013 nor Necrograph in 2016. I’m halfway through another book of poetry called Prophecy, so that’s in my near future.

With an underdeveloped plot, Raggyd was little more than an excuse to use four characters I really had an affinity for. There was the pit fighting barbarian Graf Lunge, the gothic samurai Eron Putris, the acrobatic thief Baby, and the witch hunter zealot Futez Mysida. Somehow these four characters were going to come together to fight a super powerful enemy named…are you ready for this…Vine Wielders. That’s his name, folks. Vine fucking Wielders. Sounds threatening, doesn’t it?

The first chapter I wrote for Raggyd was an interaction between Baby and Futez. Futez wanted Baby to join his religious organization and Baby declined by making a smart-ass remark about how the only thing Futez plans on stealing is the altar boy’s virginity. Naturally, the witch hunter was less than pleased and sicked an entire squadron of ball and chain-wielding soldiers upon his would-be charge.

As much as the class enjoyed Baby’s dig about fucking altar boys, Raggyd was a critical flop among the students. They had all criticisms for me and no compliments. Other students had compliments for their stories, but I didn’t and that put a huge dent in my massive ego. What really set me off was when a fellow student named Patrick flat out said the story sucked. You know you have a hair trigger temper when the words “it sucked” causes you to blow a major gasket. Of course, I didn’t actually explode in the classroom, but I was boiling over on the inside. I needed some kind of revenge on Patrick in the worst way. Beating the piss out of him would land me in jail, so I needed something a little more…legal.

Around this time in my life, I was watching a lot of WWE (surprise, surprise). Since this was the autumn of 2004, John Cena was still over with the crowd during his white rapper gimmick. I’ll always tell people that hip-hop was the catalyst for my poetry career, but what a lot of people don’t know is that John Cena’s battle raps were the biggest source of inspiration for me. From those TV-14 insults, my revenge poem against Patrick was formulated. I would go on a lengthy diatribe about how I would impregnate Patrick’s mother, sodomize him, and give him up to the orcish horde (because he looked like Frodo Baggins). I would have read this out loud during creative writing class, but Patrick made a face turn and started being nicer to the class, so I pulled back at the last minute.

As far as Raggyd goes, just for the sake of spiting my critics, I wrote a 130-page movie script detailing the exploits of Graf Lunge and Baby. Had I continued this series, there would have been a script dedicated to Eron and Futez and there would have been another one after that dedicated to the final battle with Vine Wielders. For the time being, Graf Lunge’s story was about him getting kidnapped at an early age and forced to train as a pit fighter under drill instructor-style conditions. Baby’s story was about him being sick of his religious upbringing and joining the thieves’ guild, where his training was much nicer by comparison.

Raggyd had a lot of potential to be something big, but I eventually lost interest in continuing it due to the silence of my critics and a growing interest in other movie scripts. That means Graf Lunge, Baby, Futez Mysida, and Eron Putris are all orphaned characters. They’ll be used in other stories, no doubt, but what stories and when? I particularly grew fond of Graf Lunge because of his name (believe it or not) and his barbarian gimmick (naturally). And now that I think about it, Baby and Eron have different incarnations in other published stories. Over a decade later, Baby would become a child’s doll come to life in “Nail Bomb” and Eron would take the role of Floyd the sparring android from “The New Trainer”. Both of those stories will be published in Poison Tongue Tales. That leaves Graf and Futez without a home.

When I look back on the origins of Raggyd and the hurtful environment from which it came, a part of me wishes Olympic College wouldn’t have allowed that format to go on for any creative writing class. Apparently, this is a common occurrence for a lot of schools, not just OC. You read your story or poem out loud to the class and stay silent while the other students judge your piece. The other students can be as harsh or as nasty as they want with no consequence. It’s always been my understanding that school was supposed to be a place where students could grow and mature, not be taken down. But hey, I’ve watched Pink Floyd the Wall millions of times before, so I should have known better.

If I didn’t attend that class, I wouldn’t have written that battle rap about Patrick and therefore, I would have no poetry career. While I admit that my angry poetry got me in trouble more than once, I have no regrets about any of it, because I’d like to think I’ve improved since then. Maybe that’s why “Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage” holds a four-star rating on Good Reads and Necrograph holds a five-star rating on the same website.

The lesson of this blog entry is to live your life with no regrets, because if you change just one part of your personal history, the rest of your life will be completely different. Without the negative experiences of your past, you wouldn’t appreciate the positive ones you have now. Raggyd will see the light of day again sometime in the near future. When that is, I have no idea. Until then, adios, amigos! Thanks for reading!

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do you call someone who masturbates to Maid Marian while watching through her window?

A: Rubbin’ Hood.

"Child of the Night Guild" by Andy Peloquin

BOOK TITLE: Child of the Night Guild

AUTHOR: Andy Peloquin

YEAR: 2017

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Dystopian Fantasy

GRADE: Pass

When Viola’s father can’t pay off his loan from the Night Guild, he has no choice but to sell her into servitude. Under the tutelage of the insanely cruel Master Velvet, Viola is put through a battery of painful and exhausting tests under the threat of being murdered, starved, and/or tortured for failure. She, along with eleven other child students, are given new names and are told to forget everything about their past, which they do. In this dark fantasy hybrid of Pink Floyd the Wall and Full Metal Jacket, Viola, now named Seven, has only one goal if she wants to see the light of day ever again: survive. There is no turning back for her or anybody else in the Night Guild. They live and die by their abilities to become convincing thieves, an occupation which will repay their families’ debts.

If you’re looking for a tale of darkness and cruelty that rivals any child kidnapping story you hear about in the news, Child of the Night Guild will tear you to shreds. The harsh treatment of Viola/Seven is so consistent and so heartbreaking that you as the reader are convinced that this story will end on a sour note. While I won’t divulge what happens, you can bet your bottom dollar that this would be a scenario no ordinary person would survive. The students of the Night Guild are insulted, humiliated, starved, slashed, and slapped around as a way of stripping them of their individuality (and quite possibly their sanity). You know deep in your heart that there’s no way out, so there really is no praying for the best, because you’ll expect the worst. If you’re a Pink Floyd fan, then you know there’s a meat grinder waiting for these children at the end of the cookie factory maze.

On a somewhat lighter note, every time I read an Andy Peloquin novel, he comes off as an expert on whatever it is his story entails. In this case, the children are training to be cunning thieves, which requires a great deal of dexterity, cleverness, and thousands of hours of practice. When someone balances across a thin beam, pickpockets an unsuspecting sod, or searches for treasure in the most unlikely of places, you are convinced that these methods are the right way to get the job done. That’s not to say that Andy is an expert thief or a violent sociopath, but it tells you a lot about how much research he put into this novel. Everybody loves an intelligently-written novel and this one is no exception. Andy Peloquin is a scholar in every sense of the word.

Another likeable trait about Mr. Peloquin’s novels is his writing style. You’re not just watching a movie unfold before your eyes; you’re feeling every burning pain that Viola goes through. Whether it’s hunger pains, burning muscles, slashed fingers, or the general anxiety of being put through serious torture, it adds to this scenario of there being no way out for these children. These agonizing descriptions slowly transform Viola into Seven and Seven into the shadowy thief known as Ilanna. Any shred of innocence she once had will be lost because of the pain she feels throughout the story. We as readers get to feel everything. If you want to cry or listen to Linkin Park songs afterwards, I won’t blame you one bit.

For all intents and purposes, this should be the perfect novel for anybody who loves a good dystopian nightmare. For me personally, I love darkness, but I feel like this is too much darkness for me to handle. Maybe I’ve gotten soft and sensitive over the years, but when I read this novel, it reminds me too much of the Jaycee Dugard story on the news. She was kidnapped at the age of eleven and was raped and molested repeatedly by her captor until she was rescued at age of twenty-nine. It might seem like I’m comparing apples to oranges, but that’s just what I think of whenever I see so much darkness in one place. Nevertheless, this book receives a passing grade because it’s that damn good.

Common Dreams

***COMMON DREAMS***

Ever since I started using my CPAP breathing machine in the summer of this year, I’ve had a harder time remembering my dreams. That’s probably because my dreams were either about weird ass competitions I was in or scenarios that would make good novels but only in the dream and not in the real world. Those are the only two types of dreams I have difficulty remembering. While this is normal for people who use a CPAP, there have been nights where my dreams were as clear as day. I don’t talk about my dreams as often as I used to. I used to do dream posts all the time on my blog Garrison’s Library, but what those amounted to was a bunch of boo-hooing that they didn’t involve sex or having a girlfriend. Hey, I was lonely and didn’t know what to do with my life, give me a break. Thankfully, I won’t subject you guys to any of that shallow whining. Tonight’s journal entry will be about common themes in the dreams I can actually remember. I don’t know what they mean or why they keep coming up, but I can assure you that it has nothing to do with my deep rooted desire to have a romantic relationship with a female rock star. Let’s get started.

1. Air Travel. My parents take a lot of vacations and sometimes I tag along with them. Some of them involved air travel, such as New Orleans, Hawaii, California, Colorado, or New Mexico. Maybe I keep dreaming about boarding airplanes because of these experiences. It used to be that I would feel anxious while having one of these dreams because I’d forget to pack my schizophrenia medication. Not the case anymore.
2. Cats. I’d move either way from an old house or into a new one and both times there were cats I’d have to take care of. Lots of cats. Orange cats, black cats, calicoes, marmalades, tuxedos, lots of goddamn cats. I once had a WSS member named Mark ask why he was more weirded out by me being a crazy cat man than after any reading of my violent short stories. I laugh about it every time I read that comment, because it was intended to be good natured. But now I think maybe he has a point. Hehe!
3. Chehalis. I’ve lived in the small conservative town of Chehalis, Washington from 1996 to 2001. While I don’t look back on this time in my life favorably, the dreams I’ve had about this town were noteworthy in many ways. I’ve dreamed about buying prostitutes, having a library job, visiting my childhood friends Winn and Duncan, catching a bus ride, searching for my childhood friend Nathan, and wandering through the apocalypse. If the apocalypse was really going to happen, it would definitely happen in Chehalis. Trust me on that one.
4. Concerts. It mattered not who was playing and it mattered even less where they were playing. In my dreamland, I’ve been to a Three Days Grace concert that took place in a college classroom. I’ve been to a Roger Waters concert at a stone-built temple. I’ve been to a Rammstein concert at both a Chinese restaurant and a roller skating rink. I’ve been to a Pantera concert at an abandoned grocery store (they played where the deli used to be). I’ve been to a concert where Skillet opened for Green Day and me and James got kicked out of the venue when Green Day played. I must really love concerts.
5. Diaper Shopping. These dreams would involve me waking up at an ungodly hour of the day, walking through dark and dreary weather, and cruising Fred Meyer or Rite Aid looking for a package of adult diapers, which would be used for sexual purposes. The dilemma of these dreams was that I had nowhere to hide the diapers from my family. Well, in the dreams, diaper sex was a great idea, but when I woke up, I realized it wouldn’t happen in a million years.
6. Dragon Ball Z. When I’m watching this anime in my dreams, I’m playing a desperate game of catch-up with some new series they put out, usually involving Vegeta getting humiliated or an apocalyptic scenario. Maybe these new DBZ episodes took place in Chehalis. I also play catch-up with new Gundam shows, but those are normally easier to follow than Dragon Ball Z episodes. Should I start watching anime again as a means of curing my boredom? Maybe when I get a better streaming service than my burned out Roku.
7. Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. I would either participate in these games or watch them on TV. Every time I do either, all of the players would fail miserably at both games. It’s kind of like the real world, but it’s more brutal, it’s drawn out forever, and it would take place in the past. During the toss-up rounds in Wheel of Fortune, Vanna White would actually flip the letters on that old-school board and the contestants would still get it wrong. Sometimes they’d even guess numbers and punctuation marks. Jesus Christ, man. One time during an episode of Jeopardy, Rosalind Cash (Dr. Cushing from Tales from the Hood) hosted Final Jeopardy and the category was Prostitutes. Double Jesus Christ, man.
8. Libraries. These are some of my favorite dreams, obviously because I’m an author who eye-guzzles literature on a daily basis. I always dream about checking out a shit ton of books, buying a bunch of RPG rule books, or checking out a Robotech book since I also dream about playing catch-up with this book series. Sometimes I would dream about playing D&D or buying action figures and Legos from a library. No nightmare fuel here!
9. Pink Floyd the Wall. When if first saw the music video for Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2 in the mid 1990’s, I tried my damnedest to try and avoid looking at the faceless masks ever again. They were creepy and nightmare inducing to the point where I’d even avoid looking at them in my dreams. I eventually got over my fear when I saw Roger Waters in concert in 2000, but in my dreams, I always avoid going to the Pink Floyd section of every record and video store.
10. School. Whether it’s middle school, high school, or college, the common themes in these dreams include failing classes, dropping out of classes, finding a seat in class that doesn’t have a bunch of graffiti on it, finding my next class while naked, taking gym classes at a community college, and reading a novel and actually being able to pass the class because of it. A less common theme would be fighting with a bully, to which I would feel angry after waking up. Why am I so obsessed with school? Is this why I write a lot of school-related stories for the WSS?
11. VHS Tapes. I’d have dreams about visiting my biological father Michael Temons and while I was at his house I’d dig through his VHS collection. Sometimes they would be episodes of Monsters. Sometimes they would be music videos from VH1. Sometimes they would be cartoons from the 80’s and 90’s. No matter what it was, I’d want those VHS tapes in the worst way. Same thing with his audio tapes. Maybe this is my brain’s way of thanking my dad for giving me an old school state of mind. He did introduce me to The Police, The Moody Blues, and Pink Floyd, after all.
12. Videogames. I played a lot of goddamn videogames until I officially retired in 2010 due to getting my ass kicked multiple times by a lava dragon in Final Fantasy III. Maybe these dreams are trying to pull me back in. I’ve played Super Mario games with Phantos aplenty, Final Fight games where I got my ass quickly kicked, Street Fighter games where I threw my opponent off of a high ledge, Mega Man games where I’d get frustrated as hell, Diablo II sequels that were exactly the same as the prequel but more frustrating, and Final Fantasy NES games where I couldn’t figure out what the hell I was doing. I’d also play Final Fantasy-themed RPG’s where I’d be on the verge of fighting the Calcobrena Puppets in some creepy form. I once fought a bunch of baldheaded puppets that sat in rocking chairs, pointed at my characters, and laughed evilly. When it comes to videogames, every time I think I’m out, they pull me back in!
13. World Championship Wrestling. The Monday Night Wars between the WWE and WCW were a time in wrestling history where both sides actually cared about improving and nobody had a complacent monopoly. My WCW dreams, however, tell a different story. Sometimes there would be a shitload of championship belts. Sometimes Rey Mysterio would dominate the show. Sometimes the WCW Nitro episodes would take place in a wooden hut. Sometimes Hulk Hogan would come to the ring to a Moody Blues song. Maybe WCW would actually stay in business today if these things really happened. Or it would have folded sooner than 2001, we don’t know.

I’d like to think that I could harvest some decent creative fuel from these odd dreams. I certainly thought that when I dreamed about Hulk Hogan battling a crew of squid-like aliens. But the problem with using dreams as creative fuel is that they don’t amount to solid stories unless you tweak so much of the original dream that it loses its genuineness. The author has a decision to make between a good story and staying faithful to the original inspiration. I’ll always choose to have a good story, which is why the Hulk Hogan dream never materialized into an actual piece of literature: too many loose ends and plot holes. This is not to say that dreams are meaningless and that they should be ignored. There’s a reason I keep having these themes pop up in my head at night. If only I could tap into them in a way that made sense.

***DEMON AXE, CHAPTER 5***

There is a month-long discrepancy between chapters three and four of Demon Axe. This is unacceptable to me, especially since National Novel Writing Month is coming up after Halloween and I want to make the most of it. Let’s see what I can come up with for chapter five of this WIP novel. The chapter is going to start off by somebody smashing Daniel Mercer’s windows and breaking into his house. Raven Triscloud seems to think that she and Daniel are being followed by Roger Zee’s newly-enslaved minions Johnny Vega and Sonia Marquez. Daniel and Raven will have to put aside their disagreements if they want to make it through this night alive.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

One of the things I’m trying to do with these character drawings is show them in different poses from what I feel comfortable doing. Too many of these drawings show the character folding his arms, having his hands at his sides, or waving his hands in the air. Very rarely does the character stand at an angle and when he does, it usually ends ridiculously as seen with the Shawn Henry drawing. That’s the thing about trying new ideas: sometimes you strike gold and other times you spill fertilizer. I’m hoping to strike gold with Soa, one of the two Samoan cannibals from the short story “Chunky Puffs”.

***COLLEGE HUMOR DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

GOOGLE GUY: Come on in. Don’t worry about me. It’s Jackson Polluck’s birthday today and I’m covered in paint to celebrate his particular art style.

USER: Why do farts smell?

GOOGLE GUY: One of the most important painters of all time and you want to know why farts smell.

-If Google Was a Guy-