Solutions

***SOLUTIONS***

Before I begin, I want everyone to know that this particular topic isn’t directed at one person in particular; it’s just something I’ve had brewing for a while. One of the most popular ways to generate interest in your story is by piling on problems on your main character’s already hefty workload. Or as TV Tropes likes to say, Just Add Ninjas. Or as Jenna Moreci says as well, “Break your hero’s legs with a baseball bat.” I will admit that I struggle with not putting my characters in enough danger. It’s not because I don’t like tension or that I’m intentionally babying my heroes. The main problem with me is that I can’t come up with realistic solutions to these many problems the heroes are facing.

For example, a recent critique against Incelbordination’s seventeenth chapter is that subduing Antero was too easy of a task for Oswald. That’s actually a fair criticism. For a guy who had Oswald wrapped around his finger the entire story, Antero certainly chose the dumbest way to confront him, armed with just a machete and no backup. In hindsight, Antero should have had a better plan. But how many obstacles for Oswald are too many before the little guy gets brutally murdered and nothing is solved? Suppose Antero brought a handgun instead of a machete. It’d be smarter, but how would Oswald realistically combat someone with that kind of advantage? Suppose Antero drove a tank to the dorms. Should Oswald turn into a Super Saiyan Level Four and throw a Kamehameha wave at the oncoming war machine? Again, I’m not trying to disparage the person giving me the critique, but these are points that need to be considered if such a debate will happen.

Another example of something I can foresee going wrong is how easily Scott George from Silent Warrior was freed from prison. Spoiler alert: his bail was paid via a Go Fund Me page set up by Principal Williams. Given the nature of Scott’s crime and how little he knows about prison life, how else was he supposed to walk free? Perhaps instead of bunking with Alan Young, he could have Andy Dufresne from Shawshank Redemption as his cell mate. Once the two dig a tunnel behind a Raquel Welsh poster, they can read copies of Count of Monte Crisco by Alexandree Dumbass until the end of time. Even if escaping jail somehow became the non-sarcastic solution, it’s too ambitious of a plan for someone like Scott. Once he’s free, he’s forever on the run and has no way of redeeming himself. He doesn’t get the girl (Adrienne Simpson), he doesn’t graduate from high school, and he doesn’t teach Adrienne’s father a valuable lesson in respect.

Want another example? Of course you do, that’s why you’re here. About a year and a half ago, I wrote a heavy metal urban fantasy novel called Demon Axe, about a singer who uses a magical microphone to slay his enemies (audiomancy). The microphone in question is considered a MacGuffin, which is defined as any object in which the story revolves around. Spoiler alert: the microphone determines the outcome of the story. MacGuffins are considered a literary sin in most critical circles, but then I ask, what else is Daniel Mercer (the singer) supposed to do? How can he realistically combat someone who has enough fighting experience to murder entire crowds of people at once (that person being the elven terrorist Roger Zee). Daniel’s only combat experience comes from barroom brawls, which hardly emphasizes the technique Roger spent decades learning. Having a powerful weapon like the MacGuffin microphone is the only way to subdue someone as powerful as Roger.

Solutions to major storyline problems aren’t easy to come by, especially if you’ve painted yourself into a corner like I’m so often afraid to do. It’s okay to ask for help. In fact, that’s one of the beta reader’s roles in his or her job: to help come up with solutions for seemingly impossible situations. Granted, they can’t do everything for you, but if you split the brainstorming 50/50, I’m sure the two of you can come up with some feasible solutions. It could be that there is no solution and that your characters have to die a nasty death. It could be that something major has to change in the storyline before the solution is readily available. Working out such kinks is a team effort and acknowledging this will lead to a healthy professional relationship with your beta reader. You’re not alone. You’re never alone.

I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“If you need somebody, call my name. If you want someone, you can do the same. If you want to keep something precious, got to lock it up and throw away the key. You want to hold onto your possessions, don’t even think about me. If it’s a mirror you want, just look into my eyes. Or a whipping boy, someone to despise. Or a prisoner in the dark, tied up in chains you just can’t see. Or a beast in a gilded cage, that’s all some people ever want to be. You can’t control an independent heart. Can’t tear the one you love apart. Forever conditioned to believe that we can’t live here and be happy with less. With so many riches, so many souls, with everything we see that we want to possess. If you love somebody, set them free.”

-Sting singing “If You Love Somebody Set Them Free”-

Are You Shipping Me?

***ARE YOU SHIPPING ME?***

In honor of my supportive Deviant Art friend Patrick Doran a.k.a. The Lone Wolf, I’m bringing back a meme/game that I did for Occupy Wrestling where I randomly chose two characters from a long list and put them together as a couple. This time I’m using characters from my most recent first draft novels, Silent Warrior, Beautiful Monster, and Incelbordination. There are twenty-seven names on this list and I plan on burning through ten of them for the sake of this game (that means I’ll be shipping five different potential couples). These selections will be completely random and will not pay any mind to gender or sexual orientation. Are you ready to play America’s game? No, it’s not Wheel of Fortune, so step aside, Pat Sajak! This new game is called…Are You Shipping Me? Are you ready to play? Let’s get started! Here’s the list of characters I’ve compiled:

1. Adrienne Simpson, teenaged MPDG
2. Alan Young, high school bully
3. Aloysius Striker, puppet teacher
4. Antero Magnus, involuntary celibate
5. Beth George, overbearing mother
6. Carter George, dead father
7. Christian Savage, claw-wielding mercenary
8. Craig Dunham, jock bully
9. Julie Simpson, Adrienne’s mother
10. Kody Savage, chicken shit mercenary
11. Linda Williams, high school principal
12. Mia Barry, police detective
13. Michelle Xavier, elf queen
14. Misty Keith, student with Down’s Syndrome
15. Nikita Johnson, English student
16. Orpheus Rinehart, fat mercenary boss
17. Oswald Crow, lonely dwarf
18. Paul Corbin, surrogate history teacher
19. Scott George, traumatized student
20. Shelly Atwood, vampire rapist
21. Simone Archer, trauma therapist
22. Tarja Rikkinen, staff-wielding mercenary
23. Tom Simpson, authoritarian teacher
24. Torger Manson, vampire enforcer
25. Valerie Sand, English teacher
26. Wacey Judge, gym bully
27. Windham Xavier, whip-wielding elf mercenary

Spin the wheel or buy a vowel! Damn it, this still isn’t Wheel of Fortune! Piss off, Sajak!

***FIRST COUPLE: SHELLY X ANTERO***

I swear this couple pairing was only a coincidence, but Patrick and I joked all the time about how these two deserve each other. With Shelly Atwood, you’ve got a woman who destroys men’s self-esteem by forcing them into sex slavery. With Antero Magnus, you’ve got a guy with no self-esteem to begin with because he can’t get laid. The kicker? Both of these train wrecks are the villains of their respective stories, so try not to feel bad for either of them. In fact, be sure to wish them well as they tie the knot and spread misery and hatred across the land together!

***SECOND COUPLE: ALOYSIUS X BETH***

Considering both of these women are from Silent Warrior and they both play a pivotal role in Scott George’s life, I can definitely see them being a couple. Never mind the fact that Aloysius appears as a nightmarish puppet in Scott’s dreams. Hell, she can be one of those inflatable sex puppets if Beth so desired. Both women have a nasty habit of making Scott’s life miserable, whether in the dream world or in real life. They’re both bossy as hell, they both demand conformity and obedience, and if you read far enough into the novel, you’ll understand Aloysius’s most significant connection to Scott’s life. With Carter George dead as a doornail, Beth is ripe for the picking, so come on down, Aloysius! You’re the next contestant on The Price Is Right! Goddamn it, not you too, Drew Carey!

***THIRD COUPLE: TOM X PAUL (TAUL)***

Okay, so I tried not to bring spoilers into this, but in order for the context to make sense, I’m afraid I’m going to have to. So if you haven’t read far enough into Silent Warrior yet and you don’t want to be spoiled, skip past this one. But oh my god, you talk about cats and dogs, you’ve got Tom Simpson and Paul Corbin. Tom is known throughout the story as an autocratic teacher who demands conformity and even came up with his own quote for it: “Democracy is dead!” Paul Corbin replaces him and has a much more positive impact on his students. You think if Tom and Paul became a couple that there wouldn’t be any professional jealousy? Oh, goddamn, think of all the arguments they’d have!

***FOURTH COUPLE: WINDHAM X SCOTT (WINDHOTT)***

Unlike Tom and Paul before them, this couple could actually relate to each other on a personal level and the fighting would be kept to a minimum. They’re both mentally scarred from their experiences. They both fight for their individuality in a world that demands obedience. They both have the power to change the world, though Windham uses his whip for that and Scott uses his words. They’re both passionate when it comes to their relationships. And for all of you out there who are concerned about age differences, don’t worry, Scott is eighteen and one hundred percent legal. In fact, his age becomes a huge factor in how Silent Warrior plays out. But yes, Windham and Scott would make a cute couple despite the fact that Scott dresses like a hobo and Windham is this gorgeous man stud in shining armor.

***FINAL COUPLE: CARTER X TORGER (TORTER)***

For the sake of argument, Carter George, who started Silent Warrior as a dead body, will remain a corpse during his shipping with Torger Manson. And why not? It’s usually Torger’s stepsister Shelly who gets to “have all the fun” (and I’m saying that with a sour stomach). Torger needs love too (again, I say that with a bad taste in my mouth). Why should Shelly get to choose the slaves all the time (again, ugh!)? The closest thing to fun Torger will ever have is if his victims are dead. Given that he’s high on psychedelic mushrooms all the time, that’d be the only way he’d agree to this necromantic relationship. And that’s assuming Torger has standards to begin with, which is questionable at times during Beautiful Monster.

***CONCLUSION***

Our Final Jeopardy category is…goddamn it, Alex Trebek, get out of here! This isn’t your show! I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time! Are You Shipping Me is a production of Merv Griffin Enterprises and is distributed by King World…no, it isn’t!

***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

REINA: How was the Seether concert?

GARRISON: Fine.

REINA: Did you meet any cute girls?

GARRISON: A short girl locked arms with me during “Fine Again”, but I didn’t do anything in return.

REINA: This seems to be a recurring theme when you go to concerts. First there was that girl at the Slipknot concert who kissed your hand and now this.

GARRISON: There was also the time at the Pop Evil concert when a girl tried to dance with me, but I walked away from her when she elbowed another concertgoer.

REINA: Yeah, that was the right choice.

GARRISON: I have no idea why women are trying to seduce me at concerts.

REINA: Maybe a shape-shifter is after you. Maybe you’re the shape-shifter.

GARRISON: I’m not a shape-shifter.

REINA: That’s exactly what a shape-shifter would say if he was denying it.

GARRISON: Damn it, Reina, you say that with everything I deny being!

Lysergic Fairytales

***LYSERGIC FAIRYTALES***

What I’m about to tell you will sound like whining at first, but I swear it has a positive purpose. Are you ready? Here it goes. My last four unpublished novels have something in common: they’re about mentally ill protagonists who find healing through Manic Pixie Dream Girls. Watch You Burn features a schizophrenic college student named Mario Bryan whose obligatory MPDG is an anime fan named Jessica Harley. Demon Axe is about a heavy metal singer with PTSD named Daniel Mercer whose special someone is an elven warrior named Raven Triscloud (my friend Heather’s former D&D character). Silent Warrior is about a high school student with night terrors named Scott George who dates the daughter of his nasty ass history teacher. And then there’s Beautiful Monster, which is about an elven mercenary named Windham Xavier who gets raped for a week straight and becomes infatuated with fellow mercenary Tarja Rikkinen.

So what do I do with four novels that have way too much in common? First order of business would be to edit the shit out of them and make the female supporting characters more than just MPDG’s. And then once that’s done, I’ll do what any sensible author would do: publish them together in one volume and call it “Lysergic Fairytales”. Besides the mental illnesses and subsequent love interests, the other thing these novels share in common is that they’re trippy as fuck. You don’t necessarily have to drop acid or smoke weed in order to enjoy these stories…but you’d probably be more likely to give them a five star rating if you did. Pleeeeeeease? Hehehehehe!

Of course, Silent Warrior is a modern day drama and not a fantasy story, but I still consider it to be part of the Lysergic Fairytale genre because it has its own set of trippy moments, whether it’s Scott having an awful nightmare about puppet teachers or Alan Young (bully) hallucinating an entire conversation with his mother in a solitary confinement cell. I once joked that Silent Warrior was basically Pink Floyd the Wall fan fiction. That might not be a joke anymore.

Now that I’ve got plans to combine these four stories into one volume, I should probably try to figure out how they’ll be interconnected, if they are at all. I think back to other examples of this such as Tales From the Hood or Pulp Fiction, where there were four acts apiece. Pulp Fiction’s acts were all tied within the canon while the Tales From the Hood stories were standalone and were only connected because an undertaker named Simms was telling them out loud. Considering Beautiful Monster takes place in the distant past and the other three stories take place in the present day, I don’t see how they could be easily connected unless I happen to pull off some kind of miracle.

Maybe they don’t have to be connected, though. Maybe they’re just in one volume because I’m insecure about the size of my books. Anytime I talk about how my only published novel Occupy Wrestling is less than a hundred pages, I feel as though I’ve stumbled upon a Viagra commercial. Well, I’m pretty sure these four Lysergic Fairytales novels are individually shorter than Occupy Wrestling. Shorter books don’t get as much recognition as longer ones. It’s sad and unfortunate, but it’s a truth I’ll have to come to terms with eventually. For all intents and purposes, the four novels are complete stories with beginnings, middles, and ends, so it’s not like I cut them off too soon. It’s just that I don’t have the endurance for longer stories, mainly because I wouldn’t know what else to do with them.

On the day I do decide to publish Lysergic Fairytales, it’ll be pretty damn far into the future due to how painstaking it is to edit the shit out of complete novels. I plan on starting with Beautiful Monster and working my way backwards chronologically. But the important thing I have to remember is that there’s no rush for publishing novels. I’d rather have a late blooming book that’s clean and readable than a quickly published book that’s a piece of shit. That’s one of the knocks on Occupy Wrestling: it was published before it was ready, which is probably why it’s rated at less than three stars right now. Well, that and I foolishly marketed it to non-wrestling fans. I won’t make that same mistake with Lysergic Fairytales, that’s for damn sure.

It’s a long road ahead of me in terms of editing, but it’s one I’ve traveled before and it’s one I’ll happily travel again. What does this mean for novels like Incelbordination and Filter Feeder? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ll still put in the work for Incelbordination like I always do. Filter Feeder, though not beyond repair, doesn’t fit in with the Lysergic Fairytales motif, so it’ll be left out. Anthologies should be somewhat homogenous when it comes to genres and I’m pushing that envelope by including Silent Warrior, a modern day drama.

Wish me luck on my long and tiring journey! I’m not naïve enough to deny needing it! I’m Garrison fucking Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! My, how true those words will become during the editing process.

***BOOK REVIEW***

As many of my Good Reads followers can tell, I’m on the verge of finishing and reviewing “Truth Is Fragmentary” by Gabrielle Bell. I’m only twenty-five pages away from pulling the trigger on this creative project. I should have finished it a long time ago since it’s a graphic novel and it’s easy as fuck to read. Psychological exhaustion, like it always does, got in the way of my best intentions. But read this book and review it I will. I still haven’t decided if I want to give it a passing or mixed grade. While the themes of exhaustion, depression, and being overworked are all relatable, I’m not so sure if the overall story did anything for me personally. Like I said, I haven’t decided the final grade yet, which means Gabrielle Bell has 25 pages left to, in Steven Crowder’s memetic words, “Change my mind.” And by the way, I’m only channeling the meme he’s famous for, not the actual person. The actual person makes me cringe.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Take one of those and two of these, then watch the walls begin to breathe. I can taste the color of the lights. Wings are growing out of me. The floor is floating underneath. I can see the future burning bright. The ceiling has us mesmerized. It feels like we can never die. Heading for the dark side of the moon. As we lift off into the sky invincible and so alive. Ten feet tall and fucking bulletproof. Insanity is setting in. Reality is getting thin. The universe just started slowing down. Then suddenly we’re traveling a million miles an hour. The shadows all start breaking free, no longer held by gravity. How did we get so far off the ground? Speaking to the galaxy, received and sending back to me. I can finally hear the speed of sound. I like this everlasting pill, ‘cause time itself is standing still. Why’s the room still spinning just the same? Turn off your phone so no one calls, ‘cause you and I are tripping balls. I can still hear ringing in my brain. Insanity is setting in. Reality is getting thin. The universe just started slowing down. Then suddenly we’re traveling a million miles an hour. Insanity is setting in. Reality is getting thin. The particles are dancing all around. I can’t deny the hardest thing for me is finding time to finally breathe. See no signs of ever coming down. Another wave is coming in a million miles an hour.”

-Nickelback singing “Million Miles an Hour”-

***POST-SCRIPT***

I came very close to giving you guys a sneak preview of Incelbordination’s fifth chapter, but I won’t do that because even the slightest details could be deemed spoilers. No spoilers for you, motherfuckers! Even if you bribed me with a Quintuple Whopper with extra bacon and cheese, I still wouldn’t give you spoilers! Hahahahahahaha!

I Didn't Know It Was Wrong

***I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS WRONG***

In addition to being a cardboard sign in Seether’s music video for “Fine Again”, you can also say the title of this journal whenever you create a piece of art that was unintentionally offensive. I can’t stress the word unintentionally enough. Sometimes all you want is to create a loving romance between two people and their relationship becomes hypersexual. Sometimes you want to show off the fighting abilities of a barbarian tribe from another culture, but they end up looking like stereotypes. Surely, you weren’t trying to be offensive, but that’s how it came across anyways, through no fault of your own. All together now…

I didn’t know it was wrong!

Yes, this is a reasonable defense against charges of unintentional bigotry, but there will always be that one smart ass who smashes you over the head with a hardcover book and then says…

Sorry, I didn’t know it was wrong!

You’re damn right it’s wrong! That’s assault, you moron! It carries a prison term of at least seven years! How about we save the phrase for people who actually need it? Wes Anderson, the writer and director of Isle of Dogs, could easily use this phrase and get away with it. As a white guy from Texas, his depiction of Japanese culture was frowned upon even though it didn’t deserve to be. There was nothing inherently offensive about it, at least not compared to Dick Tracy cartoons from the 1960’s where Joe Jitsu comes across as ultra-stereotypical (in case his name wasn’t obvious enough). Hey, Wes! Say it with me!

I didn’t know it was wrong!

I wish I knew this phrase when I was writing offensive shit back in the day. It could have helped me when I wrote a pornographic parody of “Stole” by Kelly Rowland. It could have helped me when I was swashbuckling with teenagers after they read “Class of ‘13”. It might have even helped me when I was writing the super-violent Zeromancer for my second multi-genre writing class in college. None of these scenarios would have been a cheap escape if I used that phrase, because I legitimately didn’t know they were offensive reads. I don’t know if I chalk it all up to being young and immature, growing up in Chehalis, watching TV-MA rated shows and not processing them correctly, but say it with me…

I didn’t know it was wrong!

You know what else I didn’t know was wrong? Incorporating a trope called the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. It’s a literary pejorative for any supporting female character whose main role in the story is to boost the self-esteem of the brooding male protagonist. Adrienne Simpson from “Silent Warrior” reeks of this trope, and in some ways, Tarja Rikkinen from my current WIP “Beautiful Monster” qualifies too. It was never my intention to make them this way, but you have to understand…

I didn’t know it was wrong!

I think I’ve given you guys enough examples that you’re adequately educated. Luckily, there is help for anybody who needs it. When you’ve finished writing your manuscript, you can send it to somebody called a “sensitivity editor”. This person will comb through your work and make sure nothing sticks out when it comes to potential offensiveness. Because they’re sensitivity editors and get this kind of work all the time, you can bet your ass that they won’t judge you even if your manuscript is glowing like a nuclear rod with offensive material. I didn’t even know these people existed until I started watching Jenna Moreci’s You Tube videos. Perhaps I should hire the services of one when I’m ready to get cracking on editing Silent Warrior. Hell, there’s probably more wrong with it than I thought and that extends beyond Adrienne Simpson being a Manic Pixie Dream Girl.

If you think for some reason I’m just bending to the will of the Social Justice Warriors and ignoring my own individuality, you’re wrong. There used to be a time in my life when being offensive was my bread and butter. I was young, immature, and had the sense of humor of an alt-righter despite being a hard leftist. Well, some things have to change because a bigot is not who I am nor would I be proud of being one. I want to represent the positive side of humanity, not the worst. I want to be on the right side of history and be a good role model for readers who look up to me. If that makes me an SJW, then fine, I’m an SJW. Fuck it, I don’t care. In fact, you can go ahead and call me the Social Justice Barbarian if you want. Barbarians appeal to me more than regular warriors since the former has the ability to rage out of control at a moment’s notice. Plus, I get to eat raw meat, howl at the moon, and swing a bloody battleaxe. How much fun is that?!

Sorry, guys! I didn’t know it was wrong! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

In the interest of bouncing back and forth between the past and present of this novel, chapter four will feature a look into Windham Xavier’s captivity, where he’s strapped naked to a table and felt up by Shelly and Torger. Don’t worry, you won’t have to go all the way to Wattpad to read this, because no sex will take place (yet). Lord knows Deviant Art has enough nudity as it is, so a chapter of Beautiful Monster with a naked male elf won’t hurt the status quo too much. Look forward to it! And before you ask, no, I’m not gay and even if I was it wouldn’t be the reason why I write about naked male elves. Grow up!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“The world is precious, a gift to you and me. I suggest we treat her right, with love and dignity. Everybody’s looking for some peace of mind. If you seek the truth, then you will surely find. Everybody wants to have global peace, whilst the press of a button can shake the world to its knees. Some say might is right. I beg to disagree. I say we all unite and redirect our destiny. Everybody’s looking for a quick solution. Our lungs are choking from breathing in air pollution. I say put down the guns and stop the revolution. I say it’s time to make a restitution. Can you hear what I’m saying? There’s so much starvation, so much untruth, so much prejudice, so much liquidation. Oh, how long? How long?”

-Toto singing “Can You Hear What I’m Saying?”-

Silent Warrior, Final Chapter

“Good morning to you…good morning to you…good morning, dear Alan…”

“G…g…good morning to you!”

“Alan, why are you so sad?”

“Why wouldn’t I be sad? This isn’t good morning. It’s fucking dark in here, Ally! I don’t see any sunshine! I don’t hear any cock-a-doodle-doos! Instead all I hear are screams. It could be another prisoner screaming in pain. It could be a guard screaming bullshit instructions. Or it could be me screaming ‘cause I’m constantly in fucking pain! Why, Ally? Why all the worms and maggots?”

“I’m a biologist. I deal with such creatures on a daily basis. I’m not going to just sacrifice my life’s work because you find earth’s critters disgusting. Everything in this world has its own special place. It could be a bat eating mosquitoes. It could be a pack of wolves hunting down deer. It could even be something as natural as a mother bird regurgitating worms into her babies’ beaks.”

“Cut the bullshit! You know how disgusting you really are! Scott had it right all along and I didn’t listen to him! He’s got more common sense than the two of us put together!”

“Don’t you talk to me that way, little boy! If I wasn’t a hallucination, I’d wash your chubby mouth out with soap! I left Scott George on his own for the same reason I left his father Carter. They rejected me, just like you’re rejecting me now. I tried to keep the peace between you and Scott. I even showed up at his trial to put in the best possible word for you. But you threw that all away when you tried to stab him in your cell. Now you’re in the darkest part of jail and you’ve no one to blame but yourself!”

“It should be Scott in this room, not me!”

“Then prove it, Alan! Scott became the man he is today because he fought for everything he believed in whether it was right or wrong. Now’s your time to fight. You may be under lock and key, but your war with Scott is far from over. As long as your mind continues to destroy you from the inside, you have all the reason in the world to fight. You don’t want these images and words, do you? Forget the worms and maggots for a minute. Your real enemy isn’t anything that can be found in the animal kingdom. It’s your own weakness!”

“Weakness? I’ve been beating ass since the day I was born and you have the gall to call me weak? What about all the crybabies on the playground who threw a fit because they couldn’t hang with me? What about all the teachers who care more about precious self-esteem than they do about the real world? Why aren’t you calling them weak?”

“Because they’re not weak, Alan. They have the kind of strength you could only dream of having: strength in numbers. You’re only one man trying to fight an entire world. But if Mr. Simpson has taught you anything, it’s to pick apart the army one soldier at a time. Mr. Simpson may have softened over this long exhausting semester, but that doesn’t mean you have to. I want you to take every ounce of your insanity and use it as a weapon. Fists alone have achieved nothing.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in solitary confinement! You even said yourself you’re a fucking hallucination! Who am I supposed to use this weapon on? There’s nobody here with me! Even the guards have tuned me out, for Christ’s sake!”

“You can’t stay in solitary confinement forever, Alan. Even the strictest prosecutors know this to be true. For what you did, you won’t even be in jail forever. You may be a destructive bastard, but you’ve never once murdered another human being. Implanting suicidal thoughts in someone else doesn’t count. I’m talking about the worst kind of murder there is. I’m talking about animalistic rage that can only be forged in darkness like this. Channel that rage and don’t let the world get away with locking you up like this!”

“…You want me to survive this place…by beating the shit out of everyone here? You want me to find my exit by pushing around people more powerful than me?”

“This isn’t the sandbox, Alan. This is jail. If you don’t stand up for yourself here, nobody else will. The guards aren’t here for your protection. They’re here to make sure you conform. They’re here to use you as a punching bag whenever they damn well feel like it. You’re not going to let that happen, are you?”

“…Never…I never wanted to be a part of society…I never wanted to follow anyone’s rules…Why should these assholes in uniform be any different? Is it because they have keys? Is it because they have so-called training? Is it because they’re tougher than me?! I don’t fucking think so!”

“Good! That’s what I want to hear from you! That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear from you since I married your father! Nobody pushes my baby around! And when I say baby, I’m not talking about that ungrateful snake Scott! I’m talking about by one true baby. The one I’ll forever cherish. The one I’ll forever spoil and love. Alan…this is your time. Don’t screw it up!”

Alan Young awoke in his solitary confinement cell with rough stubble on his chin, razor sharp hairs poking out of his bald head, and his heart beating a combination of fire and nitro glycerin. He breathed heavily like a wounded animal. He lusted for violence and aggression with bloodshot eyes. He smiled so hideously that he could smell his own sour breath.

Only a small patch of light illuminated the room through the barred window to the outside. Even though the sun was barely rising over the landscape, Alan still had lost track of how much time he spent cooped up in here. No clocks, no indication from the guards, only the occasional shitty meal which was inconsistent with the rest of the feedings.

Alan stood his clumsy body up and grabbed hold of the bars while staring out into the horizon. He held his stepmother’s words deep inside him until his very core was hot enough to melt away the last of his sanity. What once was a heart was now a heap of ashes. What once was a racing mind was now a zombie’s rage. The urge to kill had taken over his entire body. Just one taste of blood…anybody’s blood…

Surely another prisoner would satisfy his violent appetite just fine. He even believed some of the guards deserved a few undead thrashings. But the ultimate dessert at the end of this blood-soaked meal would be none other than Scott Marcus George. All Alan needed was one opening to strike. One tiny mistake made by another occupant of this hellhole. The rest would come as naturally as breathing.

“Scotty-Boy…I’m coming for you…and not even your marsh-dwelling girlfriend will be able to save your skinny ass this time!” Alan ranted as he shook the bars like a steroid-pumped professional wrestler. “I’m coming for you, motherfucker!”

THE END?

Silent Warrior, Chapter 27

It took fifteen seconds of staring at his own Nikes, but Craig Dunham finally said what he needed to say: “Look, Scott…I’m probably the last person who should be asking you for help right now. You threw a garbage can at me only a few months before. Hell, you probably feel like doing even more than that, maybe deck me a good one on the chin. But…I didn’t ask for this appointment for nothing, I swear to god.”

Sitting in his comfy swivel chair with the ease and professionalism of a true counselor, Scott calmly said, “Listen, Craig, whatever happened between us in the past, it’s all over now. Things are different now, just like Miss Williams said they would be. I have a new job and you happen to be my first client. You’re here for a reason and I’d probably be right in thinking it has something to do with that scar on your hand.”

Craig sighed and lifted up his hooded sweatshirt to reveal he had even more scars than that. One on his belly, one on his ribs, and a couple of bruises on his chest. Scott hypnotically gazed at them in sympathy and replied with a whispery, “Holy shit. Those are fresh. Who did this to you?” No response. “Craig, if I’m going to help you, I need to know everything that happened. How did you get these bruises? Walking into a doorknob doesn’t do that to people and neither does falling down stairs.”

“Funny, because that’s what I’ve been telling people this whole time. Anytime I took off my shirt for gym class or football practice, they’d be as plain as day. I’d laugh about them with the guys, but there’s no way in hell I’m telling them everything. Oh, and I also said they’re from being tackled during games. I think that was what threw them off my trail.”

“Craig, you didn’t answer my question.”

“My dad did this,” said Craig with trembling lips, causing Scott to lean back in his chair with even more pathos in his eyes. “He, uh…he caught me listening to some…questionable music. Here, let me show you.” As Craig choked back tears, he pulled various CD’s out of his backpack, all of the cases cracked, all of the music preaching nonconformist values: Marilyn Manson, Rob Zombie, Motionless in White, and Ghost to name a few.

“Is your dad religious?”

“Oh, that’s putting it mildly. He makes the old testament look like a Disney movie.” Craig still refused to make eye contact with Scott. “The first time I heard about him talking about God and shit, I didn’t know what to make of it. And just for that little bit of doubt, he beat the shit out of me. I was only six years old then. That’s not some Freudian shit and I know it doesn’t excuse what I’ve done to people like you. It’s just that…” The tears slowly fell from his face and Scott was there to hand him tissues.

Scott leaned forward in his chair to further engage in his subject and placed folded steeple hands in his own lap. “Listen to me. I’m sure not many people are inclined to tell you this, but I’m going to tell it to you right now. Nobody…and I mean nobody…should ever use their religion or politics as a weapon against another human being. It’s not a dad’s job to beat the shit out of his kids over a minor disagreement. It’s not discipline. It’s barbarism. There’s nothing wrong with the music you’re listening to and there’s nothing wrong with questioning authority.”

With his lips trembling even harder, Craig wept, “What will the team think of me? They can’t see me crying like this.”

“Well, that’s funny, because I always thought the true definition of a friend is someone who is loyal to you until the end. It’s like Marilyn Manson always said: if you want to find out who your friends are, sink the ship. The first ones to jump are not your friends. If your football teammates make fun of you for being emotional, they’re not true friends. They’re bullies with a close connection to you. The reason you picked on other students so much was because of all these negative influences, and no, that’s not Freudian bullshit.”

Craig shrugged and said, “They’re the only friends I’ve ever had. I can’t just tell them to fuck off.”

“You know what’s worse than having no friends at all? Having shitty friends who bring you down just to build themselves up. I’m sure those kids have some deep-seeded issues just like you do, but until they come forward with open arms and open hearts, they don’t deserve you. If you want to cry your eyes out, you’re more than welcome to do so. Not only is this stigma of men not being able to cry bullshit, but you’re doing it in a safe place: my office. Nothing you do here will ever leave this room…except for one thing.” Scott handed Craig the phone cradle and nodded knowingly at him.

“You want me to call 9-1-1 on my dad? Are you crazy? The cops aren’t going to believe me. They don’t believe anybody who doesn’t have more DNA evidence than a CSI laboratory.”

“Your bruises and cuts are more than enough evidence to put your father away for a long time. And even if the cops don’t believe your side of the story, at least this police report will set everything in motion so that you don’t have to see him again. If there’s another family member or friend you can stay with, find them and pack your bags. The cops may be overly skeptical, but if you don’t try to at least reach out to them, this is going to continue and things will only get worse. Come on, Craig. Just try.”

After a while of staring at his counselor with dewy eyes, Craig took the phone cradle with a convulsing hand and slowly brought his fingers to the keypad. “Would you mind giving me some privacy, Scott? This is my first 9-1-1 call and I…I can’t explain it right now.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me, Craig. I’ve been there before. The first call is never easy. I know this, because I was the one who made the call when my own father died. You never forget your first time for a lot of things. If you want privacy, I’d be more than happy to step outside the office for a little while. Take as much time as you need and don’t leave out any important details.”

With one arm, Craig gave an awkward hug to Scott and thanked him over and over again for his help. Scott reluctantly returned the hug and stepped out of his digs to give Craig his due privacy. Once the door was closed, Scott rubbed his face and breathed sobering sighs. He almost didn’t see Adrienne standing in front of him with a brown paper sack and a smile on her face.

“I take it your new job’s getting pretty intense right now,” said Adrienne.

“It’s a lot to handle at once, but overall, I’m glad I took the job. I just need some time to recuperate after that, that’s all. Is that my lunch?”

“Sure is. You left it on the kitchen counter this morning. And no, there aren’t any worms or maggots in your lunch today. Instead, you’re getting a classic favorite: peanut butter and jelly. Not just any kind of P&J, but Concord grape jelly and crunchy peanut butter. Your favorite!”

“No way!” said Scott with a sudden burst of happiness. Sure enough, he pulled the sandwich out of the sack and there it was in all its glory: the ever important grape jam. “You’re the queen!” he said before kissing Adrienne on the cheek and hurriedly unwrapping the plastic from his sandwich.

“Let me know when you get off work and we’ll see a movie or something. See you soon!” smiled Adrienne before she waved and hopped off to her next class. She didn’t see it, but Scott waved right back at her in a hypnotically slow manner. She probably got the message by now.

Scott had a seat in one of the chairs outside his office and eyeballed the contents of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He even pulled the two pieces of sourdough bread apart to see if there really were worms crawling around in there. His smile slowly descended into a faraway introspective expression. He searched every corner of his sandwich, every squished grape, and every broken peanut in the peanut butter. It was as though he was a detective honoring a search warrant. But no. Not one worm, not one maggot, and not one sing-songy command from his now-known biological mother.

The real test came when Scott took his first bite of sandwich. As he chewed, he rolled the food around in his tongue for yet another throughout inspection. Not one slime-covered creature swirled around in his mouth. In fact, the sandwich tasted as delicious as a P&J could be, probably because it was his personal favorite. Scott took another bite. And another. And another, until the whole thing was gone in record time. For even more reassurance, Scott lifted his T-shirt and saw that the skin was forming nicely over his previously exposed ribcage. If someone was looking for signs of an eating disorder or PTSD, they’d have to actually have the detective skills of someone honoring a search warrant.

Principal Williams made a throat clearing sound and Scott was immediately yanked out of his trance long enough for him to realize he’d been exposing his belly this entire time. Pulling his shirt down, he smiled and allowed redness to envelop his face. Principal Williams didn’t punish him for it, just smiled right back at him and said, “It’s good to have you on the team, Scott. Carry on.”

Silent Warrior, Chapter 26

“Okay, Tom, you can do this…just go in there…and do you, as the kids say…you can do this…” As Tom Simpson repeated this mantra to himself in the driver’s seat of his car, he breathed deeply and secretly wondered if any of his own former students had to do this right before they walked into his class. Such thoughts were packaged together with the notion that Tom didn’t deserve to do what he was about to do, that he was washed up, tainted, and unforgivable. A few more deep breaths pushed the unwelcome thoughts from his mind. Slowly, yet surely, he exited the vehicle and crossed the moonlit streets of Perkins City.

Tom never expected The Tool Shed to be as laidback as it was. The folk rock music being performed by a drag queen onstage soothed his tense body. The male eye candy made him feel young and colorful again. Yet through it all, he still felt alone even in a gay bar full of handsome men. Nevertheless he straightened his tie and approached the counter hoping for an interaction of some kind.

The burly black barkeep with golden loop earrings asked, “What can I get for you tonight, sunshine?”

“Just a beer would be fine,” said Tom nervously as he looked down where his wedding ring used to be. Ask and ye shall receive: a tall frosty mug of golden beer that probably tasted like horse piss anyways. Tom sipped it and suppressed a bitter face, yet kept on drinking out of necessity. Maybe the phrase “liquid courage” had some meaning to it after all.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” asked the bartender with a warm smile.

Fingering the purple loop where his wedding ring once laid, Tom said, “I’m sure you’ve seen me on the news here and there. I don’t want to say much beyond that, but if you’ve already figured it out, then I’ll get out of your hair whenever you want me to.”

“Nah, nah, I ain’t hating. It’s all good, buddy. We’re all friends here,” said the bartender with a wink, which made Tom chuckle lightly. “Seriously, though, you look like hell. You keep looking down at your finger or some shit. You a married man?”

“Used to be. I had to pawn my ring just to make ends meet.”

“Man, that’s tough. Sorry to hear that. Well, if you’re looking for a new start, you’ve come to the right place. We’ve got good music, good beer, good food, and some motherfuckers that look goooooooo-ood tonight!” The last line was punctuated with a hearty laugh.

“You know…I actually came here for another reason aside from your goooooo-ood beer. You wouldn’t happen to have any job applications handy, would you?”

The barkeep shifted his eyes between the drag queen singing onstage and Tom and smiled as he asked, “No offense, but aren’t you a little old to be taking that dude’s job? I’m not trying to be mean or nothing, but you don’t look like the singer type. Hell, you sound like you lost your voice long before you came in here tonight.”

Taking deeper sip of his beer, Tom said, “I’m not applying to be a singer or a dancer. I was looking for something a little more…higher up. Something more suited to my college degree. Maybe some bookkeeping. Maybe something in the range of…assistant manager?”

Nodding, the barkeep said, “Ah, that makes a little more sense now. You look like a smart dude. I’m sure we can find something for you to do behind the scenes. Hold that thought while I go get you the paperwork.” He ruffled Tom’s hair and walked off to the back office.

Tom took an even deeper gulp of his beer and turned his attention toward the drag queen, who had the voice of a heavenly angel and the looks of a sassy diva. The way his red dress flowed down, the way his long raven hair flopped about, and the way he showed off his hairless body made Tom warm and fuzzy deep in his core. Tom couldn’t remember the last time he had a big goofy grin on his own face, but it was there complete with a line of spittle obliviously hanging from his bottom lip. The drag queen winked and giggled at him and Tom couldn’t help but tuck his head in embarrassment and giggle himself.

“He’s a beauty, ain’t he?” said the returning bartender, who snapped Tom out of his trance long enough for him to notice a fresh job application along with a red inked pen. “You’ll notice on this thing that you’ll be asked for three references. But don’t worry, you don’t have to put down Linda Williams’s name if you don’t want to.” The bartender winked and gave Tom a confused expression.

“Wait a minute, how did you…?”

“Like you said, you’re in the media one way or another. But that’s alright, buddy. We’re all friends here and we don’t judge. I just have one little favor to ask of you before you fill out the application. No more of this democracy is dead shit, alright? It ain’t going to fly here.”

Tom made a flat tire noise and said, “Trust me, I know how ineffective that line was. Ask any of my former students and they’ll be more than happy to tell you about it.” With that said, he got right to work in filling out the application. Now that the bartender mentioned it, there weren’t many people Tom could use as a reference since he spent the last few decades pissing everybody off at Perkins High. By the time he actually reached that point in the paperwork, he froze like Walt Disney. “I think I need a little help here.”

“I’ll have a glass of beer, Charlie,” said a familiar dreamy voice sitting next to Tom. Careful not to make complete eye contact, Tom saw that the drag queen had finished his performance and took a seat next to him for some odd reason. So much for “liquid courage”. Tom buried his attention back into the application when the drag queen patted his shoulders and said, “You look a little lost there, buddy.”

“Honey, I’ve been lost for a long damn time now,” said Tom. “I’m still wrapping my head around this damn piece of paper. I’ve filled out many of them in my lifetime, but this…this reminds me of one of the tests I used to give my kids. Sorry, I’m rambling. Must be the alcohol talking.”

Peeking over Tom’s shoulder, the drag queen said, “You can use me as a reference if you want.”

Snickering nervously, Tom shook his head and said, “That’s really sweet of you, but I’m serious about getting this job.”

“And I’m serious about you having it,” said the smiling drag queen. “We could always use some fresh blood around here. Look around, sweet lips. There’s not a whole lot of business going on around here. It’s like people are afraid to come in here or something. Maybe if you can drum up some business, we can turn this shit around, hmm?”

“I guess so. I’m Tom, by the way. Tom Simpson.”

“Yeah, I noticed on your application there. I’m Dave, but everybody here calls me Davita. Nice to meet you, Tom.”

“So basically everybody here names you after a kidney dialysis clinic? What, do you have little guys in musketeer suits follow you around?”

Tom’s joke earned a hearty laugh from Davita, who squeezed his shoulder and said, “You’re something else, Tom, you really are. You don’t sound like a pissed off history teacher at all. Trust me, I wouldn’t want to work there either, especially with all them football studs walking around beating up ‘queer-mo-sexuals’ as they like to call them.”

“Oh, trust me, Davita, all that’s going to change now that Principal Williams knows what the hell’s going on…and now that I’m gone forever.”

Rubbing Tom’s shoulders, Davita said, “Hey, listen to me. You’re going to make a great worker here. Don’t let any of that past BS get in your way, alright? I know you feel like shit and all, but if you want to work in a gay bar, gay meaning happy, then you’ve got to learn how to smile every now and then. I mean, you looked like you were having the time of your life when I was up there singing. Bring that attitude to your job and you’ll be fine.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Tom as he filled Davita’s name in one of the reference boxes. “One down, two more references to go. Now who do I use?”

“You can use anybody you want, honey. If you don’t want Charlie to contact them, just check that little box and you’ll be fine. Besides, nobody really cares about those things anyways. If they want a new employee, they’ll hire. It really all comes down to how you present yourself in the interview. You give good interviews, right?” The ex-teacher shook his head and Davita said, “Tom?”

“I guess I do give good interviews.”

“That’s the spirit!” squeaked Davita as he kissed Tom on the top of his head. “You’re finally getting to do something you actually love doing. That should give you the happy-ass attitude you want rolling into the interview.”

“I bet you’ve been reading The Secret, haven’t you?” joked Tom. “How many times? Five? Six? A dozen?”

“More like two dozen,” Davita joked back.

Tom shook his head and finished filling out the job application, most likely with bullshit answers. He could have written down Hulk Hogan or Mickey Mouse for one of his references and Davita and Charlie would have warmed his heart with the same smile anyways. Even before he was granted an interview, Tom felt like he belonged, which was a feeling he wish he could have given his students. But enough about the past and forget about the future. It was time to live in the moment for Tom Simpson.

Silent Warrior, Chapter 25

Tom Simpson dared not tread on sacred ground, otherwise known as the Xanax Pavilion, where a special kind of ceremony was being held. Instead he sat in the driver’s seat of his car and allowed the soft sound of “True” by Spandau Ballet to relax his aching soul. He closed his eyes like a dam keeping his raw tears in check. He knew what was going on in that pavilion. Cheers, screams, and general happiness, the latter of which he knew nothing about. This was the next generation of greatness…and among that generation was Scott fucking George.

The sound of that name running through his pounding head caused Tom to clutch the steering wheel with strangulating force. He could have ripped the damn thing off if he wasn’t careful. But if such hulk-like strength was possible, he could only imagine how easy it could be to disconnect Scott’s head from his shoulders. Maybe he wouldn’t have to do that. Maybe it could be a series of powerful haymakers. Maybe Tom could gouge his eyes out through the back of his skull. Maybe he could feast on Scott’s worm-infested brain like a zombie and never have to eat again. Oh shit, there he was.

The new generation of knowledge and wisdom poured out of the pavilion dressed in gowns, caps, and bright smiles. Scott led the pack with happy tears in his eyes, though Tom would be more convinced if such wetness came from a crocodile. Even more disturbing to the disgraced teacher was watching Adrienne and her mother Julie hugging it out with Scott and showering him with sugar and kisses. Julie looked beautiful in that flowery sundress and blond hair. Adrienne looked cuter than a baby bunny as she hopped up and down on her love interest’s arms. But Scott…oh, Scott…

Tom turned off the ignition and got out of his car to stare down the unsuspecting trio. His heart was frozen cold and his blood was boiling hot at the same time. Just a few punches to Scott’s jaw would make everything okay again. Daddy would come to the rescue and put the Simpson family back together again. No more would Scott become man of the house. But even in Tom’s icy heart, he knew such an outcome was only a Hollywood fantasy. A tear rolled down his cheek as he sat on the sidewalk with his head lurched forward. “What am I doing?” he quietly asked himself. He continued ranting in solitude, “This isn’t me…this isn’t me…I couldn’t…I couldn’t…uh-oh….”

The last bit came when the shadow of a rotund woman was cast over him. Tom slowly peeked upward and saw a lovely smile on the face of a high school graduate in a cap and gown. She appeared to have Down Syndrome, which still made her more beautiful than Tom could ever imagine himself being. The young lady held a tiny LGBT flag in her hand and waved it around while shuffling her sneaker-wearing feet. “It’s okay to be gay!” she sang over and over again in a cutesy-wutesy voice before handing the flag to Tom.

For the first time in a long while, Tom’s smile was genuine and heartfelt. “I guess it is okay. I guess so. But how did you…?”

“These things have a way of getting out. That’s okay, though. I still like you anyways!” said the young lady as she patted Tom on his disheveled hair. She introduced herself as Misty Keith before Tom introduced himself offered her a place to sit, which she took. Misty gently rubbed the ex-teacher’s shoulder blades and pointed at Adrienne while saying, “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“Yeah…yeah, she is. And smart too,” said Tom with solemnity. “She’s going to grow up to be quite the remarkable woman, that’s for sure. But unfortunately, I probably won’t get to see it happen. Not in my lifetime.”

“How come?”

“…You wouldn’t understand. It’s…rather complicated.”

“Try me.”

Tom took a deep breath and held his face in his triangulated hands. “I said some things to her and her mother that I shouldn’t have said. I raised my voice at them. I tried to make them something they’re not. And this is the end result of it all: a nasty divorce and a new man in their lives. I can’t even find it in my heart to be angry anymore. I’m just…” Another tear traveled down Tom’s face and Misty was there to wipe it away with a restaurant napkin. “Thank you, young lady.”

“You’re welcome,” said Misty as she ruffled Tom’s hair yet again. “Why don’t you just tell them you’re sorry?”

“Oh, Misty…I wish things were that simple. Trust me, if I knew I could make things right with a wishy-washy apology, then I would have done it a long time ago. But unfortunately, not all stories have a Hollywood ending. If I tried to apologize to Julie and Adrienne…they’d just tell me to fuck off again.”

“You don’t have to do it right now, Mr. Simpson,” said Misty as she wiped away more tears from Tom’s face. “Give them some time. Don’t rush into things. Remember: slow and steady wins the race.”

Tom smiled and shook his head. “That’s a lot of wisdom coming from an eighteen year old. I’m decades ahead of you and even I couldn’t figure that out in time. That’s amazing to me. So what are you going to do now that you’re done with high school?”

“I’m going to be an artist!” said Misty with excitement in her voice and a gleam in her eye. She even pantomimed paintbrush strokes to solidify her dreams. “I’m going to draw lots of pretty pictures and be in an art gallery someday! You want to see one of my drawings?” After Tom nodded, she pulled a folded up drawing out of her breast pocket and showed it to him.

Tom’s eyes grew wide with impressiveness as he saw a highly-detailed drawing of roses and trees, colored with unique shades of purple, orange, and teal. There was even a fairy with butterfly wings waving hi in the background. “That’s amazing, Misty. You’ve definitely worked hard on this drawing.”

“Thanks!” said Misty before she pecked Tom on his cheek, causing him to blush slightly. “So what are you going to do now, Mr. Simpson?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders and said, “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out this whole time, Misty. In the meantime, I’ve been collecting unemployment checks and dipping into my savings. I can’t live this way anymore. Something has to change. I don’t want to be a teacher anymore. If I can’t get through to my own daughter, let alone Scott George, then I don’t deserve to teach history.”

“If you don’t like teaching, you should find something you love doing,” advised Misty. “Maybe you could draw lovely pictures like me. Or maybe you can play the piano. Or you could dance!”

“Once again, you wisdom shines through, young lady. My own students and my own family have been telling me something along those lines for years. I didn’t listen to them. Now I’ve got unemployment checks and a broken heart.”

Patting Tom’s shoulders, Misty said, “It’s never too late to start over again, Mr. Simpson. You don’t have to decide what you want to do right away. Take your time. It’ll come to you. Maybe you can find yourself a nice boyfriend.”

Tom chuckled in embarrassment and shook his head. “You’re funny, Misty. You really are.” Seeing that wonderful smile on her face, he asked, “You’re serious about that last part, aren’t you?”

Misty shrugged and said, “Sure, why not?” She stood up and waved at her mom and dad in the crowd. “I have to go now, Mr. Simpson. You think about what I’ve said today. I just have one more question before I go. Are you sure you don’t have a boyfriend?”

“Yes, Misty, I’m sure,” said Tom with a sad smile. Misty waved at him and trotted happily away towards her own parents. Tom ducked his head and said, “I can’t even afford to be a good husband and father.” His legs ached as he heaved himself up and plopped down in the driver’s seat of his car, turning the stereo back on.

Feeling a little more relaxed now, he closed his eyes and let his mind wander between Misty’s talking points and what his next move was going to be. Tom learned more about the world in that one conversation than his college degree gave him credit for. Being mentally disabled nor being gay was anything to be ashamed of. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Tom Simpson was free from psychological bondage. Free from anger at the world around him. Free from a job he never loved. Free from judgment for his past sins. His body was so relaxed at that moment that he almost fell asleep in the car. A mid-afternoon nap with a creative dream: what beautiful things.

Wrestling With My Mind

***WRESTLING WITH MY MIND***

One day of creative inactivity is unacceptable to me, let alone four. Creating blueprints for my next novel idea doesn’t count, because that shit was too easy. I’m so close to putting the finishing touches on Silent Warrior. Only four more chapters to go and my racecar ran out of gas. I know I originally said three more chapters, but I’ve decided to add another one to make sure all of my loose ends are tied up. You want to know what I’ve been doing during those four days of inactivity aside from creating blueprints? Wrestling with my mind. It wasn’t a schizophrenic attack, but rather a creative struggle within my soul.

Wrestling with your creativity can be good for coming up with story ideas, but when it takes the place of actual work, that’s not a good thing. I used to do this all the time when I was a teenager. I’d wrestle with my mind and never get around to writing something that would amount to a Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex fan fiction. Back then I wanted to do a self-insert fic where I was the subject of unrequited love for Makoto Kusanagi. I ran a bunch of different scenarios through my head and eventually popped something tangible out. Looking back now, it’s not very good, but at least some good came from the constant inner turmoil.

In the case of my most recent four days of nothingness, this running of the gauntlet was a long time coming. It began in mid-February when I researched an episode of Millennium called “A Room with No View” due to nostalgic curiosity. I’ve beaten this topic to death with a lead pipe, so to give you the Cliff’s Notes version of why that episode was upsetting to me, it was a unique version of the kidnapping trope, this time a beautiful woman kidnapping a handsome high school boy and giving him lovey-dovey treatment while in captivity. I saw the Wikipedia article for this episode and figured, I want to do a story like that too, though with my own spin on it. Thus a novel synopsis for “Beautiful Monster” was born. But blueprints aren’t anywhere near as valuable as an actual novel, so it’ll have to be shelved for now.

Less than a week later, I went to see Pop Evil at El Corazon, a nightclub in Seattle. The music was good and dancing to it was a lot of fun. Here’s what I didn’t tell you guys. While Black Map (one of the opening acts) was performing onstage, a cute stocky black chick tried dancing with me. She had her hand in mine. She had her hand on my shoulder. She was twirling around. For all intents and purposes, since I’m apparently so lovesick, I should be making moves on her too. But no. I was terrified. I just stood there frozen like Walt Disney while this chick was giving me sugar and love. It didn’t help matters that she shoved another woman with her elbow and got herself ejected from the building, but that’s beside the point.

I spent the next two days wrestling with the awkwardness and then the following Wednesday I saw Starset at the same venue without incident. But think about this for a minute: an episode of Millennium, an embarrassing moment at a concert, and a childhood of rejecting girls as a reaction to my father’s divorce troubles. Bad timing aside, don’t you think this makes for some emotionally raw creative fuel? You’re damn right it does. The creative fuel helped get me through ten more chapters of Silent Warrior, which is a story about an unconfident high schooler named Scott George getting into an unfamiliar romance with a younger woman. Pay attention to the theme of lacking confidence around women, because that’ll come into play multiple times during my creative journey.

Because of this creative fuel swirling in my brain, I became obsessed with certain songs in my music library. You all know about “Beautiful Monster” by Otherwise, but I also listened to a lot of “This Love” by Pantera. I also listened to a lot of heavy metal songs to bring me back down into bathos territory. And then I start watching Final Fantasy videos on You Tube and finding even more vicarious romances to set my mind on fire. Squall Leonhart and Cloud Strife are both emotionally distant characters who are colder than Walt Disney (man, I’m really laying that shit on thick!). When they went on dates with their respective love interests, I felt the terror building up in my stomach yet again.

And then the scenarios swirled in my head once more. I actually imagined Squall, Cloud, and Landon Bryce (Millennium) joining a group therapy session to get in touch with their feelings, y’all (as Dr. Phil would oftentimes say). And then I imagined myself in a college class introducing myself as someone who doesn’t open up easily. And then I imagined having a schizophrenic episode in the middle of a WWE ring with the girls of Absolution screaming for paramedics.

And while all of this nonstop nonsense is going on, I still have two novel ideas floating around in my head. One of them is Beautiful Monster as I’ve mentioned before. The other is Booger the Clown. Let’s compare and contrast the main characters of both stories. Windham Xavier is an elf paladin who gets kidnapped by a beautiful vampire named Shelly Atwood so that the two of them can have a black wedding together. Booger the Clown (real name Private Andrew Gale) is a depressed birthday performer who picks fights with orcs because he secretly wants to die. Both main characters are snarky. They’re both emotionally fucked up for life. They’re both being pursued by beautiful women. And whatever happy ending they achieve, they’re going to have to earn it through fire and fury.

Keep in mind that these ideas and dream scenarios are all invading my mind right when I’m ready to pull the trigger on Silent Warrior. Four chapters left. Four fucking chapters left, all of which I’ve played out in my mind many times before and therefore have a solid foundation for how I’m going to write them. Two chapters are going to be told through Tom Simpson’s point of view, one chapter is going to be told through Scott George’s POV, and the other one goes to Alan Young. You won’t get many spoilers beyond that, so cool your jets, as my mother once told me.

But let’s go back to this theme of being unconfident and afraid around beautiful women. This is a curse that has followed me for pretty much all of my life. Even when I was dating a Bremerton woman named Brianna, I could never bring myself out of the shadows for fear of offending the other person. I’ve been offended by women in the past and I don’t want to put anybody else through that. So in order to keep the peace between us, I give them a shield from my lovey-dovey behavior. Even if they don’t give me a shield, I give them a shield. Though the peace treaty is intact, our hearts are not. Careless overconfidence can lead to awkwardness. Nobody needs that. Shyness, on the other hand, is the greatest defense I’ll ever have.

But instead of rolling over and playing dead for a cold world, I use sexual inadequacy as creative fuel for my emotionally rawest stories. William Butler Yeats was once told by his crush that if they got together, he’d have nothing to write about. That doesn’t mean I don’t intend to date again when the opportunity presents itself. It just means I’m going to focus my broken heart on getting things done rather than being a perpetual angsty mope. Like I said, Silent Warrior is four chapters away from completion. I may write the twenty-fifth chapter today, depending on whether or not my brain wants to cooperate. I think it will. It’s cooperated with me long enough to get this blog entry out, so I think I’m good to go for Silent Warrior’s twenty-fifth chapter. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time!

***NOVEL QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“I know it isn’t fair. I know how hard you try. But if you want love and affection in this world, you have to earn it by being a good person, not by throwing a fit.”

-Windham Xavier to Shelly Atwood-

Silent Warrior, Chapter 24

For the first time in what seemed like ages, Scott George felt as though he belonged somewhere. He couldn’t get this feeling at home, so he got it at school when he walked through the front door with students and teachers applauding his arrival. He knew he couldn’t thank them enough for what they had done, so he smiled a warm smile and waved back at them.

But he knew now was not the time for complacency. He never once lost sight of the fact that this was a high school, the testing grounds for the next level of education: college. Scott studied his ass off for the upcoming finals, putting extra effort into US history. He did more than just memorize dates, events, and wars; he delved into their respective contexts. How did structural racism begin? How does it continue into today’s society? Is democracy still alive? The answer to the last question was yes and Scott was living proof. Now he had to show that proof to the rest of the school by acing these final exams.

He sat in his usual desk in his history class and took in all the sights of this new regime. The desks were in almost pristine condition. The students radiated with calmness. The new teacher, Mr. Corbin, didn’t stare down at his pupils like was a giant munching on villagers. Scott’s only concern was with the jock bully who had taunted him in the past. The football stud didn’t look like much of a stud as he kept his head down and fingered what appeared to be a wound on his hand. Scott couldn’t help but feel for the poor guy, whatever happened to him. He even managed to remember the big guy’s name: Craig Dunham. Imagine that: giving somebody a name actually helps humanize that person.

“Good morning, class,” said Mr. Corbin, instantly gaining his pupils’ attentions. “It’s been a long road to get to this point and you’ve all done very well so far. That’s all I’ve ever wanted from any class I teach: universal success. I have no quotas to fill as far as negative marks go. You all have met me halfway and I’m eternally grateful. You’ve proven to me that democracy is far from dead despite what the previous teacher has hammered into you. Without a proper education in a calm work environment, we can’t have a true democracy. But we have just one more part of this long journey and that’s the final exam. There are fifty questions, all of which are multiple choice. You have one hour to complete the test, but you most likely won’t need all of it.”

As soon as Mr. Corbin passed out the scantron sheets and the students had their pencils ready, he said, “Good luck to each and every one of you. I hope you all find the success you’re looking for today and every day after that. Your exam begins…now!” The students went right to work in filling in those bubbles, Scott included.

For the weeks leading up to this exam, Scott felt a sense of peace and quiet surge through his body. He knew he didn’t owe it to just one factor, as there were many pieces of this unbreakable puzzle. Whether it was moving in with Adrienne, feeling welcome under Mr. Corbin’s tutelage, or the fact that he confronted his personal demons and won, Scott was able to focus on his test without burning himself out. Any worms and puppets that had previously invaded his mind had faded into black and white pictures and were pushed aside with relative ease. The EMDR techniques during therapy did their job and then some. But there was no time to reflect, because he only had one hour before the test was over.

What was the major reason for the civil war? Keeping the confederacy from seceding. Who assassinated President Lincoln? John Wilkes-Booth. What does being “sold up the river” mean? Being a slave who was traded by boat to an arguably harsher master. Who was the eventual Supreme Court justice who argued successfully against Plessey vs. Ferguson? Thurgood Marshall. What year was John Lennon assassinated? 1980. Soon enough, the questions and answers came together with enough ease that Scott finished his test before the rest of the class. For that, he took a deep breath and took his test to Mr. Corbin’s office, though the nerves about his grade caused his stomach to hurt and his heart to race.

“I knew it: you didn’t need the full hour after all. Very impressive, Mr. George,” said Mr. Corbin with a warm smile. When Scott didn’t return to his seat, he asked, “Did you have a question for me?”

“Uh, yeah, uh…” Scott cleared his throat to buy his nerves some extra time. “Would it be okay with you if you graded my test now?”

“I don’t see why not. Could you shut the door, please?” Scott did as he was told and allowed his arms to quiver at the sight of Mr. Corbin running his red pen through the test. The new teacher made a few Nike logo gestures with his mouth, but then nodded and gave a half smile. He capped his pen and told Scott, “Okay, that’s an eighty-nine percent. A solid B+.” Scott clutched his chest and breathed a heavy sigh of relief, his nerves turning into warm prickly feelings throughout his arms, shoulders, and scalp. Mr. Corbin said, “That B+ should be a significant boost to your overall grade since it weighs the most. You should be proud.”

“Trust me, Mr. Corbin, you have no idea how relieved I am,” said Scott in between heavy breaths.

“As long as I have you in my office, why don’t you take a seat and talk to me for a minute. Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble for anything. Just please, take a seat.” Scott once again did as he was told, hands folded neatly across his lap and his toes bouncing his leg up and down. Mr. Corbin removed his glasses and asked, “How are you feeling these days, Mr. George?”

“I guess I’m doing alright. It hasn’t been perfect, but…I’m doing okay for now.” Scott’s eyes darted from side to side as he strengthened his efforts to suppress his worm flashbacks. He had a sinking feeling that that’s where this conversation was going.

“That’s good to hear,” said Mr. Corbin with a nod. “It seems as though it’s been a while since you’ve last heard this line of questioning.”

Scott sadly smiled and said, “Am I that easy to read?”

“No question about it. But I do hope you’re not living your life with any regrets. Don’t use your experiences as an excuse to stay down. Use them as a weapon. You’re going to need that weapon after you graduate.” When Scott shrugged his shoulders in confusion, Mr. Corbin pulled a sheet of paper out of a file folder and said, “Sorry, I should probably explain. Principal Williams wanted me to give you this before you left my class for the day.”

Scott gazed at the paper in his hands with confusion and happiness in his expression. “It’s a job application…for being the school’s sensitivity counselor? Oh no, I couldn’t do this. I don’t even have a psychology degree. Shit, I’m not even out of school yet to get one of those things.”

“You don’t need one, Scott. You’re perfectly qualified to have this job. You know what it’s like to need somebody to talk to, somebody to share your feelings with. You’ve gained more experience in just this last semester than most people do in a lifetime. Like I said, use your experiences not as a stopping point, but as a new beginning. Granted, you won’t make a lot of money in your first year. This is school, after all, and teachers and staff members alike struggle with their money enough as it is. But if you need a way to support yourself and your girlfriend while you save up for college, this would be the route to go. What say you, Scott?”

“I…I don’t know what to say…”

Mr. Corbin joked, “Your enthusiasm is underwhelming, Scott. If I was drowning and somebody threw me a handful of life preservers, I’d have a bigger smile on my face than you.” The student and teacher shared a laugh together at the blatantly stolen Dr. Phil line.

“It’s funny that you quoted Dr. Phil just now because…I kind of feel like him by filling out this application.”

“You are almost like him, except far less bullshit.” Scott hiked his eyebrows at Mr. Corbin, who smiled casually and said, “Bet you didn’t hear that word a lot from Mr. Simpson. But just to stay on the safe side, let’s keep it between you and me.”

“It’s a deal,” said Scott as the two of them shook hands. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pen on you right now, would you?”

“You can write with the one I used to grade your test. I’m sure Miss Williams won’t mind a little red ink. She used to have my job, so she used it quite liberally. Here you go,” said Mr. Corbin as he handed Scott the pen. The newly healed high school senior filled out the application with a careful writing speed while the teacher interlaced his fingers behind his own head and relaxed for a while. “Take your time, Scott. There’s no rush. Slow and steady wins the race.” Even more lines that Scott had never heard Mr. Simpson say in his lifetime.

Silent Warrior, Chapter 23

“Mother…please forgive me…I just had to get out all my pain and suffering…remember I will always love you…I’m your…son….”

“That’s very sweet of you, Mr. George, but I’m not your mother,” said a nameless jail guard as his words jolted Scott awake.

The battered prisoner’s body ached and pulsated while his eyes stung as they adjusted to the florescent lights of an infirmary. He had patches and bandages all over his wounds and even had some cotton pressed against his gums, though his speech was clear enough to decipher. As soon as Scott’s eyes adjusted to the light, he stared up at the prison guard trying to get a good read of him. The bright lights gave him an angelic aura, but Scott knew this was far from heaven.

The guard reached up and pulled the wire out of the only camera in the room, thus making their interactions completely private. Scott’s body jittered at the thought of what might happen to him next. But when he gave a wide-eyed look at the guard, the latter said, “Doctor-patient privacy.” Scott’s confusion and anxiety grew even more rampant when the guard knocked on the door and said, “You can come in now, Dr. Archer.”

“Wait a minute, who’s Dr. Archer?” asked Scott in weak tone.

“Your girlfriend’s therapist,” answered the guard, who allowed a slender black lady in business attire to enter the room with a clipboard, a pen, and a sympathetic smile for her patient. “I’ll leave the two of you alone for a while.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the therapist. Once the guard vacated the room, she engaged Scott with a gentle handshake and a warm attitude. “My name is Dr. Simone Archer. Your girlfriend sent me here to see how you’re doing.”

“It’s amazing anybody cares about me at all,” said Scott with a saggy frown.

Simone took a seat on the edge of Scott’s bed and began taking notes on her clipboard. “Adrienne cares a lot about you, Mr. George. This isn’t just some one-time fling for her. She’s committed to your happiness. She hopes you feel the same way about her. Do you, Scott?”

Scott closed his heavy eyelids and sighed, “I’ve never loved anybody that much in my life. Too bad it’s illegal.”

“Just because something is illegal, doesn’t mean it’s wrong, The reverse is true as well. The laws that are built on commonsense are the ones that mean the most to nonconformists such as yourself. But not everybody has the commonsense you do and that’s why you’re here, not because you did anything morally corrupt.”

Scott’s eyes slowly opened into pseudo-wideness when he said, “I’ve been waiting far too long for somebody to say that to me.”

“Adrienne told me of your struggles with your history teacher. And before you ask, she has granted me permission to divulge this information to you. Otherwise, I wouldn’t do it. Just like I won’t divulge anything you say to me in this session without your own permission. What happens in this room stays in this room. It was my idea for the guard to unplug the camera.”

Deep sighs and waves of relaxation washed over Scott’s exhausted and burdensome body. “As long as this conversation is private and I’m talking to someone who doesn’t think I have my head in my ass…there’s something I’ve wanted to get off my chest. I’ve told Adrienne about it, but not many other people.”

With clipboard and pen ready to go, Simone said, “I’m listening. Go ahead whenever you’re ready.”

Another deep relaxing sigh later, Scott said, “As you can tell from how fucking skinny I am…I’ve been having problems eating lately. It’s like…every time I take a bite of something, it’s covered in these slimy little worms. I know they’re not really there, but I can’t get my mind to shut the fuck up about it.” Tears welled up in his eyes and Simone gently patted his ankle. “I miss eating the good shit. I used to love eating steaks, cheeseburgers, pizza, Oreos…now all I can eat are worms and more worms. Everything around me is just a worm den.”

“And why do you suppose this is?”

Scott shrugged and said, “That’s what’s been giving me nightmares lately: I don’t know why. It’s like…every time I close my eyes, there she is again. This puppet teacher named Aloysius Striker. And then when I go to court, I find out she’s a living, breathing human being. She’s my bully’s step-mother. I don’t know what the hell any of this has to do with my worms. But every time the worms crawl around, her hideous face is always there to mock me.”

Simone allowed her new patient to shed a few silent tears before she patted his ankle again and said, “I want to try something with you, Scott. You seem to be in a relaxed state of mind, but I think you can go deeper than that. I want you to close your eyes for a moment. Breathe gently in and out. I want you to get to the root of these issues. The answer is locked up somewhere in there. You just have to be the one who unlocks it.”

“But…but…what if I find something that fucks me up?”

“Whatever you find locked up in there, it will no doubt be painful. You’re showing classic signs of PTSD. And as a coping mechanism, those who suffer from PTSD push their worst memories to a neutral corner of their brains. That may work in the short term, but now you’re at a point where it’s eating you up inside. I know you’re scared, Scott. But if you don’t’ confront your demons now, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

Scott gave a sad flat tire noise and said, “However long that is.”

“Have you given up already, Scott? Even if you have, don’t you at least owe it to yourself to find the answers you’re looking for?”

Taking more deep breaths, Scott closed his eyes and said, “Okay, I’ll play ball with you. Let’s do this.”

Holding Scott’s hand in a soothing grip, Simone spoke to him in an ethereal new age voice in hopes of triggering a hypnotic effect. “Think back to your earliest memory of Mrs. Striker. When did this happen? Who is she to tell you what to think about? Why does her presence mean so much to you?”

Scott’s mind swirled with colors while his body sank deeper into his hospital bed. His arms went limp as did his legs. He could breathe deeply while ignoring the agony in his nearly broken torso. Any stress point in his body, he breathed into and dissolved the tension. No judgment. No condescension. Just Scott and his mind, one-on-one.

As he traveled through his imagination, he could feel himself getting smaller. His babyish voice echoed throughout the halls of what appeared to be another hospital room. He tensed up slightly when the worms flooded his imagination, but he brushed them away like mere annoyances since they blocked the path to his answers. And then he felt a motherly pair of hands cradling him and soothing his baby screams. A woman gently sang to him, “Good morning to you. Good morning to you. Good morning, dear Scotty. Good morning to you!”

Scott sat up in his bed and triggered the pain in his stomach, his heart and brain beating at a blistering speed. Adrenaline poured through his system as tears flooded from his eyes. When Simone asked him what he saw, he caught his breath long enough to say, “Aloysius is my mother!...That fucking bitch is my mother!” Scott plopped backwards in his bed and allowed the tears to burst over his face. “That’s not possible. How could my dad marry a woman like that? Damn you, Dad!”

Simone pulled a handkerchief from her suit pocket and wiped the wetness from her patient’s face. But alas, not even the best janitors in the world had that kind of cleaning power. The tears kept coming and so did the snot. Simone held the rag to his nose and allowed him to blow his nose until his sinuses were dry. She tossed the rag in the garbage can, but the tears kept coming.

“Listen to me, Scott. Your past doesn’t define you. I know that sounds cliché, but quite frankly it doesn’t get said enough. This woman obviously had a tremendous effect on your psyche. But she’s neither here nor there. She has no control over your life anymore. She made the decision to leave you and mother your nemesis. That’s all on her. As far as you go, Scott, you must now use this story as a launching pad for your future, not as a barricade. Be the change you want in this world.”

Wiping his tears away with the back of his hand, Scott wept, “Future? What future? I’m in prison, for god’s sake! There’s no such thing as a future in prison!”

Taking Scott’s hand in hers yet again, Simone looked deep into his dewy eyes and confessed, “I wanted to wait to tell you this until you’ve calmed down a bit. But I can see you need to know it now. It’s the only thing that can convince you to stay strong and push for a better day. You see, Scott…your principal Miss Williams set up a Go Fund Me page to get you out of jail…she met her goal. Your bail’s been paid. It’s all a matter of waiting for the paperwork to go through. Scott…you’re free!”

That news should have brought a permanent smile to Scott’s face, but instead more tears poured from his bright red pupils. “I don’t deserve this….I didn’t do anything to earn this…this is some Deus Ex Machina shit right here!”

“You’re wrong, Scott,” said Simone. “While it’s true you’ve made a few enemies during your high school years, you’ve also inspired many. The parents of Perkins High paid close attention to what happened to you. They were shocked not at your actions, but at your results. They looked at you and asked themselves…What if that was my child in the defendant’s chair? This is your story now, Scott. While you didn’t come up with the money yourself, you win this war by virtue of your survival. The world needs to hear what you have to say. They need your individuality. They need your strength. They need your empathy. That’s why you’re free from prison. And yes, you do deserve your freedom and so much more.”

After a while of letting his new therapist’s words hang in the air, Scott hugged her tightly without caring how awkward it would seem. He soaked the shoulder of her business suit in tears, but Simone didn’t mind at all. In fact, she returned the hug and allowed him this moment of newfound happiness. Scott knew he still had a long road ahead of him in terms of recovery, but this was a huge first step. “Thank you, Dr. Archer. Thank you!” he said softly.

“Please, call me Simone. You have my permission. This isn’t school, my friend. This is just you and me.” As soon as the embrace ended, she said, “Speaking of school, you have finals to prepare for, including a US history test, though Mr. Simpson has been replaced by someone else. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Wiping away the last of his ocular fluids, Scott nodded and said, “I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life!”