Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 81
July 22, 2017
It's a Natural Function
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Paula Bryan, a loving grandmother, a friend of the community, and a mentor to the most vulnerable members of our society. She passed away this past Saturday night due to natural causes at the age of ninety-one years young. She is survived by her children and grandchildren and remembered by all of the lives she has touched. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, earth to earth, and…”
PTHHHHHHHHHHHH!
The sunshine-filled graveyard was tainted with the odor of a digested Philly cheese steak sandwich eaten by the heaviest member of this funeral procession, Chris Antonio. Despite the suppressed laughter and wicked stares of the black-clad funeral attendees, he threw his hands up defensively and said, “That’ll send some tremors through here.”
The red robed priest Garth Roy snapped his bible shut, took the glasses off of his bald head, and snarled at Chris, “Do you mind? We’re trying to have a funeral and here you are just blasting away! Control yourself!”
“Sorry,” said Chris as he ashamedly tucked his chin with the other attendees.
“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,” said Reverend Roy. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, earth to earth, and…”
Another nuclear blast was exhumed from Chris’s butt cheeks and the family and friends of Mrs. Bryan coughed, hacked, wheezed, and held their noses at the stench. Chris’s cheeks were redder than the roses on the casket.
“What do you have to say for yourself, you little twit?!” fired Garth.
“Sorry again. You should probably get some new roses for the casket, they’re going to die within seconds,” joked Chris, which earned him some not-so-suppressed laughter from the younger members of the service.
“Enough!” shouted Garth while throwing down his bible. His authoritative shriek was enough to kill the laughter and command his due attention. “We’re trying to bury this poor woman and your fat ass is ruining the entire ceremony! If you’re that gassy, there are restrooms right over there!” he said while pointing to said destination with his arthritis-pained finger.
“Ruining?” said Chris with his hands on the wide hips of his black slacks and gray suit jacket. “Ruining, my ass! Actually, that’s probably not the right verbiage I want to use.” The laughter continued much to the teeth-gritting chagrin of Reverend Garth Roy. “But seriously, is that really all you want from us? To cry all day long? Let’s be honest, Reverend: you can spell funeral without F-U-N.”
“Fun?! You think this is fun?! A woman just died last Saturday and all you can think about is your disgusting colon?!” bellowed Garth with his arms flailing. “The video arcade is down the street from here! If you want to have fun and act like a damned child, go over there! We’re here to celebrate Paula Bryan’s life and we’re not going to have you screw everything up!”
“But see, that’s the thing, Reverend Roy: we are celebrating Mrs. Bryan’s life by having a good laugh at this,” said Chris. “You want to know how she became such a well-known mentor to people like me? By putting smiles on our faces, that’s how. She didn’t take life too seriously. She enjoyed a good fart joke every now and then. Speaking of which…” With that, Chris Antonio lifted his right leg and let out another thunderstorm of flatulence, which earned an equal amount of laughter and jeers. He mockingly waved his hand over his nose and said, “Phew! This place smells like we’re standing over a dead body, am I right? Hell, we might as well move this ceremony to the bus station bathroom. It’d smell better, that’s for sure.”
The laughter continued except with Reverend Garth Roy, who picked his bible back up off the ground and slowly crept towards Chris before whacking him over the head with it. The overweight gas machine rubbed the top of his skull and said, “Ow, what did you do that for?!”
“If Paula Bryan were alive today, she would strangle you with her husband’s belt, you sick bastard!” whispered Garth with raspy rage. “She’s looking down at all of us from heaven with disgust!” The laughter died more sorrowfully than Paula Bryan. Everybody’s tear-stained eyes were locked onto their church leader as he gave his hellfire oratory. “She won’t be looking down on you anymore, Chris, because one of these days, you’re going to burn in the ninth circle of hell for turning this procession into a circus! You’re a disgrace to the lord’s name and you’re a disappointment to the memory of Paula Bryan! Get out! Take your feces-stained underwear somewhere else! Go on! Move it!”
Chris’s pudgy face became even more saggy with his dour frown. He tucked his chin and turned around to try and walk away. He stopped after only a few feet and held his chest in pain. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Neither do any of us, Mr. Antonio! We’re at a funeral!” shouted Garth. “Be on your way! Take your farty-party over to the local middle school!” The attendees chuckled at the term “farty-party” before being silenced yet again with, “I’m serious!” With all soaked eyes on him, Garth commanded, “If anybody else thinks this whole thing is a joke, feel free to take a walk with Mr. Antonio! You can stand at his side, but try not to stand behind him!” The attendees chuckled to where Garth threw his bible on the ground yet again and screamed through gritted teeth.
In the midst of this “farty-party”, Chris dropped down to both knees and breathed heavily while clutching his chest. “Oh god, oh dear god,” he said while attendees were gathered around trying to help him to his feet.
“You see what you’ve done, Chris?!” belted Garth. “The good lord is striking you down and it’s too late for atonement! How do those hellfire flames feel, Chris?! I said, how do they feel?!”
With the attendees’ arms locked around his elbows, Chris managed to make it to his feet, but not without spaghetti legs and a dazed psyche. “Oh no, not now. No, no, no! Please forgive me, Paula. I love you.” But instead of falling down on his face and meeting the devil, he let out another cloud of nauseating diesel fumes. The funeral goers laughed once again.
“Goddamn it!” shouted Garth as he jumped up and down stomping the grass.
“I think the good Reverend over there just used the lord’s name in vain,” said Chris with a hearty smile. “I don’t think he should be directing this funeral anymore. Do you guys feel the same way?”
While the friends and family of Mrs. Bryan cheered, Reverend Roy held his nose and mouth under his robe and coughed violently. In his wild attempt at sucking down fresh air, he knocked the casket over and Paula’s body rolled out onto the grass. The heavy laughter turned to gasping shock as everybody realized what Garth just did, albeit accidentally.
Holding his hands up defensively, Garth said, “I didn’t mean to. I’ll put her back inside, no problem.”
The onlookers, Chris included, watched in horror as Garth desperately tried to put pieces of Paula’s withered body back inside the casket. His face still scrunched up a the vile odor of Chris’s farts. Now the scent of an old lady’s corpse invaded his nostrils like a new form of nasal rape. He coughed and wheezed once more, but this time fell into the six foot hole in which Paula was supposed to be buried in.
Tears welled up in Garth’s eyes, even more so than when the funeral began and this was all about death and depression. Chris and the onlookers gazed down at him while the pudgy protégé said, “Asses to asses, dust to dust, may you rest in feces, I mean, pieces, I mean peace, damn it, peace!”
“I give up! I fucking give up!” yelled Garth as he punched and kicked the dirt beneath him.
Above the grave, Chris and the others laughed and hugged each other. This time, their smiles remained permanent. If there really was such thing as smiling down from heaven, Paula Bryan was doing it with her most beautiful expression. From beyond the grave, she brought happiness and love to those who needed it the most. “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” That was her favorite Dr. Seuss quote and for good reason.
PTHHHHHHHHHHHH!
The sunshine-filled graveyard was tainted with the odor of a digested Philly cheese steak sandwich eaten by the heaviest member of this funeral procession, Chris Antonio. Despite the suppressed laughter and wicked stares of the black-clad funeral attendees, he threw his hands up defensively and said, “That’ll send some tremors through here.”
The red robed priest Garth Roy snapped his bible shut, took the glasses off of his bald head, and snarled at Chris, “Do you mind? We’re trying to have a funeral and here you are just blasting away! Control yourself!”
“Sorry,” said Chris as he ashamedly tucked his chin with the other attendees.
“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,” said Reverend Roy. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, earth to earth, and…”
Another nuclear blast was exhumed from Chris’s butt cheeks and the family and friends of Mrs. Bryan coughed, hacked, wheezed, and held their noses at the stench. Chris’s cheeks were redder than the roses on the casket.
“What do you have to say for yourself, you little twit?!” fired Garth.
“Sorry again. You should probably get some new roses for the casket, they’re going to die within seconds,” joked Chris, which earned him some not-so-suppressed laughter from the younger members of the service.
“Enough!” shouted Garth while throwing down his bible. His authoritative shriek was enough to kill the laughter and command his due attention. “We’re trying to bury this poor woman and your fat ass is ruining the entire ceremony! If you’re that gassy, there are restrooms right over there!” he said while pointing to said destination with his arthritis-pained finger.
“Ruining?” said Chris with his hands on the wide hips of his black slacks and gray suit jacket. “Ruining, my ass! Actually, that’s probably not the right verbiage I want to use.” The laughter continued much to the teeth-gritting chagrin of Reverend Garth Roy. “But seriously, is that really all you want from us? To cry all day long? Let’s be honest, Reverend: you can spell funeral without F-U-N.”
“Fun?! You think this is fun?! A woman just died last Saturday and all you can think about is your disgusting colon?!” bellowed Garth with his arms flailing. “The video arcade is down the street from here! If you want to have fun and act like a damned child, go over there! We’re here to celebrate Paula Bryan’s life and we’re not going to have you screw everything up!”
“But see, that’s the thing, Reverend Roy: we are celebrating Mrs. Bryan’s life by having a good laugh at this,” said Chris. “You want to know how she became such a well-known mentor to people like me? By putting smiles on our faces, that’s how. She didn’t take life too seriously. She enjoyed a good fart joke every now and then. Speaking of which…” With that, Chris Antonio lifted his right leg and let out another thunderstorm of flatulence, which earned an equal amount of laughter and jeers. He mockingly waved his hand over his nose and said, “Phew! This place smells like we’re standing over a dead body, am I right? Hell, we might as well move this ceremony to the bus station bathroom. It’d smell better, that’s for sure.”
The laughter continued except with Reverend Garth Roy, who picked his bible back up off the ground and slowly crept towards Chris before whacking him over the head with it. The overweight gas machine rubbed the top of his skull and said, “Ow, what did you do that for?!”
“If Paula Bryan were alive today, she would strangle you with her husband’s belt, you sick bastard!” whispered Garth with raspy rage. “She’s looking down at all of us from heaven with disgust!” The laughter died more sorrowfully than Paula Bryan. Everybody’s tear-stained eyes were locked onto their church leader as he gave his hellfire oratory. “She won’t be looking down on you anymore, Chris, because one of these days, you’re going to burn in the ninth circle of hell for turning this procession into a circus! You’re a disgrace to the lord’s name and you’re a disappointment to the memory of Paula Bryan! Get out! Take your feces-stained underwear somewhere else! Go on! Move it!”
Chris’s pudgy face became even more saggy with his dour frown. He tucked his chin and turned around to try and walk away. He stopped after only a few feet and held his chest in pain. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Neither do any of us, Mr. Antonio! We’re at a funeral!” shouted Garth. “Be on your way! Take your farty-party over to the local middle school!” The attendees chuckled at the term “farty-party” before being silenced yet again with, “I’m serious!” With all soaked eyes on him, Garth commanded, “If anybody else thinks this whole thing is a joke, feel free to take a walk with Mr. Antonio! You can stand at his side, but try not to stand behind him!” The attendees chuckled to where Garth threw his bible on the ground yet again and screamed through gritted teeth.
In the midst of this “farty-party”, Chris dropped down to both knees and breathed heavily while clutching his chest. “Oh god, oh dear god,” he said while attendees were gathered around trying to help him to his feet.
“You see what you’ve done, Chris?!” belted Garth. “The good lord is striking you down and it’s too late for atonement! How do those hellfire flames feel, Chris?! I said, how do they feel?!”
With the attendees’ arms locked around his elbows, Chris managed to make it to his feet, but not without spaghetti legs and a dazed psyche. “Oh no, not now. No, no, no! Please forgive me, Paula. I love you.” But instead of falling down on his face and meeting the devil, he let out another cloud of nauseating diesel fumes. The funeral goers laughed once again.
“Goddamn it!” shouted Garth as he jumped up and down stomping the grass.
“I think the good Reverend over there just used the lord’s name in vain,” said Chris with a hearty smile. “I don’t think he should be directing this funeral anymore. Do you guys feel the same way?”
While the friends and family of Mrs. Bryan cheered, Reverend Roy held his nose and mouth under his robe and coughed violently. In his wild attempt at sucking down fresh air, he knocked the casket over and Paula’s body rolled out onto the grass. The heavy laughter turned to gasping shock as everybody realized what Garth just did, albeit accidentally.
Holding his hands up defensively, Garth said, “I didn’t mean to. I’ll put her back inside, no problem.”
The onlookers, Chris included, watched in horror as Garth desperately tried to put pieces of Paula’s withered body back inside the casket. His face still scrunched up a the vile odor of Chris’s farts. Now the scent of an old lady’s corpse invaded his nostrils like a new form of nasal rape. He coughed and wheezed once more, but this time fell into the six foot hole in which Paula was supposed to be buried in.
Tears welled up in Garth’s eyes, even more so than when the funeral began and this was all about death and depression. Chris and the onlookers gazed down at him while the pudgy protégé said, “Asses to asses, dust to dust, may you rest in feces, I mean, pieces, I mean peace, damn it, peace!”
“I give up! I fucking give up!” yelled Garth as he punched and kicked the dirt beneath him.
Above the grave, Chris and the others laughed and hugged each other. This time, their smiles remained permanent. If there really was such thing as smiling down from heaven, Paula Bryan was doing it with her most beautiful expression. From beyond the grave, she brought happiness and love to those who needed it the most. “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” That was her favorite Dr. Seuss quote and for good reason.
July 20, 2017
Rest in Peace, Chester Bennington
***REST IN PEACE, CHESTER BENNINGTON***
This morning (July 20th, 2017), the lead singer of Linkin Park, Chester Bennington, committed suicide by hanging. When I first heard the news on Face Book, I thought I was going to bawl my eyes out right then and there. Linkin Park has been a huge part of my life since 2002 when I was experiencing schizophrenia in my senior year of high school. Their hard rock sound and thoughtful lyrics helped me through those tough times. I first heard their Hybrid Theory album when I was in gym class lifting weights. I saved up enough money and purchased that CD in 2003 and it become a huge part of getting me through Olympic College. My favorite songs on that album were Paper Cut, Place For My Head, and the bonus track My December. Ever since then, I’ve been buying Linkin Park albums until I had every last one of them.
I’ve seen Linkin Park in concert twice in my life, once in 2003 (or 2004) at the Tacoma Dome and once in 2012 at the same venue with Incubus opening for them. Both times, Chester was on his A-game with his aggressive vocals when it counted and softer crooning when we needed to be brought back to earth. In 2012, he paid tribute to the Beastie Boys when he screamed the vocals for “Sabotage” in the wake of MCA’s untimely death. The music nerd within me was going nuts during those performances. I was jumping up and down and moshing with the best of them, even during times of poor diets and bad exercise habits.
Their most recent album, One More Light, received a lot of criticism from diehard fans for being too much of a pop record instead of staying true to their roots. While it is true that experimenting with music can sometimes end badly, that’s not the case with this album, at least in my opinion. Yes, it’s different from what we’re used to hearing, but I love it nonetheless. My favorites on that album include Nobody Can Save Me, Heavy, and One More Light. I was looking forward to hearing those songs at my upcoming third time seeing Linkin Park live this October.
Speaking of the concert, the status of Linkin Park as a band is up in the air right now because of Chester’s death. Chances are, the concert date might be moved to a later time or it might be cancelled altogether. Maybe Mike Shinoda, who normally raps for Linkin Park, can take over Chester’s vocals. Maybe they’ll get a temporary stand-in until they can find someone permanent. Then again, there’s always the chance Linkin Park could break up over this. They haven’t released an official statement yet (it’s too early to do so), but I’m anxiously awaiting one in the weeks to come.
In the wake of Chester’s suicide, he left behind a wife and many children as well as his band mates. Having said that, I don’t believe it’s right to cast anger upon him for this or accuse him of being “selfish”. Never forget that the man had a lot of emotional trauma to deal with. He was raped repeatedly as a child by an older friend, he was a hardcore drug addict, he was bullied and beaten in high school, and his only escape from it all was Linkin Park. When you’re dealing with that much pain and agony, selfishness is the last reason in the world that should be applied. Psychological trauma is just as agonizing as any physical ailment, maybe even worse. Chester’s suicide left a huge hole in my heart as well as those of everyone around him. May he rest peacefully and may those who loved him recover from their heartache.
This morning (July 20th, 2017), the lead singer of Linkin Park, Chester Bennington, committed suicide by hanging. When I first heard the news on Face Book, I thought I was going to bawl my eyes out right then and there. Linkin Park has been a huge part of my life since 2002 when I was experiencing schizophrenia in my senior year of high school. Their hard rock sound and thoughtful lyrics helped me through those tough times. I first heard their Hybrid Theory album when I was in gym class lifting weights. I saved up enough money and purchased that CD in 2003 and it become a huge part of getting me through Olympic College. My favorite songs on that album were Paper Cut, Place For My Head, and the bonus track My December. Ever since then, I’ve been buying Linkin Park albums until I had every last one of them.
I’ve seen Linkin Park in concert twice in my life, once in 2003 (or 2004) at the Tacoma Dome and once in 2012 at the same venue with Incubus opening for them. Both times, Chester was on his A-game with his aggressive vocals when it counted and softer crooning when we needed to be brought back to earth. In 2012, he paid tribute to the Beastie Boys when he screamed the vocals for “Sabotage” in the wake of MCA’s untimely death. The music nerd within me was going nuts during those performances. I was jumping up and down and moshing with the best of them, even during times of poor diets and bad exercise habits.
Their most recent album, One More Light, received a lot of criticism from diehard fans for being too much of a pop record instead of staying true to their roots. While it is true that experimenting with music can sometimes end badly, that’s not the case with this album, at least in my opinion. Yes, it’s different from what we’re used to hearing, but I love it nonetheless. My favorites on that album include Nobody Can Save Me, Heavy, and One More Light. I was looking forward to hearing those songs at my upcoming third time seeing Linkin Park live this October.
Speaking of the concert, the status of Linkin Park as a band is up in the air right now because of Chester’s death. Chances are, the concert date might be moved to a later time or it might be cancelled altogether. Maybe Mike Shinoda, who normally raps for Linkin Park, can take over Chester’s vocals. Maybe they’ll get a temporary stand-in until they can find someone permanent. Then again, there’s always the chance Linkin Park could break up over this. They haven’t released an official statement yet (it’s too early to do so), but I’m anxiously awaiting one in the weeks to come.
In the wake of Chester’s suicide, he left behind a wife and many children as well as his band mates. Having said that, I don’t believe it’s right to cast anger upon him for this or accuse him of being “selfish”. Never forget that the man had a lot of emotional trauma to deal with. He was raped repeatedly as a child by an older friend, he was a hardcore drug addict, he was bullied and beaten in high school, and his only escape from it all was Linkin Park. When you’re dealing with that much pain and agony, selfishness is the last reason in the world that should be applied. Psychological trauma is just as agonizing as any physical ailment, maybe even worse. Chester’s suicide left a huge hole in my heart as well as those of everyone around him. May he rest peacefully and may those who loved him recover from their heartache.
If I Had Been Vince
(A WWE-themed parody of “Déjà vu” by Roger Waters.)
If I had been Vince
I would have rearranged the veins in my arms to make them more
Resistant to steroids and less prone to injury
If I had been Vince
I would have hired many indie guys and would not have suffered
John Cena to bury even one of them
If I had been McMahon
With my Raw and Smackdown brands
If I had been given the nod
I believe I could have done a better job
If I had been JBL
Patrolling the locker room showers
With an entitled sense of power
And the Twitter feed of a coward
I would be afraid to find Edge alone
I’d have the coldest set of stones
At least until I burn in hell
If I had been JBL
The company’s in ruins
And that’s a damn fact
The cheering fans are gone
The creative well is flat
The matches of dreams with no reason to fight
Because the CEO has to always be right
And it feels like the same old shit
The ratings go down, you’re throwing a fit
Counting the cost of main events lost
Under the mid-card to get slapped by the boss
It’s only $9.99 for the ultimate “April Fools”
If I had been Vince
I would have rearranged the veins in my arms to make them more
Resistant to steroids and less prone to injury
If I had been Vince
I would have hired many indie guys and would not have suffered
John Cena to bury even one of them
If I had been McMahon
With my Raw and Smackdown brands
If I had been given the nod
I believe I could have done a better job
If I had been JBL
Patrolling the locker room showers
With an entitled sense of power
And the Twitter feed of a coward
I would be afraid to find Edge alone
I’d have the coldest set of stones
At least until I burn in hell
If I had been JBL
The company’s in ruins
And that’s a damn fact
The cheering fans are gone
The creative well is flat
The matches of dreams with no reason to fight
Because the CEO has to always be right
And it feels like the same old shit
The ratings go down, you’re throwing a fit
Counting the cost of main events lost
Under the mid-card to get slapped by the boss
It’s only $9.99 for the ultimate “April Fools”
July 14, 2017
Gender Blind
Every punch and kick Rachel Gustafson threw at her practice pads was dedicated to her haters. The right hook was dedicated to Battle Born President Raymond Katz, who put this intergender match together to solve his “Rachel Gustafson problem”. The flying knee was for every fan who didn’t believe she could do battle with a man, let alone win the fucking match. The elbow strike was for the protesters outside the arena who never wanted this match to happen. The spinning back fist was for Sting Masters, who thought this match was going to be a cakewalk. Lost in her rage, Rachel threw enough rapid fire punches and kicks to accidentally knock over her trainer, to which she apologized and helped him back up.
The knock on her door followed by a voice shouting, “It’s fight time!” prompted Rachel to crack her neck in both directions and march out of the locker room with fists tightened and muscles tensing. The PA system had already queued up her walk out theme of “One of These Days” by Pink Floyd. Groovy bass guitar solo aside, the grunting voice of “One of these days, I’m going to cut you into little pieces!” perfectly described how Rachel felt about everyone in this arena.
Once she walked down the aisle, she could hear the boos reverberating off of her muscles of stone. The occasional shouts of, “You suck!” made those audience members ideal candidates for a hard right hook to the face. But they were the ones sweating like pigs, not her. Even from the middle of the aisle, she stared bullets into Sting Master’s smug British face. He was already in the octagon waiting for her with his arms folded and his red Mohawk looking as silly as ever. “Cakewalk my ass!” she said to herself upon reaching the entrance to the cage.
Rachel stripped off her hooded sweatshirt and athletic pants to reveal her sports bra and baggy shorts with various business logos on it. At least she didn’t have “Condom Depot” printed on her ass like a lot of fighters these days had. After getting her face greased up with ointment and being searched by the referee for weapons, Rachel stomped up the steel stairs and bolted inside the cage, running circles around the structure and giving the middle finger to her booing audience. She would have given one to Sting, but a flying knee would have been more appropriate for someone of his arrogance.
Once both warriors stood in their appropriate corners behind the black line, the seven foot tall referee stood behind the ring announcer as he got this main event going. Speaking with passion and fire into the microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are live from the sold out Tacoma Dome in Tacoma, Washington for Battle Born 57: Eye for an Eye! This event is sanctioned by the Washington State Athletic Commission. When the action begins, our referee in charge of the fight is Bill Dash. If you’re ready for some violence tonight, make some noise!”
The audience did make noise, but none of their cheers and boos were enough to take Rachel’s sniper sight focus off of Sting. The announcer continued his oratory with, “Three rounds in the Battle Born Promotions first ever intergender lightweight division match! Introducing first, fighting out of the red corner! This man is a striker who holds a professional record of twenty-six wins and six losses. He stands five feet seven inches tall and weighed in at 155 lbs. Fighting out of Manchester, England…STING…MASTERS!” More boos from an audience who clearly wanted this match to end in a double knockout.
“Introducing his opponent, fighting out of the blue corner! She is also a striker, but holds a professional record of nineteen wins and four losses. Standing at five feet eleven inches tall, weighing in at 153 lbs.. Fighting out of Denver, Colorado, ladies and gentlemen, she is the former Battle Born Promotions Women’s Lightweight Champion of the World…RACHEL…”GUTSY”…GUSTAFSON!”
Referee Bill Dash took center stage and brought both fighters toward his position. With the announcer holding the microphone in Bill’s face, he gave his instructions, “Okay, you two, I want a good clean fight. We’ve been over the rules in the locker room. Protect yourselves at all time. Obey my commands at all time. When I tell you to stop, you stop. If you want to touch gloves, go ahead and do it and then go back to your corners.” Not a damn fist was raised, only deadly steel-eyed stares. “Good luck to both of you and may the best fighter win,” said Bill before both fighters marched back to their corners.
The ring announcer and other unnecessary personnel vacated the cage and all that remained were two intergender warriors who wanted to smash each other’s faces in. Rachel saw red and only red. She remembered the interviews Sting gave in which he said he was going to, “Make her [his] bitch” and “Put her in her place.” All the laughing. All the booing. All the fake outrage going on outside with enhanced security. All the times Raymond Katz wanted to get rid of her for whatever reason. Those lava-like emotions bubbled towards the surface and she almost jumped the gun before the referee started the match.
“First round, are you ready, Rachel? Are you ready, Sting? Let’s get it on!” shouted Bill Dash and both warriors met in the middle of the octagon. No feeling out process, just throwing caution to the wind. Both fighters threw heavy punches and created wooshing sounds as those hits never landed. Rachel threw a kick at Sting’s hamstring and caused him to slightly wince, but otherwise suck it up. Another kick to the hamstring and a deep purple bruise formed on Sting’s pasty white leg.
Sting threw kicks of his own to Rachel’s midsection and she could feel the tiny bit of oxygen leaving her stacked body. The jeers from the audience intensified, but they weren’t the ones in this match and Rachel easily blocked them out. She threw more kicks to Sting’s legs and slowed him down considerably.
And then the wily Brit went for broke when he stormed towards Rachel with a series of hard rights and lefts. He missed the first two strikes, but the third, a stiff jab, caught her on the chin and sent a dot matrix of lights scattering across her field of vision. Another punch caught her on the bridge of her nose and her eyes watered like a raging river of hot tears. And then Sting used his good leg to throw a high kick and caught Rachel behind the ear.
The feminine fury wobbled and staggered about as she was being dissected by this brutal bully. He threw an elbow to her forehead and knocked her down while opening a gusher of a cut. The boos and outrage intensified even more, but all Rachel could hear were birdies tweeting in her head. Sting was little more than blur to her, obnoxious red Mohawk aside. She threw her feet upwards to try to keep him from mounting her and getting more vicious offence in.
Sting got overzealous and went for the mount anyways, but was met with an up-kick to the bridge of his nose, knocking him flat on his ass and busting him wide open with a waterfall of blood. Both fighters, bloodied and beaten, stood on their knees and punched the shit out of each other. Rachel’s vision was darkening with every knock she took on the face while Sting’s gusher poured like a busted fire hydrant.
Bill Dash was awfully close to stopping this fight when out of the corner of Rachel’s vision, a fan leaped over the cage and was immediately tackled to the floor by the seven foot ref. But then more fans jumped the fence and swarmed in on Bill Dash. The booing audience who hated this idea of an intergender match came rushing it all at once, even knocking one of the sides of the cage down.
Sting got up from his dazed kneeling position and was actually protecting Rachel with fists and feet towards the zealous fans. Bill Dash and other security members tossed around fans like sacks of potatoes. Meanwhile, a pair of husky arms grabbed the fading Rachel under her pits and dragged her out of the arena. She didn’t resist due to her weak body even though she wanted to. All she could hear was cussing, screaming, and riotous violence surrounding her. One fan even stepped on her ankle on the way to the cage and she didn’t even flinch. She huffed in exhaustion and closed her swollen eyes (or at least tried to) on her way to wherever the hell she was going.
By the time Rachel Gustafson opened her black and blue eyes and wiped away the crusted blood from her black ponytail hair, she actually thought she had woken up in a different time period. Was she an old lady by this time? Was this place a nursing home? No, it was a medical facility located far away from the Tacoma Dome. She recognized the plain white walls, the dull florescent lights, and the ultra-comfortable bed snuggling up to her spinal cord. Opening her eyes hurt like a motherfucker, but she did so anyways and caught a certain chubster in a cheap suit with horseshoe hair and a cheesy moustache standing over her bed.
“You’ve got a lot of balls coming here, Raymond. What the hell do you want?” asked Rachel in a weak, but angry tone.
“Miss Gustafson, I am so sorry for the way things turned out,” begged Raymond with his hands folded together. “This was supposed to be a special night for all of us. A revolution was unfolding before our very eyes. I didn’t think it would come to a full on riot.”
“Where’s Sting?” asked Rachel.
“We have no idea where he is. He could have gotten lost in the riot for all we know.”
“…So in other words, I’ll never get my win back from the man who stole it from me…because you wanted a fucking revolution?!”
“Rachel, I’m sorry, I really am.”
Having no more of Raymond Katz’s bullshit answers, the battered, bruised, and sore Rachel burst out of bed and held the CEO against the wall by his throat with both hands. “Don’t give me that crap! You knew from the very beginning this was going to happen! You wanted to get rid of your so-called Rachel Gustafson problem! So what do you do? You have a fucking riot in the middle of my fight! A fight, which by the way, I should have won by TKO!”
After listening to her boss wheeze and hack for hair, she finally let go of his chubby neck and let him plop to the floor on his giant ass. As he desperately caught his breath, Rachel kneeled down next to him and asked, “So what is the problem, Raymond? Is it because I asked for a raise? Is it because I asked to be promoted properly instead of getting pushed aside like a commodity?” She leaned her battle tested face towards his and said in a deep whisper, “Or is it because I tried to use the company’s health benefits to have an abortion when I needed one the most? If I had that baby, I would have died and you knew that!”
Once he had a sufficient amount of oxygen in his raspy lungs, Raymond threw his hands up defensively and said, “Trust me, Rachel, any problem I had with you has flown out the window. You’re important to me. I honestly didn’t believe this match was going to end in a riot. I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
Rachel stood up and asked, “Anything?”
“Anything you want. You fought like a trooper tonight, against a man, no less. You deserve something special for that.”
“If I can really have anything I want…then I want to be released from Battle Born Promotions.”
“What?! You’re kidding me!”
Rachel punched a hole in the wall above Raymond’s head and caused him to flinch and yelp. “I’m serious, you fat fuck! No amount of money can ever make me forgive you. You put my life in danger that night and I should do the same to you. But I’m not going to…unless you don’t grant me my release.”
With nothing more to say to her now former boss, Rachel stormed out her semi-private room and collapsed on the floor. She needed nurses and doctors to help her stand up. Out of her still painful vision, she saw a man in a wheelchair covered in bandages except for his eyes, which were swollen and purple just like hers. The man gave a thumbs up and said in his signature British accent, “I’ll see you again someday. We’re not finished by a long fucking shot!”
“You’re damn right we’re not, Sting!” shouted Rachel as she was being dragged away by medical personnel.
The knock on her door followed by a voice shouting, “It’s fight time!” prompted Rachel to crack her neck in both directions and march out of the locker room with fists tightened and muscles tensing. The PA system had already queued up her walk out theme of “One of These Days” by Pink Floyd. Groovy bass guitar solo aside, the grunting voice of “One of these days, I’m going to cut you into little pieces!” perfectly described how Rachel felt about everyone in this arena.
Once she walked down the aisle, she could hear the boos reverberating off of her muscles of stone. The occasional shouts of, “You suck!” made those audience members ideal candidates for a hard right hook to the face. But they were the ones sweating like pigs, not her. Even from the middle of the aisle, she stared bullets into Sting Master’s smug British face. He was already in the octagon waiting for her with his arms folded and his red Mohawk looking as silly as ever. “Cakewalk my ass!” she said to herself upon reaching the entrance to the cage.
Rachel stripped off her hooded sweatshirt and athletic pants to reveal her sports bra and baggy shorts with various business logos on it. At least she didn’t have “Condom Depot” printed on her ass like a lot of fighters these days had. After getting her face greased up with ointment and being searched by the referee for weapons, Rachel stomped up the steel stairs and bolted inside the cage, running circles around the structure and giving the middle finger to her booing audience. She would have given one to Sting, but a flying knee would have been more appropriate for someone of his arrogance.
Once both warriors stood in their appropriate corners behind the black line, the seven foot tall referee stood behind the ring announcer as he got this main event going. Speaking with passion and fire into the microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are live from the sold out Tacoma Dome in Tacoma, Washington for Battle Born 57: Eye for an Eye! This event is sanctioned by the Washington State Athletic Commission. When the action begins, our referee in charge of the fight is Bill Dash. If you’re ready for some violence tonight, make some noise!”
The audience did make noise, but none of their cheers and boos were enough to take Rachel’s sniper sight focus off of Sting. The announcer continued his oratory with, “Three rounds in the Battle Born Promotions first ever intergender lightweight division match! Introducing first, fighting out of the red corner! This man is a striker who holds a professional record of twenty-six wins and six losses. He stands five feet seven inches tall and weighed in at 155 lbs. Fighting out of Manchester, England…STING…MASTERS!” More boos from an audience who clearly wanted this match to end in a double knockout.
“Introducing his opponent, fighting out of the blue corner! She is also a striker, but holds a professional record of nineteen wins and four losses. Standing at five feet eleven inches tall, weighing in at 153 lbs.. Fighting out of Denver, Colorado, ladies and gentlemen, she is the former Battle Born Promotions Women’s Lightweight Champion of the World…RACHEL…”GUTSY”…GUSTAFSON!”
Referee Bill Dash took center stage and brought both fighters toward his position. With the announcer holding the microphone in Bill’s face, he gave his instructions, “Okay, you two, I want a good clean fight. We’ve been over the rules in the locker room. Protect yourselves at all time. Obey my commands at all time. When I tell you to stop, you stop. If you want to touch gloves, go ahead and do it and then go back to your corners.” Not a damn fist was raised, only deadly steel-eyed stares. “Good luck to both of you and may the best fighter win,” said Bill before both fighters marched back to their corners.
The ring announcer and other unnecessary personnel vacated the cage and all that remained were two intergender warriors who wanted to smash each other’s faces in. Rachel saw red and only red. She remembered the interviews Sting gave in which he said he was going to, “Make her [his] bitch” and “Put her in her place.” All the laughing. All the booing. All the fake outrage going on outside with enhanced security. All the times Raymond Katz wanted to get rid of her for whatever reason. Those lava-like emotions bubbled towards the surface and she almost jumped the gun before the referee started the match.
“First round, are you ready, Rachel? Are you ready, Sting? Let’s get it on!” shouted Bill Dash and both warriors met in the middle of the octagon. No feeling out process, just throwing caution to the wind. Both fighters threw heavy punches and created wooshing sounds as those hits never landed. Rachel threw a kick at Sting’s hamstring and caused him to slightly wince, but otherwise suck it up. Another kick to the hamstring and a deep purple bruise formed on Sting’s pasty white leg.
Sting threw kicks of his own to Rachel’s midsection and she could feel the tiny bit of oxygen leaving her stacked body. The jeers from the audience intensified, but they weren’t the ones in this match and Rachel easily blocked them out. She threw more kicks to Sting’s legs and slowed him down considerably.
And then the wily Brit went for broke when he stormed towards Rachel with a series of hard rights and lefts. He missed the first two strikes, but the third, a stiff jab, caught her on the chin and sent a dot matrix of lights scattering across her field of vision. Another punch caught her on the bridge of her nose and her eyes watered like a raging river of hot tears. And then Sting used his good leg to throw a high kick and caught Rachel behind the ear.
The feminine fury wobbled and staggered about as she was being dissected by this brutal bully. He threw an elbow to her forehead and knocked her down while opening a gusher of a cut. The boos and outrage intensified even more, but all Rachel could hear were birdies tweeting in her head. Sting was little more than blur to her, obnoxious red Mohawk aside. She threw her feet upwards to try to keep him from mounting her and getting more vicious offence in.
Sting got overzealous and went for the mount anyways, but was met with an up-kick to the bridge of his nose, knocking him flat on his ass and busting him wide open with a waterfall of blood. Both fighters, bloodied and beaten, stood on their knees and punched the shit out of each other. Rachel’s vision was darkening with every knock she took on the face while Sting’s gusher poured like a busted fire hydrant.
Bill Dash was awfully close to stopping this fight when out of the corner of Rachel’s vision, a fan leaped over the cage and was immediately tackled to the floor by the seven foot ref. But then more fans jumped the fence and swarmed in on Bill Dash. The booing audience who hated this idea of an intergender match came rushing it all at once, even knocking one of the sides of the cage down.
Sting got up from his dazed kneeling position and was actually protecting Rachel with fists and feet towards the zealous fans. Bill Dash and other security members tossed around fans like sacks of potatoes. Meanwhile, a pair of husky arms grabbed the fading Rachel under her pits and dragged her out of the arena. She didn’t resist due to her weak body even though she wanted to. All she could hear was cussing, screaming, and riotous violence surrounding her. One fan even stepped on her ankle on the way to the cage and she didn’t even flinch. She huffed in exhaustion and closed her swollen eyes (or at least tried to) on her way to wherever the hell she was going.
By the time Rachel Gustafson opened her black and blue eyes and wiped away the crusted blood from her black ponytail hair, she actually thought she had woken up in a different time period. Was she an old lady by this time? Was this place a nursing home? No, it was a medical facility located far away from the Tacoma Dome. She recognized the plain white walls, the dull florescent lights, and the ultra-comfortable bed snuggling up to her spinal cord. Opening her eyes hurt like a motherfucker, but she did so anyways and caught a certain chubster in a cheap suit with horseshoe hair and a cheesy moustache standing over her bed.
“You’ve got a lot of balls coming here, Raymond. What the hell do you want?” asked Rachel in a weak, but angry tone.
“Miss Gustafson, I am so sorry for the way things turned out,” begged Raymond with his hands folded together. “This was supposed to be a special night for all of us. A revolution was unfolding before our very eyes. I didn’t think it would come to a full on riot.”
“Where’s Sting?” asked Rachel.
“We have no idea where he is. He could have gotten lost in the riot for all we know.”
“…So in other words, I’ll never get my win back from the man who stole it from me…because you wanted a fucking revolution?!”
“Rachel, I’m sorry, I really am.”
Having no more of Raymond Katz’s bullshit answers, the battered, bruised, and sore Rachel burst out of bed and held the CEO against the wall by his throat with both hands. “Don’t give me that crap! You knew from the very beginning this was going to happen! You wanted to get rid of your so-called Rachel Gustafson problem! So what do you do? You have a fucking riot in the middle of my fight! A fight, which by the way, I should have won by TKO!”
After listening to her boss wheeze and hack for hair, she finally let go of his chubby neck and let him plop to the floor on his giant ass. As he desperately caught his breath, Rachel kneeled down next to him and asked, “So what is the problem, Raymond? Is it because I asked for a raise? Is it because I asked to be promoted properly instead of getting pushed aside like a commodity?” She leaned her battle tested face towards his and said in a deep whisper, “Or is it because I tried to use the company’s health benefits to have an abortion when I needed one the most? If I had that baby, I would have died and you knew that!”
Once he had a sufficient amount of oxygen in his raspy lungs, Raymond threw his hands up defensively and said, “Trust me, Rachel, any problem I had with you has flown out the window. You’re important to me. I honestly didn’t believe this match was going to end in a riot. I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
Rachel stood up and asked, “Anything?”
“Anything you want. You fought like a trooper tonight, against a man, no less. You deserve something special for that.”
“If I can really have anything I want…then I want to be released from Battle Born Promotions.”
“What?! You’re kidding me!”
Rachel punched a hole in the wall above Raymond’s head and caused him to flinch and yelp. “I’m serious, you fat fuck! No amount of money can ever make me forgive you. You put my life in danger that night and I should do the same to you. But I’m not going to…unless you don’t grant me my release.”
With nothing more to say to her now former boss, Rachel stormed out her semi-private room and collapsed on the floor. She needed nurses and doctors to help her stand up. Out of her still painful vision, she saw a man in a wheelchair covered in bandages except for his eyes, which were swollen and purple just like hers. The man gave a thumbs up and said in his signature British accent, “I’ll see you again someday. We’re not finished by a long fucking shot!”
“You’re damn right we’re not, Sting!” shouted Rachel as she was being dragged away by medical personnel.
July 12, 2017
Author Cooperation
***AUTHOR COOPERATION***
The key to having a successful community of any kind is cooperation among its members. Competition is what tears us apart, but teamwork and friendship is what brings us together. That’s part of the reason why I chose to be an independently published author: the sense of community. We critique each other, we honestly review each other’s books, we promote each other, and we’re there for each other when it desperately counts. When you’re a part of this community, there is no stepping over each other because there’s room for everybody at the top of the mountain. It takes a village to write a novel, sometimes even a capitol city. Nobody becomes a legend on their own.
My own journey to where I am today was marred with resistance to criticism. In 2001, I went to an anime/sci-fi/fantasy convention called INCON and had a piece of writing critiqued by five different professional authors, all of which had decades of experience and wisdom. Because of their somewhat harsh demeanors, I walked away after the first two authors got their words in. Maybe I was intimidated by the fact that I had so much work ahead of me to make my writing immaculate. Maybe I believed “potential” was an empty word when the first two authors told me I had it. Maybe it was my massive teenage ego that shoved everybody out of my circle who didn’t worship at the Temple of Garrison.
Whatever the case was, this over-inflated ego carried over throughout high school and college. I wrote a violent and sexually explicit poem about a classmate who said my writing sucked and he was hardly the only target of these rants and raves. Online folk, geology teachers, real life strangers, they all felt my fiery poetic wrath in one way or another. The more I reflect on this, the more I think that the reason I don’t have many Deviant Art followers is because of my past behavior and tendency to lash out.
It wasn’t until 2012 that I realized I needed help. I gathered up some money and went over to Writer’s Digest’s website to use their Second Draft critique services. For a moderate sum of money, you can have a famous author critique your work, but it’s only for a one time deal and there’s no guarantee you’ll get published. Given my verbally violent past, I was terrified to go through with this.
But sure enough, the piece of writing I wanted critiqued was a memoir about my experiences with getting bullied in my freshman year of high school. My intention was to circulate this essay to various literary magazines with the hopes of getting picked up. My editor was an author named Carolyn Walker, a nonfiction author, champion for the mentally disabled, and cordial human being. Her biggest critique for my essay was that it sounded too angry and that I hadn’t been descriptive enough to earn my ending. I ended up scrapping my own essay because that’s a part of my life I want to leave buried forever and I regretted writing about it.
As scary as taking that next step was, I would happily use Second Draft again, this time with a short fantasy story called Beauty and the Barbarian. In this story, Sonya Jade’s boyfriend is turned into a hideous monster by a witch and she wants to sneak into her castle to get the antidote. My hired beta reader, named Kathy Giorgio (if I remember correctly), said that the story felt incomplete and that it should be an entire novel or longer short story. I took her advice and expanded it to ten pages of single spaced text. It made it onto a short story collection I published in 2013 called Dragon Machinegun. Unfortunately, due to my dissatisfaction with how those stories were written, I took Dragon Machinegun off the market and it’s no longer available.
The third and final time I went to Second Draft was when I wrote a story called Dick Tater, which is about a homecoming prince with a bloodthirsty monster for a penis. This time, my beta reader was a military fiction author named Stephen Mertz, who said my story was marketable, weird, and kinky. He also said that it needed dialogue to show instead of tell (my story had absolutely none). As a token of my appreciation for his services, I bought a novel he wrote under the penname Jim Case called Cody’s Army and gave it a glowing review after reading it.
I didn’t completely come out of my shell until I joined the Good Reads group Weekly Short Story Contests and Company. With all of the friendly people who helped me through the rough drafts, whether it’s Edward Davies, Ryan Stone, Leslie Onus, Melissa Andres, and many others, my writing improved greatly and my fear of being critiqued was non-existent. When I got in touch with Marie Krepps in 2015, she became my permanent beta reader and I trust her with everything. She’s honest, she’s smart, and she’s funny as hell. She’s also a damn good writer who has earned every ounce of praise I’ve given her in my reviews for her books.
It was a good thing that I had calmed down over the years and learned not to take everything personally, because in June 2014, I may have just submitted the most offensive short story to the WSS during that time. It was a PG-13 bondage erotica called Tainted Love where Marilyn Elkins is kidnapped by a handsome stranger and duct taped to a hotel bed. She enjoys the kisses and sexual attention she’s getting to the point where she helps her kidnapper fight off her abusive husband. I wrote this story strictly for entertainment, but it ended up offending many people at the WSS and gave them the false idea that I was a sexist. As a token of apology, I took down the story from all of my social media sites and dropped out of the contest for that week. I spent the next week hurting like hell, but I took pride in the fact that I handled it like a champ instead of a raging lunatic.
That just happens to be my story. Everybody’s path to success is different, but nobody does it alone. Wisdom comes from experience and experience comes from the best the writing world has to offer. Don’t push these people away. They’re just as much a part of your inner circle as your friends and family. They want you to be successful. They want you to be happy. They want you to be the best damn writer you can possibly be. The more you listen to their critiques, the less it hurts. You may have to read their comments more than once to ease the sting, but if you take what you’ve learned to heart, you’ll do just fine in this world. In the words of Red Green, “I’m pulling for you; we’re all in this together.”
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
As long as we’re on the topic of sensitive gender issues, this week I’m going to tackle a topic that’s hotly debated in pro-wrestling and MMA alike. I hope I can handle this topic with class, unlike Tainted Love from 2014. The prompt is “Dazed” and my story is called “Gender Blind”. It goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
1. Sting Masters, Mixed-Martial Artist (Lightweight)
2. Rachel Gustafson, Mixed-Martial Artist (Lightweight)
3. Bill Dash, Referee (Heavyweight)
4. Raymond Katz, CEO of Battle Born Promotions
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Being dazed is a normal part of an MMA contest since one of the ways to win is by KO.
SYNOPSIS: Battle Born Promotions is making history by sanctioning its first ever inter-gender mixed-martial arts fight in the lightweight division (155 lbs.). This upcoming main event match between Sting and Rachel has sparked a lot of debate and controversy among media outlets and MMA fans. Some people think it pairs men and women as equals while others are sickened by seeing a man beating up a woman. When the pay-per-view actually takes place, there are excited audience members in the building and protesters outside. Raymond Katz has a lot of explaining to do and a lot of security detail to hire.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Okay, so he’s technically part of a modern day drama and not a dark fantasy story, but I’m going to draw Sting Masters anyways. I’ve drawn MMA badasses in the past whether it’s Edward Glass from Molly-Dolly or Christina McKenzie from Gates of Hell. Sting Masters is a lightweight fighter from England and I want my drawing of him to reflect those things (not stereotypically, of course). Wish me luck!
***YOU TUBE QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Hi, I’m an attractive woman on the internet. You are somebody who comments on my videos or articles, though what you say isn’t always pleasant. But honestly, that’s not what we’re here to talk about. Though yes, you are awful. Even more alarming is those of you who think you’re being complimentary. While I’m flattered that you’re trying to express a fondness for what I do, you’re doing it wrong. If you like one of my videos, screaming, “TITS!” is wrong. Providing the phonetic representation of the sound of a man masturbating is incredibly wrong. Unless you’ve just typed in credit card information, telling a woman you’ve never met that you just masturbated to her comedy video, it’ll never be the right thing to do, honestly. I don’t know, maybe you’re confused because there are videos on the internet where the women explicitly tell you to masturbate. Yeah, I’m not making those. If you like what I do, say that. And if you like masturbating to things, go do that, just don’t tell me about it. Thank you for your time. I’ve been a woman of the internet. I didn’t ask to see your genitals, so don’t ask to see mine. And please stop telling me how you masturbate!”
-The women of Cracked.com-
The key to having a successful community of any kind is cooperation among its members. Competition is what tears us apart, but teamwork and friendship is what brings us together. That’s part of the reason why I chose to be an independently published author: the sense of community. We critique each other, we honestly review each other’s books, we promote each other, and we’re there for each other when it desperately counts. When you’re a part of this community, there is no stepping over each other because there’s room for everybody at the top of the mountain. It takes a village to write a novel, sometimes even a capitol city. Nobody becomes a legend on their own.
My own journey to where I am today was marred with resistance to criticism. In 2001, I went to an anime/sci-fi/fantasy convention called INCON and had a piece of writing critiqued by five different professional authors, all of which had decades of experience and wisdom. Because of their somewhat harsh demeanors, I walked away after the first two authors got their words in. Maybe I was intimidated by the fact that I had so much work ahead of me to make my writing immaculate. Maybe I believed “potential” was an empty word when the first two authors told me I had it. Maybe it was my massive teenage ego that shoved everybody out of my circle who didn’t worship at the Temple of Garrison.
Whatever the case was, this over-inflated ego carried over throughout high school and college. I wrote a violent and sexually explicit poem about a classmate who said my writing sucked and he was hardly the only target of these rants and raves. Online folk, geology teachers, real life strangers, they all felt my fiery poetic wrath in one way or another. The more I reflect on this, the more I think that the reason I don’t have many Deviant Art followers is because of my past behavior and tendency to lash out.
It wasn’t until 2012 that I realized I needed help. I gathered up some money and went over to Writer’s Digest’s website to use their Second Draft critique services. For a moderate sum of money, you can have a famous author critique your work, but it’s only for a one time deal and there’s no guarantee you’ll get published. Given my verbally violent past, I was terrified to go through with this.
But sure enough, the piece of writing I wanted critiqued was a memoir about my experiences with getting bullied in my freshman year of high school. My intention was to circulate this essay to various literary magazines with the hopes of getting picked up. My editor was an author named Carolyn Walker, a nonfiction author, champion for the mentally disabled, and cordial human being. Her biggest critique for my essay was that it sounded too angry and that I hadn’t been descriptive enough to earn my ending. I ended up scrapping my own essay because that’s a part of my life I want to leave buried forever and I regretted writing about it.
As scary as taking that next step was, I would happily use Second Draft again, this time with a short fantasy story called Beauty and the Barbarian. In this story, Sonya Jade’s boyfriend is turned into a hideous monster by a witch and she wants to sneak into her castle to get the antidote. My hired beta reader, named Kathy Giorgio (if I remember correctly), said that the story felt incomplete and that it should be an entire novel or longer short story. I took her advice and expanded it to ten pages of single spaced text. It made it onto a short story collection I published in 2013 called Dragon Machinegun. Unfortunately, due to my dissatisfaction with how those stories were written, I took Dragon Machinegun off the market and it’s no longer available.
The third and final time I went to Second Draft was when I wrote a story called Dick Tater, which is about a homecoming prince with a bloodthirsty monster for a penis. This time, my beta reader was a military fiction author named Stephen Mertz, who said my story was marketable, weird, and kinky. He also said that it needed dialogue to show instead of tell (my story had absolutely none). As a token of my appreciation for his services, I bought a novel he wrote under the penname Jim Case called Cody’s Army and gave it a glowing review after reading it.
I didn’t completely come out of my shell until I joined the Good Reads group Weekly Short Story Contests and Company. With all of the friendly people who helped me through the rough drafts, whether it’s Edward Davies, Ryan Stone, Leslie Onus, Melissa Andres, and many others, my writing improved greatly and my fear of being critiqued was non-existent. When I got in touch with Marie Krepps in 2015, she became my permanent beta reader and I trust her with everything. She’s honest, she’s smart, and she’s funny as hell. She’s also a damn good writer who has earned every ounce of praise I’ve given her in my reviews for her books.
It was a good thing that I had calmed down over the years and learned not to take everything personally, because in June 2014, I may have just submitted the most offensive short story to the WSS during that time. It was a PG-13 bondage erotica called Tainted Love where Marilyn Elkins is kidnapped by a handsome stranger and duct taped to a hotel bed. She enjoys the kisses and sexual attention she’s getting to the point where she helps her kidnapper fight off her abusive husband. I wrote this story strictly for entertainment, but it ended up offending many people at the WSS and gave them the false idea that I was a sexist. As a token of apology, I took down the story from all of my social media sites and dropped out of the contest for that week. I spent the next week hurting like hell, but I took pride in the fact that I handled it like a champ instead of a raging lunatic.
That just happens to be my story. Everybody’s path to success is different, but nobody does it alone. Wisdom comes from experience and experience comes from the best the writing world has to offer. Don’t push these people away. They’re just as much a part of your inner circle as your friends and family. They want you to be successful. They want you to be happy. They want you to be the best damn writer you can possibly be. The more you listen to their critiques, the less it hurts. You may have to read their comments more than once to ease the sting, but if you take what you’ve learned to heart, you’ll do just fine in this world. In the words of Red Green, “I’m pulling for you; we’re all in this together.”
***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***
As long as we’re on the topic of sensitive gender issues, this week I’m going to tackle a topic that’s hotly debated in pro-wrestling and MMA alike. I hope I can handle this topic with class, unlike Tainted Love from 2014. The prompt is “Dazed” and my story is called “Gender Blind”. It goes like this:
CHARACTERS:
1. Sting Masters, Mixed-Martial Artist (Lightweight)
2. Rachel Gustafson, Mixed-Martial Artist (Lightweight)
3. Bill Dash, Referee (Heavyweight)
4. Raymond Katz, CEO of Battle Born Promotions
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Being dazed is a normal part of an MMA contest since one of the ways to win is by KO.
SYNOPSIS: Battle Born Promotions is making history by sanctioning its first ever inter-gender mixed-martial arts fight in the lightweight division (155 lbs.). This upcoming main event match between Sting and Rachel has sparked a lot of debate and controversy among media outlets and MMA fans. Some people think it pairs men and women as equals while others are sickened by seeing a man beating up a woman. When the pay-per-view actually takes place, there are excited audience members in the building and protesters outside. Raymond Katz has a lot of explaining to do and a lot of security detail to hire.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
Okay, so he’s technically part of a modern day drama and not a dark fantasy story, but I’m going to draw Sting Masters anyways. I’ve drawn MMA badasses in the past whether it’s Edward Glass from Molly-Dolly or Christina McKenzie from Gates of Hell. Sting Masters is a lightweight fighter from England and I want my drawing of him to reflect those things (not stereotypically, of course). Wish me luck!
***YOU TUBE QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Hi, I’m an attractive woman on the internet. You are somebody who comments on my videos or articles, though what you say isn’t always pleasant. But honestly, that’s not what we’re here to talk about. Though yes, you are awful. Even more alarming is those of you who think you’re being complimentary. While I’m flattered that you’re trying to express a fondness for what I do, you’re doing it wrong. If you like one of my videos, screaming, “TITS!” is wrong. Providing the phonetic representation of the sound of a man masturbating is incredibly wrong. Unless you’ve just typed in credit card information, telling a woman you’ve never met that you just masturbated to her comedy video, it’ll never be the right thing to do, honestly. I don’t know, maybe you’re confused because there are videos on the internet where the women explicitly tell you to masturbate. Yeah, I’m not making those. If you like what I do, say that. And if you like masturbating to things, go do that, just don’t tell me about it. Thank you for your time. I’ve been a woman of the internet. I didn’t ask to see your genitals, so don’t ask to see mine. And please stop telling me how you masturbate!”
-The women of Cracked.com-
July 10, 2017
Prison Riot
VERSE 1
Having a badge doesn’t make you a good guy
Having the cell keys doesn’t mean this is goodbye
Having a nightstick doesn’t make you a tough guy
Having latex gloves doesn’t make this a blood drive
For far too long, you’ve had a monopoly on power
Beat our asses raw in the middle of a cold shower
Locked us in solitary for not a damn good reason
Hunted us like animals in the midst of open season
CHORUS
Let’s start a prison riot!
No longer will we be quiet!
Swarm on you sons of bitches!
You will pay for all the stitches!
VERSE 2
Let’s send a message to the world they can’t deny
The whole prison system is a bold faced fucking lie
You’re not killing crime by stripping us of time
You’re stuffing your pockets while screaming, “Mine!”
The lust for money is the root of all that’s evil
In a land that brags about us being born equal
How dare you strip us of our right to be people?
When our lives are over, there won’t be a sequel
CHORUS
Let’s start a prison riot!
No longer will we be quiet!
Swarm on you sons of bitches!
You will pay for all the stitches!
BRIDGE
Orange jumpsuits burned in a bonfire
Prison guards bound and gagged with wires
No more of this for-profit bullshit for hire
It’s what happens when the underdogs conspire
EXTENDED CHORUS
Let’s start a prison riot!
No longer will we be quiet!
Swarm on you sons of bitches!
You will pay for all the stitches!
Let’s take back our freedom!
Come for the throne and kingdom!
We are humans, not animals!
We’re the good guys, not Hannibal!
FINAL LINE
Red Alert: there’s a disturbance in the machine, fuckers!
Having a badge doesn’t make you a good guy
Having the cell keys doesn’t mean this is goodbye
Having a nightstick doesn’t make you a tough guy
Having latex gloves doesn’t make this a blood drive
For far too long, you’ve had a monopoly on power
Beat our asses raw in the middle of a cold shower
Locked us in solitary for not a damn good reason
Hunted us like animals in the midst of open season
CHORUS
Let’s start a prison riot!
No longer will we be quiet!
Swarm on you sons of bitches!
You will pay for all the stitches!
VERSE 2
Let’s send a message to the world they can’t deny
The whole prison system is a bold faced fucking lie
You’re not killing crime by stripping us of time
You’re stuffing your pockets while screaming, “Mine!”
The lust for money is the root of all that’s evil
In a land that brags about us being born equal
How dare you strip us of our right to be people?
When our lives are over, there won’t be a sequel
CHORUS
Let’s start a prison riot!
No longer will we be quiet!
Swarm on you sons of bitches!
You will pay for all the stitches!
BRIDGE
Orange jumpsuits burned in a bonfire
Prison guards bound and gagged with wires
No more of this for-profit bullshit for hire
It’s what happens when the underdogs conspire
EXTENDED CHORUS
Let’s start a prison riot!
No longer will we be quiet!
Swarm on you sons of bitches!
You will pay for all the stitches!
Let’s take back our freedom!
Come for the throne and kingdom!
We are humans, not animals!
We’re the good guys, not Hannibal!
FINAL LINE
Red Alert: there’s a disturbance in the machine, fuckers!
July 7, 2017
Disturbance in the Machine
***DISTURBANCE IN THE MACHINE***
Whenever I write a full-length novel, I always want to use it as a platform to highlight important issues in my life. Occupy Wrestling is not only about wrestling, but it’s about Mitch McLeod’s hot temper. Filter Feeder is not only about environmental issues, but it’s about strained relationships. Watch You Burn is not only about anime, but also about schizophrenia. And last but not least, Demon Axe is not only about heavy metal music, but also about PTSD.
Of course, these novels (first draft or otherwise) were written long after a little anthology I had called Disturbance in the Machine, where multiple mental health issues were supposed to be tackled. Think of it as having the story structure of Tales From the Hood with the setting of an abandoned insane asylum. The stories were told by an ex-patient named Eric Bradley and they were listened to be the mother of a former patient Nicole McShane.
While these stories were supposed to talk about mental illness in a positive way, they ended up being “crazy” stereotypes. Serial killers who used scissors, ninjas in diapers, McDonald’s employees with anger management issues, and troubled teens with puppet fetishes were just a few of the characters presented in this anthology. In the end, these stories didn’t really accomplish anything, not even advancing the overall story to its climax.
And speaking of climaxes, Nicole McShane reveals herself to be a detective assigned to bring Eric Bradley to justice, which would probably make the reader wonder why she didn’t cuff him and stuff him earlier on in the book. Why all of these pointless stories if the purpose was to arrest him?
Speaking of pointless stories, the anthology ends with Eric telling a much longer story about an abandoned pig who ventures out to the city with other animals to try and survive the cruel outside world. The animals end up being therapy pets for a terminally ill child named Sam, who puts on his favorite Pink Floyd song “Pigs on the Wing” to end the story.
Surely, not everything you touch as an author will turn to gold. Sometimes it’s best to know which stories are worthy of being edited and revived and which ones should stay in the past. Because of this, Disturbance in the Machine no longer has a place in my archives. The main story made no sense, the meta stories made even less sense, and the pig stories made even less sense than that.
However, that doesn’t mean certain aspects of this dead-on-arrival novel can’t be used for future projects. If I were to salvage from the wreckage, I’d probably keep the title Disturbance in the Machine because of how cool it sounds. Telling stories in a mental hospital can work as long as the main characters of those stories are presented in a positive light and the harsh conditions of the hospital are vilified. Remember, a truly sympathetic character is the key to maintaining the reader’s interest (even if that character is sometimes an asshole). Even the pig story can have some meaning, but only as its own entity.
Another thing I’d like to keep from the Disturbance in the Machine canon is the poem that preceded it of the same name. It might be a part of Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage, but I’m not entirely sure. It’s basically a downer of a song describing the idea of not being human and going through life on autopilot. Somebody on Deviant Art wrote a counter-prose to that where he turned the gears and metal into flesh and organs and told the machine to “live”. That’s easily one of my favorite comments I’ve received on this site since I joined in 2005. Find Disturbance in the Machine (the song) in my gallery and read it and the comments below it to see why I feel the way I do.
Nostalgia: it ain’t what it used to be. That may be true, but it’s still a lot of fun to venture into a creative person’s past and see what he or she came up with back then. Although most of my creative projects back in the day are embarrassing to read now, it doesn’t they can’t be resurrected with my current writing skills and made into something beautiful. That’s the nature of art: creating something beautiful from the ashes. The movie Pink Floyd the Wall drives this point home when Pink smashes up his hotel room and then creates a collage out of the destroyed pieces.
I’m not recommending any of you do what Pink did in this movie, I’m just saying that creativity is the perfect therapy for rising from the ashes like a phoenix. I hope to one day do that with Disturbance in the Machine, whether it’s a novel, anthology, short story collection, or whatever. The truth of the matter is, though, that there are other novel ideas in my archives waiting to be realized. Booger the Clown and Chicken and Fries are the ones I’ve been thinking about the most, but I haven’t really fleshed them out in a scene-by-scene analysis yet. Maybe what I really need to do is randomly select which novel I work on next, just like I do with books to read and characters to use.
I wouldn’t mind working on Disturbance in the Machine again with the skills I have today, but it’ll probably be a backburner project since I don’t have any immediate ideas of what to do with it. Usually I have characters an a brief synopsis, but nothing more than that when it comes to novels. Maybe the point of this blog entry is to motivate myself to flesh out novel ideas more often instead of just letting them sit there doing nothing. I’d like to think that’s the case. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time!
***MARIE KREPPS/ASHLEY UZZELL STORIES***
Over the past few months, Marie has been putting out short stories under both of her pennames. I’ve already reviewed Hunting Vampires with Grandma and gave it a passing grade. Now I’m currently reading Reaching For the Light (a mental illness-themed collaboration with TL Katt). All I have to do is read TL Katt’s half of the story and I’m ready to review this puppy and potentially give it an extra credit grade. The other two stories that I’ll eventually get to are Spunky and the Dolphin Palace (a children’s fantasy collaboration with her daughter Kyra Uzzell) and The Blood Files: the Case of Arnus Mortem (vampire horror collaboration with BJ Taylor). I can blow through these stories in the span of one or two days apiece. My hopes are high with how much energy I’ll have to do it since I’m going for longer walks during the day and getting my cardio jacked up. I’m already noticing a difference in my body. Hang in there, Marie-Pie: you’ll earn your high grades soon enough, my lovely friend.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
I’ve already submitted my entry for the WSS’s contest and it’s called Exile. There’s no need to advertise it again in this blog, so I’ll get straight to the point with the Dark Fantasy Warrior pictures that’ll come from that story. You’ve already seen Night Wolf and Maria Kevin on Deviant Art, Good Reads, and Face Book. The final character from that story that needs drawing is Stigma Dominick, the guilt-ridden necromancer. He definitely earned his sad face in that story and hopefully it’ll reflect in his artwork.
***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***
If a British exit is called Brexit and a French exit is called Frexit, what does that make a Serbian exit? Sexit? Sounds kinky. Of course, Serbia isn’t a part of the European Union, but just imagine the unintended comedy if they actually considered a Sexit. I’m getting douche chills just thinking about it. Hehe!
Whenever I write a full-length novel, I always want to use it as a platform to highlight important issues in my life. Occupy Wrestling is not only about wrestling, but it’s about Mitch McLeod’s hot temper. Filter Feeder is not only about environmental issues, but it’s about strained relationships. Watch You Burn is not only about anime, but also about schizophrenia. And last but not least, Demon Axe is not only about heavy metal music, but also about PTSD.
Of course, these novels (first draft or otherwise) were written long after a little anthology I had called Disturbance in the Machine, where multiple mental health issues were supposed to be tackled. Think of it as having the story structure of Tales From the Hood with the setting of an abandoned insane asylum. The stories were told by an ex-patient named Eric Bradley and they were listened to be the mother of a former patient Nicole McShane.
While these stories were supposed to talk about mental illness in a positive way, they ended up being “crazy” stereotypes. Serial killers who used scissors, ninjas in diapers, McDonald’s employees with anger management issues, and troubled teens with puppet fetishes were just a few of the characters presented in this anthology. In the end, these stories didn’t really accomplish anything, not even advancing the overall story to its climax.
And speaking of climaxes, Nicole McShane reveals herself to be a detective assigned to bring Eric Bradley to justice, which would probably make the reader wonder why she didn’t cuff him and stuff him earlier on in the book. Why all of these pointless stories if the purpose was to arrest him?
Speaking of pointless stories, the anthology ends with Eric telling a much longer story about an abandoned pig who ventures out to the city with other animals to try and survive the cruel outside world. The animals end up being therapy pets for a terminally ill child named Sam, who puts on his favorite Pink Floyd song “Pigs on the Wing” to end the story.
Surely, not everything you touch as an author will turn to gold. Sometimes it’s best to know which stories are worthy of being edited and revived and which ones should stay in the past. Because of this, Disturbance in the Machine no longer has a place in my archives. The main story made no sense, the meta stories made even less sense, and the pig stories made even less sense than that.
However, that doesn’t mean certain aspects of this dead-on-arrival novel can’t be used for future projects. If I were to salvage from the wreckage, I’d probably keep the title Disturbance in the Machine because of how cool it sounds. Telling stories in a mental hospital can work as long as the main characters of those stories are presented in a positive light and the harsh conditions of the hospital are vilified. Remember, a truly sympathetic character is the key to maintaining the reader’s interest (even if that character is sometimes an asshole). Even the pig story can have some meaning, but only as its own entity.
Another thing I’d like to keep from the Disturbance in the Machine canon is the poem that preceded it of the same name. It might be a part of Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage, but I’m not entirely sure. It’s basically a downer of a song describing the idea of not being human and going through life on autopilot. Somebody on Deviant Art wrote a counter-prose to that where he turned the gears and metal into flesh and organs and told the machine to “live”. That’s easily one of my favorite comments I’ve received on this site since I joined in 2005. Find Disturbance in the Machine (the song) in my gallery and read it and the comments below it to see why I feel the way I do.
Nostalgia: it ain’t what it used to be. That may be true, but it’s still a lot of fun to venture into a creative person’s past and see what he or she came up with back then. Although most of my creative projects back in the day are embarrassing to read now, it doesn’t they can’t be resurrected with my current writing skills and made into something beautiful. That’s the nature of art: creating something beautiful from the ashes. The movie Pink Floyd the Wall drives this point home when Pink smashes up his hotel room and then creates a collage out of the destroyed pieces.
I’m not recommending any of you do what Pink did in this movie, I’m just saying that creativity is the perfect therapy for rising from the ashes like a phoenix. I hope to one day do that with Disturbance in the Machine, whether it’s a novel, anthology, short story collection, or whatever. The truth of the matter is, though, that there are other novel ideas in my archives waiting to be realized. Booger the Clown and Chicken and Fries are the ones I’ve been thinking about the most, but I haven’t really fleshed them out in a scene-by-scene analysis yet. Maybe what I really need to do is randomly select which novel I work on next, just like I do with books to read and characters to use.
I wouldn’t mind working on Disturbance in the Machine again with the skills I have today, but it’ll probably be a backburner project since I don’t have any immediate ideas of what to do with it. Usually I have characters an a brief synopsis, but nothing more than that when it comes to novels. Maybe the point of this blog entry is to motivate myself to flesh out novel ideas more often instead of just letting them sit there doing nothing. I’d like to think that’s the case. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time!
***MARIE KREPPS/ASHLEY UZZELL STORIES***
Over the past few months, Marie has been putting out short stories under both of her pennames. I’ve already reviewed Hunting Vampires with Grandma and gave it a passing grade. Now I’m currently reading Reaching For the Light (a mental illness-themed collaboration with TL Katt). All I have to do is read TL Katt’s half of the story and I’m ready to review this puppy and potentially give it an extra credit grade. The other two stories that I’ll eventually get to are Spunky and the Dolphin Palace (a children’s fantasy collaboration with her daughter Kyra Uzzell) and The Blood Files: the Case of Arnus Mortem (vampire horror collaboration with BJ Taylor). I can blow through these stories in the span of one or two days apiece. My hopes are high with how much energy I’ll have to do it since I’m going for longer walks during the day and getting my cardio jacked up. I’m already noticing a difference in my body. Hang in there, Marie-Pie: you’ll earn your high grades soon enough, my lovely friend.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
I’ve already submitted my entry for the WSS’s contest and it’s called Exile. There’s no need to advertise it again in this blog, so I’ll get straight to the point with the Dark Fantasy Warrior pictures that’ll come from that story. You’ve already seen Night Wolf and Maria Kevin on Deviant Art, Good Reads, and Face Book. The final character from that story that needs drawing is Stigma Dominick, the guilt-ridden necromancer. He definitely earned his sad face in that story and hopefully it’ll reflect in his artwork.
***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***
If a British exit is called Brexit and a French exit is called Frexit, what does that make a Serbian exit? Sexit? Sounds kinky. Of course, Serbia isn’t a part of the European Union, but just imagine the unintended comedy if they actually considered a Sexit. I’m getting douche chills just thinking about it. Hehe!
July 6, 2017
Swearison
VERSE 1
I swore at Lego Land and the Great Wolf Lodge
I swore as a teenager under parental watch
I swore when I cleaned dog shit off the floor
I swore until my motherfucking throat was sore
Letting out swear words is a form of therapy
I don’t give a shit if it’s a form of heresy
I don’t give a flying fuck who I offend
I take a deep breath and turn it up to ten
CHORUS
You can call me Swearison
Or you call me a barbarian
I’m sorry for your embarrassment
But you’re hanging out with Swearison
VERSE 2
I scream goddamn it when I bang my elbow
I yell motherfucker when I stub my big toe
I shout Jesus Christ when I bang my head
I bellow like a beast and wake the fucking dead
I should probably sign up for anger management
But it’s too much fun to commit sacrilege
It’s too exciting to shout from the rooftop
Get out of the kitchen if you think it’s too hot
CHORUS
You can call me Swearison
Or you call me a barbarian
I’m sorry for your embarrassment
But you’re hanging out with Swearison
VERSE 3
Cussing in a church or in a courthouse
Using more sex puns than a whorehouse
Cussing in school or a grade below this
Life’s too short for G-rated bullshit
Cussing in a theater with a Disney flick
The Little Mermaid’s tower looks like a dick
Cussing isn’t stupid or even immoral
If you don’t like it, you can give me some oral
EXTENDED CHORUS
You can call me Swearison
Or you call me a barbarian
I’m sorry for your embarrassment
But you’re hanging out with Swearison
My real name is Garrison
I’m a loud and proud heretic
I’m sorry for your sensitivity
I guess you’re really just shitting me
I swore at Lego Land and the Great Wolf Lodge
I swore as a teenager under parental watch
I swore when I cleaned dog shit off the floor
I swore until my motherfucking throat was sore
Letting out swear words is a form of therapy
I don’t give a shit if it’s a form of heresy
I don’t give a flying fuck who I offend
I take a deep breath and turn it up to ten
CHORUS
You can call me Swearison
Or you call me a barbarian
I’m sorry for your embarrassment
But you’re hanging out with Swearison
VERSE 2
I scream goddamn it when I bang my elbow
I yell motherfucker when I stub my big toe
I shout Jesus Christ when I bang my head
I bellow like a beast and wake the fucking dead
I should probably sign up for anger management
But it’s too much fun to commit sacrilege
It’s too exciting to shout from the rooftop
Get out of the kitchen if you think it’s too hot
CHORUS
You can call me Swearison
Or you call me a barbarian
I’m sorry for your embarrassment
But you’re hanging out with Swearison
VERSE 3
Cussing in a church or in a courthouse
Using more sex puns than a whorehouse
Cussing in school or a grade below this
Life’s too short for G-rated bullshit
Cussing in a theater with a Disney flick
The Little Mermaid’s tower looks like a dick
Cussing isn’t stupid or even immoral
If you don’t like it, you can give me some oral
EXTENDED CHORUS
You can call me Swearison
Or you call me a barbarian
I’m sorry for your embarrassment
But you’re hanging out with Swearison
My real name is Garrison
I’m a loud and proud heretic
I’m sorry for your sensitivity
I guess you’re really just shitting me
Exile
“Sing a song, Night Wolf, sing a song, mommy’s boy!” sang Maria Kevin in an off-key voice while she strummed her guitar. Sure enough, the spirit wolf glowing with blue energy howled at the full moon like the happy hound dog he was. The ghostly beast was rewarded with chin scratches and ear rubs from her elfish bard mommy. “Good boy, Night Wolf. Good, good puppy boy.”
The two of them sat outside a rickety old church on the grassy field together while the evening’s wind caressed them with cool air. Such was a pleasant evening for rest and relaxation, considering the long journey they had together playing concerts. Maria’s pointy red hat, black halter top, brown shorts, and brown leather boots gave her the appearance of a folk rock goddess. But to Night Wolf, she was still the down-to-earth spirit animal mother he snuggled up to every night.
“A lot of good memories come from this church, Night Wolf,” said Maria in a pleasant whispery voice. “This was where I first learned to play the guitar and sing to my heart’s content. There wasn’t a single elf in our village who didn’t come to this church every time they wanted some spiritual music. It makes me wonder what happened to this place that it got so…empty and depressing.” Those last words were punctuated with a small frown and a slight whimper from Night Wolf. The spirit animal tucked his head on Maria’s lap and earned himself more pettings behind the ears.
And then Night Wolf’s ears perked up as he lifted his head and barked rapidly at something going on in the church. “What is it, boy? What’s going on?” Maria asked. Night Wolf blitzed inside the church barking and howling while the elf bard struggled to keep up. The inside of the church looked as dilapidated and depressing as the outside. Stained glass windows were shattered, wooden beams splintered and peeled, the carpeted floor was soaked in animal urine and rainwater, and the roof had a hole through it big enough to fit a family of bears through.
Maria’s frowning sorrow intensified when she saw Night Wolf scraping at the basement door and howling in a pathetic, childish dog voice. She didn’t like to see him in such misery, but the purple energy glow behind the door was too much to ignore. The bard trotted down the stairs to the basement door and slowly opened it after backing Night Wolf away with her slender arm.
The source of the purple glow was a mere mortal human with an aura around his pale-skinned body. With dark robes to contrast his disturbingly white skin, he pointed his fingers and shot purple lighting into what appeared to be a bubbling cauldron of some kind. Maria’s eyes widened as the mysterious liquid boiled and splashed while Night Wolf crouched on the floor and whimpered again. The elf covered her ears while the spirit dog yelped after a gunshot-like blast erupted from the cauldron and gray smoke filled the air.
“Damn it!” the elderly wizard yelled. “This is ridiculous! How many times do I have to…” The old man turned around to reveal his baldheaded, wrinkly face to his new intruders and it became clear to Maria Kevin who this man really was. “What are you doing down here, my child? I haven’t seen that face in such a long time. You’re all grown up.”
“Reverend Dominick…how long have you been dwelling in this basement?” asked a dumbfounded Maria.
“Please, call me Stigma. And as far as your question goes…I’ve been down here for much too long,” sighed the priest as he sat down on a wooden stool holding his head in his hands. “What am I going to do, Miss Kevin? I’ve tried so hard to concoct this spell, but nothing seems to work. I can’t find the answers I’m looking for. I’m just…I’m a wreck, my dear.”
Night Wolf trotted over to Stigma Dominick whining and pouting. “I know, my fluffy friend,” said the priest. “Nothing about this is fair.” He treated the large animal to a scratch behind the ears and a back rub, to which Night Wolf panted and smiled with his tongue hanging out.
“You can’t keep torturing yourself like this, Stigma,” said Maria. “You have to let go eventually. Your father’s death wasn’t your fault and never will be. Time heals all wounds, but time isn’t going to be kind to your father if you go through with this necromancy. You’re already older than he was when the accident occurred.”
“I know, Maria, trust me, I know,” said Stigma as he languidly continued petting Night Wolf. “It’s just that…I never got to say goodbye to him. I never told him I was sorry. In my family, showing feelings was never allowed. I’ve kept it all on the inside for…for…” He couldn’t hold it in any longer. Tears poured from the old man’s eyes while Night Wolf whined and licked his salty face. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
Maria placed a tender hand on Stigma’s shoulder and said, “You don’t need to apologize to me. But if you really wanted to make things up to me, you’ll leave this…lab behind and learn to live your life again.”
Night Wolf rested his head on Stigma’s lap while the necromancer said, “I wish it was that easy, Miss Kevin. But if I leave this church and venture back into the city, they’ll have me locked up in an even more disgusting place than this broken down church. They blame me for everything, Maria, and I tend to agree with them.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” said Maria while stroking the reverend’s shoulders. “You never really bothered to ask their opinions, did you? Do you know for sure that they believe it’s an accident?”
Stigma swatted Maria’s arm away and snapped, “I don’t know, Miss Kevin, do you think I should take a poll? Do you think it’s as easy as waltzing back to the village after all of these years? Time never healed my wounds and it won’t heal theirs either! My father was a trusted leader in our community! People loved him and came to him for help! Who are they going to turn to now that it’s over?! They won’t let bygones by bygones, Maria. They’ll have my head on a silver platter!”
Stigma’s diatribe caused Night Wolf to yelp and back up a few paces before laying down and covering his face with his paws. Maria’s fists balled up and her face contorted into stern anger. “If you really feel guilty about what you’ve supposedly done, then you’ll take whatever punishment comes your way. Running away and trying to bring your dad back from the dead isn’t going to help one bit. For all you know, this spell you’re trying to concoct could bring him back as a zombie abomination. I’m sure that’ll look great in the family album!”
The necromancer grabbed Maria tightly by the shoulders and, with Night Wolf barking in the background, screamed, “And what exactly am I running away from?! Huh?! I’d rather be stuck down here for another twenty years than in some shit hole where the guards talk like they’re the fucking overseer! At least here I can find some closure! If your idea of closure is rotting in a cell with judgmental assholes watching over me, then you can take your morals and go to hell!” Stigma threw Maria to the floor and put minor dents in her guitar. Night Wolf rushed over and licked his master’s face before the necromancer shouted, “Get out! Leave me to my research!”
With one hand in her tear-stained face and the other holding the guitar, Maria stood up and ran up the basement steps with Night Wolf whining and chasing after her. The two of them bolted out of the church before the elf bard tripped on a rock and spent the next few minutes crying on her knees. Night Wolf licked the saltiness from her face while the bard wrapped her arms around her spirit animal. “This isn’t over, Stigma. ...This isn’t over by a long shot!” she shouted.
She gazed angrily into Night Wolf’s eyes and whispered, “Get him, boy. Sick ‘em!” The dog barked fiercely and stormed back into the church while Maria stood up and waited outside. She wiped the tears from her eyes while listening to Night Wolf snarl and chew at human flesh.
“Ouch! What the hell are you doing, you stupid dog?! Leave me alone! Stop it!” shouted Stigma from inside the church. Maria yanked the strings from her guitar and waited with her arms folded. Sure enough, Stigma came running and yelping outside with Night Wolf hot on his tail. His robes were ripped and his skin was pierced, but he was otherwise okay.
Maria caught Stigma in a headlock and wrestled him to the ground before switching behind and tying the necromancer’s hands with the busted guitar strings. “Shut up!” she snapped. The harsh tone immediately put an end to Stigma’s whining and yelping. “You’re coming with me to the village whether you want to or not! Enough of this guilty garbage! Instead of saying sorry to your dear old daddy, you’re going to say it to people who won’t end up like fucking zombies! Come on, on your feet!”
The elf bard headlocked Stigma once again and dragged him to his feet before hauling him off to the village. The necromancer pleaded and protested, but Night Wolf nipped his heels every time the whining got too intense. Maria also squeezed harder.
The trek to the village wasn’t long enough to warrant exhaustion from anybody in this group of three, although when Maria released the headlock and cut the guitar strings, Stigma clutched his chest and panted due to how hard the elf squeezed. His eyes bulged out of their sockets when he realized where he was. This forest village was complete with stone houses, tree houses, and many, many elven warriors. The fruit was more abundant than Stigma remembered it. The vegetables looked delicious enough to garner a drooling response. Would it be the last time he was privileged to eat such beautiful food?
It seemed to be that way when a group of leather-armored elves carrying poleaxes approached him with stern looks on their faces. The warriors, Maria, and Night Wolf all circled him with greedy, judgmental eyes. The captain of this squadron said in a flat tone, “How could you, Reverend? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Stigma Dominick huddled into himself and shook with nervousness. “I’m sorry…I really am…”
“You should be sorry,” said the elf captain. “You should be sorry for torturing yourself for so long.” Stigma lifted his head with a surprised look on his face. “We’ve missed you, dear friend. I’m sure you’ve missed being in the sunlight. Look at you, you’re a mess! We don’t blame you for what happened to your father. We blame you for abandoning us in our time of need. But now you’re safe with us again, necromancer.”
Stigma’s eyes were drowning in tears once again as the circle of elves closed in on him and gave him a much-needed group hug. Night Wolf pawed at his leg and howled at the full moon. Maria Kevin stroked Stigma’s bald scalp and said, “You’re great at giving sermons, but you’re terrible at listening.”
“I’m sorry, Maria. I’m sorry for everything…”
The two of them sat outside a rickety old church on the grassy field together while the evening’s wind caressed them with cool air. Such was a pleasant evening for rest and relaxation, considering the long journey they had together playing concerts. Maria’s pointy red hat, black halter top, brown shorts, and brown leather boots gave her the appearance of a folk rock goddess. But to Night Wolf, she was still the down-to-earth spirit animal mother he snuggled up to every night.
“A lot of good memories come from this church, Night Wolf,” said Maria in a pleasant whispery voice. “This was where I first learned to play the guitar and sing to my heart’s content. There wasn’t a single elf in our village who didn’t come to this church every time they wanted some spiritual music. It makes me wonder what happened to this place that it got so…empty and depressing.” Those last words were punctuated with a small frown and a slight whimper from Night Wolf. The spirit animal tucked his head on Maria’s lap and earned himself more pettings behind the ears.
And then Night Wolf’s ears perked up as he lifted his head and barked rapidly at something going on in the church. “What is it, boy? What’s going on?” Maria asked. Night Wolf blitzed inside the church barking and howling while the elf bard struggled to keep up. The inside of the church looked as dilapidated and depressing as the outside. Stained glass windows were shattered, wooden beams splintered and peeled, the carpeted floor was soaked in animal urine and rainwater, and the roof had a hole through it big enough to fit a family of bears through.
Maria’s frowning sorrow intensified when she saw Night Wolf scraping at the basement door and howling in a pathetic, childish dog voice. She didn’t like to see him in such misery, but the purple energy glow behind the door was too much to ignore. The bard trotted down the stairs to the basement door and slowly opened it after backing Night Wolf away with her slender arm.
The source of the purple glow was a mere mortal human with an aura around his pale-skinned body. With dark robes to contrast his disturbingly white skin, he pointed his fingers and shot purple lighting into what appeared to be a bubbling cauldron of some kind. Maria’s eyes widened as the mysterious liquid boiled and splashed while Night Wolf crouched on the floor and whimpered again. The elf covered her ears while the spirit dog yelped after a gunshot-like blast erupted from the cauldron and gray smoke filled the air.
“Damn it!” the elderly wizard yelled. “This is ridiculous! How many times do I have to…” The old man turned around to reveal his baldheaded, wrinkly face to his new intruders and it became clear to Maria Kevin who this man really was. “What are you doing down here, my child? I haven’t seen that face in such a long time. You’re all grown up.”
“Reverend Dominick…how long have you been dwelling in this basement?” asked a dumbfounded Maria.
“Please, call me Stigma. And as far as your question goes…I’ve been down here for much too long,” sighed the priest as he sat down on a wooden stool holding his head in his hands. “What am I going to do, Miss Kevin? I’ve tried so hard to concoct this spell, but nothing seems to work. I can’t find the answers I’m looking for. I’m just…I’m a wreck, my dear.”
Night Wolf trotted over to Stigma Dominick whining and pouting. “I know, my fluffy friend,” said the priest. “Nothing about this is fair.” He treated the large animal to a scratch behind the ears and a back rub, to which Night Wolf panted and smiled with his tongue hanging out.
“You can’t keep torturing yourself like this, Stigma,” said Maria. “You have to let go eventually. Your father’s death wasn’t your fault and never will be. Time heals all wounds, but time isn’t going to be kind to your father if you go through with this necromancy. You’re already older than he was when the accident occurred.”
“I know, Maria, trust me, I know,” said Stigma as he languidly continued petting Night Wolf. “It’s just that…I never got to say goodbye to him. I never told him I was sorry. In my family, showing feelings was never allowed. I’ve kept it all on the inside for…for…” He couldn’t hold it in any longer. Tears poured from the old man’s eyes while Night Wolf whined and licked his salty face. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
Maria placed a tender hand on Stigma’s shoulder and said, “You don’t need to apologize to me. But if you really wanted to make things up to me, you’ll leave this…lab behind and learn to live your life again.”
Night Wolf rested his head on Stigma’s lap while the necromancer said, “I wish it was that easy, Miss Kevin. But if I leave this church and venture back into the city, they’ll have me locked up in an even more disgusting place than this broken down church. They blame me for everything, Maria, and I tend to agree with them.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” said Maria while stroking the reverend’s shoulders. “You never really bothered to ask their opinions, did you? Do you know for sure that they believe it’s an accident?”
Stigma swatted Maria’s arm away and snapped, “I don’t know, Miss Kevin, do you think I should take a poll? Do you think it’s as easy as waltzing back to the village after all of these years? Time never healed my wounds and it won’t heal theirs either! My father was a trusted leader in our community! People loved him and came to him for help! Who are they going to turn to now that it’s over?! They won’t let bygones by bygones, Maria. They’ll have my head on a silver platter!”
Stigma’s diatribe caused Night Wolf to yelp and back up a few paces before laying down and covering his face with his paws. Maria’s fists balled up and her face contorted into stern anger. “If you really feel guilty about what you’ve supposedly done, then you’ll take whatever punishment comes your way. Running away and trying to bring your dad back from the dead isn’t going to help one bit. For all you know, this spell you’re trying to concoct could bring him back as a zombie abomination. I’m sure that’ll look great in the family album!”
The necromancer grabbed Maria tightly by the shoulders and, with Night Wolf barking in the background, screamed, “And what exactly am I running away from?! Huh?! I’d rather be stuck down here for another twenty years than in some shit hole where the guards talk like they’re the fucking overseer! At least here I can find some closure! If your idea of closure is rotting in a cell with judgmental assholes watching over me, then you can take your morals and go to hell!” Stigma threw Maria to the floor and put minor dents in her guitar. Night Wolf rushed over and licked his master’s face before the necromancer shouted, “Get out! Leave me to my research!”
With one hand in her tear-stained face and the other holding the guitar, Maria stood up and ran up the basement steps with Night Wolf whining and chasing after her. The two of them bolted out of the church before the elf bard tripped on a rock and spent the next few minutes crying on her knees. Night Wolf licked the saltiness from her face while the bard wrapped her arms around her spirit animal. “This isn’t over, Stigma. ...This isn’t over by a long shot!” she shouted.
She gazed angrily into Night Wolf’s eyes and whispered, “Get him, boy. Sick ‘em!” The dog barked fiercely and stormed back into the church while Maria stood up and waited outside. She wiped the tears from her eyes while listening to Night Wolf snarl and chew at human flesh.
“Ouch! What the hell are you doing, you stupid dog?! Leave me alone! Stop it!” shouted Stigma from inside the church. Maria yanked the strings from her guitar and waited with her arms folded. Sure enough, Stigma came running and yelping outside with Night Wolf hot on his tail. His robes were ripped and his skin was pierced, but he was otherwise okay.
Maria caught Stigma in a headlock and wrestled him to the ground before switching behind and tying the necromancer’s hands with the busted guitar strings. “Shut up!” she snapped. The harsh tone immediately put an end to Stigma’s whining and yelping. “You’re coming with me to the village whether you want to or not! Enough of this guilty garbage! Instead of saying sorry to your dear old daddy, you’re going to say it to people who won’t end up like fucking zombies! Come on, on your feet!”
The elf bard headlocked Stigma once again and dragged him to his feet before hauling him off to the village. The necromancer pleaded and protested, but Night Wolf nipped his heels every time the whining got too intense. Maria also squeezed harder.
The trek to the village wasn’t long enough to warrant exhaustion from anybody in this group of three, although when Maria released the headlock and cut the guitar strings, Stigma clutched his chest and panted due to how hard the elf squeezed. His eyes bulged out of their sockets when he realized where he was. This forest village was complete with stone houses, tree houses, and many, many elven warriors. The fruit was more abundant than Stigma remembered it. The vegetables looked delicious enough to garner a drooling response. Would it be the last time he was privileged to eat such beautiful food?
It seemed to be that way when a group of leather-armored elves carrying poleaxes approached him with stern looks on their faces. The warriors, Maria, and Night Wolf all circled him with greedy, judgmental eyes. The captain of this squadron said in a flat tone, “How could you, Reverend? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Stigma Dominick huddled into himself and shook with nervousness. “I’m sorry…I really am…”
“You should be sorry,” said the elf captain. “You should be sorry for torturing yourself for so long.” Stigma lifted his head with a surprised look on his face. “We’ve missed you, dear friend. I’m sure you’ve missed being in the sunlight. Look at you, you’re a mess! We don’t blame you for what happened to your father. We blame you for abandoning us in our time of need. But now you’re safe with us again, necromancer.”
Stigma’s eyes were drowning in tears once again as the circle of elves closed in on him and gave him a much-needed group hug. Night Wolf pawed at his leg and howled at the full moon. Maria Kevin stroked Stigma’s bald scalp and said, “You’re great at giving sermons, but you’re terrible at listening.”
“I’m sorry, Maria. I’m sorry for everything…”
Ground Control to Uncle Tom
(A parody of millennials who bash their own generation in the style of “Space Oddity” by David Bowie.)
Ground Control to Uncle Tom
Ground Control to Uncle Tom
Take your Viagra and put your Depends on
Ground Control to Uncle Tom
Commencing aging, glasses on
Check your prostate, and may grandma be with you
This is Ground Control to Uncle Tom
You’re inciting ageist hate
And the youngsters want to know whose loafers you wear
Now it’s time to leave the comfort of your rocking chair
This is Uncle Tom to Ground Control
I’m slipping on the floor
And I’m dizzy in a most peculiar way
And my head is in the clouds every day
For here
I am eating from a tin can
Disconnected from the world
Millennials are here
You can do nothing, my dear
I’m out of touch by a hundred thousand miles
I’m feeling very ill
And I think my scooter knows which way to go
Tell my grandkids I love them very much
They know
Ground Control to Uncle Tom
Your hearing aid’s dead, there’s something wrong
Can you hear me Uncle Tom?
Can you hear me Uncle Tom?
Can you hear me Uncle Tom?
Can you hear?
I am eating from a tin can
Disconnected from the world
Millennials are here
You can do nothing, my dear
Ground Control to Uncle Tom
Ground Control to Uncle Tom
Take your Viagra and put your Depends on
Ground Control to Uncle Tom
Commencing aging, glasses on
Check your prostate, and may grandma be with you
This is Ground Control to Uncle Tom
You’re inciting ageist hate
And the youngsters want to know whose loafers you wear
Now it’s time to leave the comfort of your rocking chair
This is Uncle Tom to Ground Control
I’m slipping on the floor
And I’m dizzy in a most peculiar way
And my head is in the clouds every day
For here
I am eating from a tin can
Disconnected from the world
Millennials are here
You can do nothing, my dear
I’m out of touch by a hundred thousand miles
I’m feeling very ill
And I think my scooter knows which way to go
Tell my grandkids I love them very much
They know
Ground Control to Uncle Tom
Your hearing aid’s dead, there’s something wrong
Can you hear me Uncle Tom?
Can you hear me Uncle Tom?
Can you hear me Uncle Tom?
Can you hear?
I am eating from a tin can
Disconnected from the world
Millennials are here
You can do nothing, my dear
