The Xenomorphs Understand #WEP

Free use image by Wolfgang Eckert on Pixabay

Tagline: Thoughts from an Outsider on Aliens and Acceptance

Critique Guidelines:

Full CONSTRUCTIVE criticism regarding the mechanics of the piece is acceptable. Tearing down the subject matter is not. Further, I don't give a rat's ass if any of you find my use of salty language "low class." I've had a hard life. I quit using both alcohol and drugs 25 years ago and stopped smoking cigarettes in 2006. I'll damn well cuss if I feel like it. If you have a problem with that, don't read the essay. It's simple.

Without further ado-doo, here's the contentious piece in all its glory.

The Xenomorphs Understand

Per the Wikipedia entry on Lovecraftian horror, H. R. Giger's book of paintings, which inspired many of the designs in the film Alien, was named Necronomicon after a fictional book appearing in several of Lovecraft's stories. Dan O'Bannon, the original writer of the Alien screenplay, has also mentioned Lovecraft as a major influence on the film.

It’s no wonder a fourteen-year-old me, who had not long ago started reading Lovecraft’s works, was so taken with Alien. I was already a seasoned horror buff. I’m not being hyperbolic when I say that I started reading Edgar Allan Poe’s works at six years old. I loved reading horror comics under the covers with a flashlight, even though this activity contributed to my fear of venturing down the dark hallway to the bathroom during the night. The giant cockroaches that invaded our poorly-constructed New Mexico home and the whatthefuckery of a massive furnace vent right in the middle of the damn hallway floor making it so you had to scoot along the wall or risk burning your feet on the hot metal grate didn’t help.

I didn’t consciously entertain the idea of the Xenomorphs being misunderstood until decades after my first viewing of Alien. In 2012, I was sick of my life and sick of myself. I was hung up on a guy who was never going to see me as anything but a booty call. I was grieving the loss of my father. I was out of hope, but my son still needed my help, so I had to find something to distract myself from punching my own ticket, which was the action I really wanted to take.

My therapy came in the form of crazy fan fiction crossovers featuring evolved Xenomorphs.

Nobody but me will ever read these stories. When I reread them, it’s obvious how much I needed someone to understand what I was going through and how lost I felt.

The Xenomorphs—my fellow Outsiders—saved me.

Much of my writing centers around the idea of acceptance. I hoped one day I’d find an audience of outsiders like myself who would enjoy my strange worlds. This has never come to pass, which may be no surprise to those on the outside looking in. Normal people don’t get me, and I don’t get them.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I’ve tried to convince people that I’m a writer, but at heart, I’m a wannabe musician. Since You did not see fit to bless me with musical talent, I turn my thoughts into stories rather than songs.

Now you know my secret.

I read a lot of biographies and memoirs, partly because I write fiction nearly every day so I want to read something else, and partly because I’m still trying to find people who are like me in some way. I’m currently reading Edward Van Halen: A Definitive Biography by Kevin Dodds.

https://amzn.to/4alW5pu

Eddie Van Halen had something to say about being true to your vision, and I’m going to let him say it uncensored.

“I’d rather fail with my own shit than succeed with someone else’s.”

Jimi Hendrix felt the same way. I try to keep this attitude in mind, but it’s difficult in a world that doesn’t want stories chock-a-block with troubled characters. As John River said,

“In this world, no one can be different or strange or damaged, or they lock you up.”

They also lock you out. It’s hard to make an impact as a writer anyway, and weird fiction is far from a popular niche. I would prefer to spend my time writing Lovecraftian fix-up novels and kooky fan fiction crossovers, which have some pretty dark roots if you bother to look beneath the surface. Most people don’t. However, I can’t generate social currency with these works, so I spend most of my time writing romance both steamy and sweet.

More than once, my stories have been branded technically proficient but lacking emotion. However, when I let myself bleed all over the page, I receive no response. Reading the truth about someone who was the target of bullying and the victim of sexual assault isn’t fun. However, when I write for fun, the result is deemed “too weird.” I try to give the people what they want, but then I die inside.

It’s not that I think the romance stories I write are bad. I like my comparatively well-behaved literary children. However, it saddens me when I neglect my melancholy, misunderstood, alienated brood with their tragically poetic souls in favor of promoting the more acceptable lot.

Weird fiction has saved me many times.

That’s why I’ll always love my New Weird Tales even though nobody else gets either me or them. 

The Xenomorphs understand.

References

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lovecraftian_horror

789 words

~Ornery Owl Has Spoken~

Image by Jim Cooper from Pixabay

"Thanks for being my pal, Space Jockey."

The Star Child and the Phantom of the Opera #WEP

 

Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

Genre:

Nonfiction

Critique Preferences:

Whatever. Just don't be a dick.

Tagline:

The Other remains reviled.

The Essay:

Over the course of more than a century, many actors have played Erik, the title character of Gaston Leroux's 1910 Gothic mystery/romance The Phantom of the Opera. Born with a disfigured face, Erik was abandoned by his father and his mother expressed overt disgust at his deformity. He wears a mask to hide his face.

A feeling of being an outsider may not be necessary for an actor to portray Erik authentically, but it can certainly help. Lon Chaney, the first actor to interpret Erik on film, was the son of deaf parents. He learned sign language at a young age. Chaney exhibited a self-reliant and perfectionist attitude, which sometimes strained his relationships.

Chaney drew from sympathy for The Other to lend authenticity to his portrayals of deformed or monstrous characters. As he wrote in a 1925 article for Movie magazine:

"I wanted to remind people that the lowest types of humanity may have within them the capacity for supreme self-sacrifice. The dwarfed, misshapen beggar of the streets may have the noblest ideals. Most of my roles since The Hunchback, such as The Phantom of the Opera, He Who Gets Slapped, The Unholy Three, etc., have carried the theme of self-sacrifice or renunciation. These are the stories which I wish to do."

Ray Bradbury once said of Chaney, "He was someone who acted out our psyches. He somehow got into the shadows inside our bodies; he was able to nail down some of our secret fears and put them on-screen. The history of Lon Chaney is the history of unrequited loves. He brings that part of you out into the open, because you fear that you are not loved, you fear that you never will be loved, you fear there is some part of you that's grotesque, that the world will turn away from."

Unlike Erik, Lon Chaney was a triumphant figure whose abilities as an actor and makeup artist are still lauded more than eighty years after his passing.

Nearly seventy-five years after Lon Chaney brought the Phantom of the Opera to life, a man better known as a musician than a thespian brought a powerful authenticity to the role, drawing inspiration from his own experiences. The name Paul Stanley has become synonymous with the Star Child character he created for his band, Kiss. Star Child allowed Paul a way to become someone besides Stanley Bert Eisen, a deeply wounded and angry young man who looked normal on the surface but saw himself as distorted and possibly unlovable.

Until I read Paul’s autobiography, I had no idea how sensitive and thoughtful he is. I knew he had been born with microtia, a condition affecting both the appearance and function of the ear. Paul’s right ear was deformed, lacking an ear canal and eardrum. His peers targeted him for ridicule, calling him Stanley the One-Eared Monster. Between holding his own against bullies and dealing with a volatile home environment, Paul became a defensive personality always ready for a fight.

Although Paul’s parents never expressed any strong revulsion regarding his disability, they weren’t particularly supportive either. Paul describes the house he grew up in as filled with constant tension and frequent arguments. His older sister had serious mental health challenges and at times acted out violently. His parents weren’t affectionate with each other or their children. Paul believes his thirst for acceptance led him to develop addictive sexual behaviors.

Unlike the tragic and ultimately doomed Erik, Paul Stanley is a triumphant figure. He found success at a young age despite his insecurities. He managed to avoid succumbing to substance addiction in an industry that offers constant temptation. He has a healthy relationship with his children. He has been been happily married to his second wife, Erin, since 2005. He credits mental health counseling with helping him work through his anger, self-doubt, and tendency to overextend himself to the point where he starts having panic attacks.

Since Gaston Leroux wrote The Phantom of the Opera, attitudes toward those who do not conform to exacting standards of beauty have not significantly changed. People still place a greater emphasis on a person's external appearance than on their character. While technological advancements have been impressive in recent decades, ridiculing those who fail to meet rigid ideals of attractiveness remains not only acceptable but encouraged. We need to do better, starting now.

730 words

Acknowledgements

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lon_Chaney

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Microtia

Blake, Michael F. A Thousand Faces: Lon Chaney's Unique Artistry in Motion Pictures. Vestal, New York: Vestal Press, 1997. ISBN 978-1-8795-1121-7.

https://amzn.to/45GHKAB

Stanley, Paul (2014). Face the Music: A Life Exposed. HarperCollins. p. 13. ISBN 9780062114068.

https://amzn.to/3S1E4Gf

Gaston Leroux’s Phantom of the Opera is in the public domain. Free digital copies of the story are available here.

https://standardebooks.org/ebooks/gaston-leroux/the-phantom-of-the-opera/alexander-teixeira-de-mattos

https://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2023/10/wep-october-flashfiction-challenge.html

https://pixabay.com/vectors/mask-owl-play-face-kids-game-toy-32385/

Free use image from Open Clipart Vectors

Ornery Owl Sez:

You know how some people like to abbreviate the names of their favorite movies or TV programs? Like GOT for Game of Thrones or SNG for Star Trek: The Next Generation? You don't want to abbreviate Phantom Of the Opera. Trust me on this.

Fudge #WEP

 

If you're hell-bent on using this picture of a pan of fudge, go right ahead.

Critique guidelines:

Major points only. Given the subject matter, I can foresee this becoming a real shit show otherwise.

http://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com

August 1

I made fudge. If you need a fast chocolate fix, this is the quickest ever.

1 bag of semisweet chocolate chips

1 can of sweetened condensed milk

1 teaspoon of vanilla

Pour the sweetened condensed milk and chocolate chips into a bowl and nuke them for one minute. Add the vanilla and stir until smooth. Pour into a parchment-lined 8x8 or 9x9 pan. Refrigerate for 2 hours. Eat.

This recipe is the epitome of me in the kitchen. I don’t do anything that involves a lot of prep work.

I am once again recovering from severe emotional dysregulation.

I feel hopeless. Even my writing is like horrible homework.

I want to do the writing part of writing and leave the promotion part to someone who knows what the hell they are doing. I am not a social butterfly. I am more of a social pill bug. If I see someone coming, I curl myself up into a ball and hope they won’t notice me. Unfortunately, at my size, it’s hard for them to miss me.

Social pill bugs tend not to be treated well, even at the doctor’s office. Dr. Deborah Serani, a psychologist who lives with clinical depression, writes about this phenomenon in her excellent Psychology Today article.

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/two-takes-depression/201905/medical-shaming-and-mental-illness

This vitally important takeaway from the article sizes up (Heh! See what I did there?) the attitude that heavy people and patients with mental illness just “aren’t trying hard enough.”

In 1948, The World Health Organization defined health as a state of complete physical, mental and social well-being. Regrettably, it didn't take into account chronic illness or disease and the layered challenges individuals face with such conditions. While the definition of health has changed over the years, most professionals - and the general public - believe health is a state of well-being that a person "earns" or "maintains." This social construct goes like this:

If you eat well, you will be well.

If you exercise, you will be fit.

If you don't have good mental health, you just aren't trying hard enough.

And that those who can't, won't or don't achieve well-being are just weak, lazy - or worse - need to be shamed to get it done.

Shaming doesn’t work, but even doctors, who are supposed to be so much smartier than the rest of us, don’t understand this. If shaming worked there would be no addicts of any kind. There would be no fat people, and nobody would have mental health problems. Everyone would eat the exact right amount of the exact optimal kind of food at every meal. Nobody would drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes or weed, snort cocaine, inject heroin, or become addicted to pills. Everyone would be content to do the jobs assigned to them by those in power.

I recommend re-reading Brave New World. Or reading it for the first time if you haven’t read it yet.

As for me, if hating myself thin never worked during the thirty-three years I tried to do just that, it sure as fuck ain’t gonna work now. The doctor should have berated my thyroid, which killed itself and thrust me onto the path to largeness when I was just thirteen years old. She should have berated my ovaries, which developed PCOS once I was old enough to menstruate. She should have berated my pancreas, which waited until I was 49 years old, but then joined my thyroid in death.

If anything, this woman of medicine who is so much smartier than me should have berated me for becoming bulimic at twelve and starting down a path of lifelong food insecurity, both self-imposed (dieting) and involuntary (not having the money to buy adequate supplies of food while social services tells me I make too much money to qualify for assistance.) Better yet, rather than berating an old broad coming to you because she has a fucking sleep disorder and the sleep specialist said she should, why not berate a society that allows food insecurity and pushes people to hate their bodies?

TREAT THE PATIENT, NOT THE CHART!

This doctor, by the way?

A pulmonologist.

I was there to find out if something was awry with my lungs, not to have bad drugs with serious side effects suggested to me on the slim chance (see what I did there?) they might turn me into the svelte, slinky vixen that every woman is supposed to be.

I am not unaware of my size nor of the theoretical correlation between my size and conditions. However, I’m working on making peace with my body and food because dieting and eating disorders (among other factors) have caused me serious trauma. Even if I remain at my current size (given my history, this is the most likely outcome) my overall health will still improve if I am receiving appropriate care for my underlying conditions.

I guess everyone would have been happier if I’d lived fast, died young, and left a good-looking corpse.

Fuck all of them.

I look out of my shell and realize I’ve failed at my goal of opening people’s eyes to the way bias against troubled people or those who don’t conform to a certain rigid standard of beauty and acceptability hurts the world.

I am aware that I’m ugly.

Those who puff up their egos by shaming those who don’t conform to their standards don’t realize they are ugly too.

I had a couple pieces of the fudge. I think I prefer cookie bars.

Not that it’s anyone’s business, but I don’t eat dessert after every meal or even every day.

~Ornery Owl Has Spoken~

Image by HK Mennist from Pixabay

It should go without saying, but I know it doesn't. Comments such as "but it's unhealthy to be fat," "but if you just eat less and exercise more," and "but if you just tried the sawdust and metal shavings diet" are not welcome.

As for the first comment, I'm not going to waste time debating with you. Go read this book. 

https://bit.ly/HAESCIE

As for the second comment, I am excellent at starving myself. It is my first reaction to being size shamed, along with suicide ideation. I can't engage in orthorexia the way I used to because of my back problems. Go read the aforementioned book.

As for the third comment:

Blog of Author J Lenni Dorner: Dec #WEP #WEPFF ANTiation

Blog of Author J Lenni Dorner: Dec #WEP #WEPFF ANTiation: #WEP DECEMBER 2022 CHALLENGE #THE FIRST TIME EVER I SAW...Post Dec 1st - 15 the ANTiation by: J Lenni Dorner FCA 755 words Tagline-- A tr...

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Beautifully written. I admit to being a bit of a cynic as far as my own past crushes and think my response would be "why in the world was I so hung up on that dork?" I don't have a lot of fond memories of my teen years, although sometimes I miss having a liver that allowed me to drink enough to float a battleship.

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Denise Covey: #WEP OCTOBER 2022 CHALLENGE - MICHAEL JACKSON'S "T...

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In some ways, this story reminds me of an episode from an old Vampirella comic. The girl's father was a devil worshiper, and one night she saw him being absorbed by a light entity. Years later, she married a charming fellow who turned out to be a demon. That story scared the hell out of me! 

This story made me think of the girl I used to be and how desperate I was for male attention. I did some really stupid things in pursuit of such.

WEP Challenge October 2022: Thriller

 

Image by Лечение Наркомании from Pixabay

Genre:

Nonfiction, memoir

Word count: 

1000 Words

Critique Preference:

I'll accept a full critique of the mechanics, but I'm likely to get testy if anyone negatively criticizes the subject matter. I discuss mental health issues including substance abuse and trauma in this essay. If you dislike reading about such topics, I recommend giving this piece a pass.

Tagline

Sometimes the thing that thrills you most is a mask for what you'd rather not see.

Here's my story, it's sad but true...

Our subject needs no introduction!

Okay, she kind of does.

I’m Cara H, the Cheesy One, The Cheesemeister. I’m Cie, pronounced C. My real name is pronounced Care-ah, as in I care or pretend I do. Anyway, it ain’t Car-ah. The Car-ah is something you drive-ah. If I were a Car-ah, I’d kill you if you tried to drive-ah me.

I write dystopian and Lovecraftian fantasy and science fiction under the pen name C. L. Hart. That’s my first two initials and the first syllable of my last name. I picked it because my literary heroes H. P. Lovecraft, P. G. Wodehouse, and J. K. Rowling asked me to join their prestigious Secret Society of Authors Using Two Initials and a Surname.

If there really were such a society, I would join. We would sit around drinking tea and telling stories.

I also go by Owl. Ornery Owl, that is. Ornery Owl is the persona who pens my poetry and helps me dredge up repressed memories. I am Ornery Owl and I have something to say, come what may. You can listen, or you can ignore me. Whatever.

I was born on February 15, 1965, during a raging blizzard. It was a portent of a turbulent life to come.

I wish people would have listened when the head nurse spoke up and said leave this one alone. People have always made it their business to get up in my business, even though they didn’t care a hill of beans for me. It’s the rare person who gives a damn. The rest are either nosy or evil.

I grew up dancing with the likes of The Beatles, The Doors, Jefferson Airplane, and The Rolling Stones. Later, I danced in the dark with Bruce Springsteen. When The Kinks said “Come Dancing,” you know I did.

“Do you love me now that I can dance?” I asked my schoolmates.

“You can’t dance. You’re ugly and weird. Nobody likes you,” my classmates said, and my inner critic confirmed it.

My inner critic’s name is Ayce Hole. I named her after an awful diet candy infused with lidocaine. It was supposed to numb your stomach so you wouldn’t feel hungry. I wanted to look like the After pictures in the Ayce ads, so I ate the candy.

When I looked in the mirror after noshing on a couple of mouth-numbing caramels, I hoped to see a gorgeous swimsuit model looking back at me. Instead, I saw an unhappy, bulimic teenager with numb gums, and because the candy had no nutritional value, I was hungry. Like most miracle cures, Ayce was a scam. Quelle surprise!

I was seventeen years old and a senior in high school when Michael Jackson’s album Thriller was released. I dug the Werewolf story set to music. I wanted to create exciting entertainment like Michael. I was an ugly duckling with a voice like a pissed-off swan, but I hoped that the Powers that Be would take pity on me and alter my less than comely appearance and far from crowd-pleasing musical abilities. Barring that, I hoped they would put me on the path to becoming a comedic actress. Character performers don’t have to be drop-dead gorgeous.

What I craved even more than talent, however, was adulation and excitement. I not only needed to be told I was good enough, I needed it reaffirmed constantly. I needed to hear that I was amazing! Beautiful (in an unconventional way)! Talented! Wonderful! Of course, because I don’t really believe a word of it, I needed it repeated again! Again! And again!

I wanted to be the thriller, and I wanted to get my thrills. I was always on the hunt for the next party. I needed one drink to pull me out of my shell, another to lower my inhibitions, and however many came after that to help me forget how much I hated my life and myself. I couldn’t stand for things to be still. I always felt like I was buzzing inside. Being high or drunk helped reduce the imbalance between the way things were and the way I felt they should be. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my behavior was a cry for help.

It literally took more than five decades for me to finally understand what was going on in my head. I had many erroneous labels slapped on me over the years. My favorite of these has to be “hysterical neurotic.” I’ll never forget the clown of a shrink who bestowed that sassy little number on me. I’m proud of the way sixteen-year-old me gave him what for. He was a damn Freudian misogynist who didn’t deserve the respect he demanded. I saw right through him.

My second favorite label is “borderline personality disorder.” Borderline personality disorder is the modern hysterical neurotic. This label is overwhelmingly applied to women and girls. The manifestations of “borderline personality disorder” don’t come out of nowhere. Every single person this label is applied to has complex PTSD. Every “borderline personality” has been traumatized, often sexually.

I was also misdiagnosed as having both type 2 bipolar disorder and OCD. When I was unable to afford Lithium, I expected to have “bipolar” episodes. I never did. With a little research, I discovered that I actually have ADHD and complex PTSD. People with ADHD can manifest obsessive behaviors and negative feedback loops that mimic certain aspects of OCD. However, the approach to short-circuiting such behaviors is different with ADHD than with OCD.

Suddenly the reasons for my thrill-seeking made sense.

Sometimes I feel like I’ve been cheated because I could have started making progress a lot sooner if I’d known what was really going on sooner. However, as the curmudgeonly Dr. House observed, you don’t get what you deserve; you get what you get. No amount of complaining will allow me to go back and make my discovery sooner, so I’ll just have to take it from here.

One day at a time.

~Ornery Owl Has Spoken~

Free use image from Open Clipart Vectors

https://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2022/10/wep-october-2022-challenge-thriller.html

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Excellent writing. There are no words I can say to do it justice.

I sometimes despair that I have to live on a disability allotment of $1240 and get most of my provisions from the food bank. There is very little left after the bills are paid. My son often reminds me that even though our situation is difficult, we are in a better position than many people, even in the United States.

(My son is high-functioning autistic and not able to hold a normal job. He isn't on disability because one of us has to be able to amass savings in case of an emergency. I cannot have more than $2000 in savings.)

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I like Ingrid and I like this story.

I always say I'm much better on paper than I am in person. 

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Content warning: This brief, well-written piece addresses sexual assault.

I never reported any of my rapists. I was sure I wouldn't be believed. My own family's attitudes confirmed that. When I told them what happened, they blamed me.

It does take great strength to raise a child conceived during a violent assault. But I do not fault anyone who can't. I don't know if I could.

Estrangement and the Seeds of Feminism

 

Commander Evdokiya Bershanskaya gives a briefing to her “Witches”. 

(Archives Vlad Monster, http://www.ava.org.ru)

https://www.gracpiacenza.com/night_witches_eng.html

The following is a response to a post by Roland Clarke for the April 2022 WEP Challenge.

https://rolandclarke.com/2022/04/20/wep-iwsg-april-challenge-a-hard-rains-a-gonna-fall/

A well-written and educational piece. I have relatives in Lithuania, but the truth is, I know almost nothing about them. We wouldn’t know each other. I am estranged from most of my family. Vivid connections like those depicted in this story are a foreign and fascinating concept to me.

The Night Witches are a source of inspiration for a woman who secretly started identifying as a feminist back in 1973 at eight years old. Women can do anything that men can do and it is tiresome that in the twenty-first century we are still seen as decorations and unpaid labor.

~Ornery Owl Has Spoken~

Ornery Owl says "no" to being arm candy or a helpmeet.

She'll tear your arm off and help you meet your maker.

(Free use image from Pixabay)

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The Warrior Muse: WEP - A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall: My WEP entry is below! I have a story in Particular Passages 2, and it is now available for pre-order. There's no theme, just good short...

A nicely written work. I feel we should all do a better job of supporting family members and friends who become pregnant, whether the pregnancy is planned or unplanned. There are few more difficult feelings than being alone with a new child to support.

Just Jemi: WEP & Brat

Just Jemi: WEP & Brat:   Rain fell and fell and fell. Brat wondered if it had got into her skin and replaced her blood. She hoped it would keep falling. When she’d...

I always saw A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall as a metaphor for the Vietnam war and a scathing critique of the leaders who allowed it to continue. Having been born in 1965, I grew up in the shadow of both the Vietnam war and the Cold War. It colored both the way I write and the way I have experienced life.

The story describes the experience of abuse victims very well. People who have experienced abuse as children often remark that they thought every household was like that and they are surprised when they visit a household without the abusive dynamic.

I wasn't physically abused but there was a lot of yelling in my house when I was growing up. My parents were always yelling at each other. I think outsiders seeing their dynamic would have wondered why they weren't divorced. For them it was status quo. I always found it stressful. I had to learn as an adult not to be so volatile. It drives people away.