Monster Bash, Tier 1: Zombie vs. Demon

“Good evening, sports fans, and welcome back to tier one of Monster Bash. Last night’s round saw some incredible action, but who will win tonight’s conflict? Stick around to find out,” I say, as I walk towards the commentator’s desk. “We have a beautiful arena here at Horton-Meier Churchyard, which has been graciously offered to us for these fights. They have a magnificently maintained churchyard, and an Anzac Memorial for those who died during their service, I have to say, my heart goes out to those poor souls . . . ‘lest we forget’.”
I approach the desk where two unimportant characters are looking busy alongside a gorgeous, young woman.
“Once more, I’m joined by Jayalaw at the sidelines to comment on tonight’s fight. Jaya, tonight we see a zombie facing off against a demon . . . I’ve got to say, this one seems like a Curb Stomp battle, does the walking dead stand a chance against this hellspawn?”
“Depends on the type of walking dead,” she responded. “As well as the malevolence and strength of the demon. Most people characterize zombies as walking carnivores or brainwashed slaves for Caribbean magicians, but some in pop culture know how to think. Not all demons are necessarily evil, per se, and quite a few can be benevolent. It’s a real toss up because the interpretations vary widely.”
 “Well, that seems as good a time as any to check our profiles. Let me see here . . .” I reach down and snatch a few papers from one of the two-dimensional side-characters. The nameless cutout doesn’t even speak. “Hmm . . . well, there’s good news and bad news for our zombie contender. Apparently he’s classed as a ‘Romero’, which is to say, he’s a bit of a shambler. Aggressive, nonetheless, but speed will not be in his favour. However, our demon is looking like she’s on a lesser rung of demon hierarchy. A bit of a lesser, barely above an imp, with only a few lashings of dark magic. Ooh, wait . . . hellfire. I dunno, I’m still leaning towards the demon.”
 “Shamblers seem to be resistant to pain, and can only be killed with beheading or a direct shot to the skull. So our demon can’t play with her opponent based on that sort of immunity.”
 “Y’know, you have a fair point. Perhaps I’m being unfair. But y’know, I think the real decider here is whether or not the zombie bite is going to work in his favour. This demon is flesh and blood, So, if she can get turned by the zombie, that’s a T.K.O., that’s out. I guess we’ll just have to find out. Oh, and here come our competitors now!”
On the left side, near the trees, two stage hands were walking a zombie towards the gate. He had green saggy skin and a metal bucket on his head, as well as a wire lasso, much like a dog-catcher would use, tied his neck which they were using to lead him into the churchyard. As they closed the gate behind them, one of the stagehands approached and quickly removed the bucket. The zombie immediately snarled and dove for him, but the stagehand sprinted and the one holding the lasso pole held firm.
 “Ooh, he’s a vicious one! In this corner, we have Donald Vanderbilt, says he used to be a shop assistant, but was bitten and infected over ten years ago. Died at the age of thirty-three, and since then has managed to infect seventeen more people. So watch out, we’ve got a biter.”
On the other side of the field, three stagehands entered with a book, and a small tray. One used a medical bag filled with donated blood to draw a symbol, while another chanted from a book. The third arranged and lit candles as well as several bones, herbs and other small items. The chanting stagehand cried out and the candles seemed to explode with flame and became a firewhirl. In the centre, a red-skinned woman with horns and a spear-tipped tail appeared, with yellow eyes, black hair and nails, and cloaked in what looked like a black and charred bikini.
 “And, showing that she knows how to make an entrance, in this corner, we have . . . uh, Rkk’lugh O’ash’sh kss-Ra? But, she also goes by the name ‘Carver’. Hellspawn of the Fifth Circle for eighty-six years, Sla’ankin underling and a practitioner of infernal arts. I don’t think I understood half of that, and I wrote it. But okay . . .” I stand up and scream “It’s Creep versus Corpse, who will win? Let’s get ready to RUMBLE! Three . . . two . . . one, FIGHT!”

The zombie began shuffling forwards, and Carver chuckled.
 “What folly is this?” she said, looking at the commentators. Then, shaking her head, she strolled along the path towards the zombie. “Alright, let’s bring this to an end . . .”
Carver moved within five metres of the zombie, then stopped. The zombie kept shuffling forwards, and after three seconds it was one metre closer.
 “This is a farce,” said Carver, she took one step back and raised a clawed hand. Her eyes flashed orange as fire ignited from her nails and spread into her palm. Then she punched forward, and a stream of fire burst forth from her hand, and hit the zombie’s feet. She motioned her hand up and down, covering the zombie with flames and smoke. It screamed hoarsely as the flames hit its face. Then Carver dropped her hand and shrugged, looking away from the black smoke.
 “Does this make me champion?” she asked.
Suddenly, a burning zombie leapt out of the smoke and, still smouldering, grabbed her right wrist with both hands, and dug its teeth into her fingers. The demon screamed in pain, her inhuman voice shredding eardrums, a sound like angry nails on a chalkboard.
Swiftly, she punched the zombie in the face and threw him off her, sending him flying into the fence.
 “You festering MAGGOT!” she shrieked, looking at her hand. Rich, red and black blood spilled from her knuckles, “What have you done to me?! Corrupted blood . . .”
Her hand seemed to twitch and rot as she looked at it. Carver frowned angrily as she held her infected hand in front of her face and grabbed her own wrist with her other hand. She took three deep breaths, then clenching her teeth she twisted sharply, crack! The bone snapped. Then, digging her claws into the flesh, the demon ripped the loose, rotten hand off of her arm and dropped it in the dirt beside her. Tears of blood fell from her eyes as she looked at the bleeding, rendered stump of her wrist, then looked through the smoke at the smoking zombie, staggering to its feet. She leapt over the fire and marched towards the shambling corpse.
“Come on, try it one more time!” she roared. “Show me those teeth, I want to see your HUNGER!”
As she came within three metres, the zombie lashed again, but this time, she was ready, she stepped back, and kicked high at the side of his head. A bone cracked, and the zombie fell onto the ground once more. Then, seething with rage, the demon took two steps towards its face, raised a leg high, and slammed it into the zombies head. The decayed head split like a meat watermelon, the zombie’s body  twitched a few times before falling still.

A bell sounded, and I came running forward.
  "Ladies and gentlemen, we have tonight's champion," I cry as I step around the rotting hand and over to the dead zombie. "That was a lot closer than I was expecting. My stomach dropped when he bit your hand there, Carver, but you pulled through in the end. I mean . . . ripping off your own hand? Wow. How does it feel to have won tonight?"
  "That was revolting," said Carver. "But I am proven victorious. What can you offer me for my hand?"
  "If you need medical help, there's an ambulance on standby. And before your next fight, I'm sure the stagehands can patch you up, and we'll need to check the rulebook about finding you a prosthetic or something so you're not handicapped next fight."
Carver started to look a little woozy as more blood spilled from her wrist.
  "Okay, let's double-time that ambulance, guys!" I say, stepping away. "She's been a real trooper this evening, ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the Demon!"
Everyone applauds, but the clapping is drowned out by the sound of the ambulance as it crashes through the gate.
  "Come back tomorrow for Round Three! It's going to be a good one, trust me!"

Monster Bash, Tier 1: Werewolf vs. Ghost

Good evening, sports fans, and welcome to the inaugural Monster Bash!
For the longest time, for Halloween, Mankind has celebrated those twisted creatures of sinister might and dark magic for the fear they can incite. But, I don’t think it’s enough to include an entire barrage of beasts every single time we want to celebrate one day. After all, how can we decide which of these nightmarish freaks is truly Monster Supreme?
Well, pure and simple, why not drop them in an arena and see who is left alive? Well, standing at least . . . or floating. Whatever, we want to know which one can outlast the others in a standoff.
So, for this Halloween Countdown, we’re doing to throw down in the ring, and see which of eight classic monsters will defeat the rest, and be 2015’s Monster Supreme. I’ve selected eight monsters to play within an elimination contest bracket, paired them up randomly and we’ll see who wins.
So, without further ado, let’s go to the arena!

- - -

  “Thank you, Matt,” I say to myself, as I am somehow now standing in the middle of a twilit graveyard and wearing a tuxedo and heavy set of headphones while holding a microphone. “I’m standing here, in the Horton-Meier Churchyard, a scene which has been graciously provided to us for this year’s Monster Bash. Just a small property, but it has a lot of character and useful sites for these fights.”
I start walking to the far side, where there is a table set up with two secondary characters and a pretty young woman wearing a glitzy formal dress. Her skin was brown, and her curly hair draped around her shoulders.
 “This year, I’m joined by Jayalaw, who will be helping us to comment on tonight’s entertainment. How do you feel about tonight’s fight?”
“I think that there’s more to the contestants than meets the eye,” the woman said. “For some reason people don’t like werewolves, but most of the time they are normal human beings. We’ll have to see if the were-part of the wolf will be able to apply human smarts.”
 “Indeed, especially up against a ghost. You can give a geist a good whack, but if you want to take them down, you’ve got to find that haunt, or exorcise them somehow. So, the werewolf will have staying power, but that won’t count for anything if he doesn’t fight smart this evening.”
“The ghost also shouldn’t take things for granted. They may be dead with an immortal soul, but souls are only human, and humans make mistakes. Both contestants need to be on their toes his evening.”
 “So you think the human factor will be the deciding factor in this fight?”
“Oh definitely. There aren’t many monster stories where the monster uses his brains to get out of a bad situation. But to be honest I don’t watch many reality shows, so I don’t know how to predict winners. I merely plan to observe, to see who avoids wiping out.”
 “Well, someone will have to wipe out tonight, I’m afraid. Oh, and they’re bringing in the contestants now . . .” I say. Off to the left side of the churchyard, near a copse of trees, the gates were opened by two stagehands and a large truck backed into the yard and the helpers opened the doors. A man wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, with salt-pepper hair and a five-o’clock shadow jumped down out of the truck. On both of his wrists, heavy chains were tied.
 “In this corner, tonight we’ll be seeing Gareth Donahue, a thirty-four-year old car mechanic from Darwin, who also happens to be a ravenous werewolf,” I say. On the other side of the field the gates are opened and two stage hands step in carrying what looks like a jar with a candle inside.
They place it on the ground and open the lid, and instantly the glass shatters, and a small girl flickers into existence, a woman wearing a business suit that looked rumpled and wet, and her dark hair was hanging around her face. Her whole body seemed to flicker slightly and glow a sickly shade of blue.
 “And in this corner, he’ll be facing off against Sasaki Tsukiyami, a Brisbane girl migrant from Japan who was murdered by a jilted lover at the age of just twenty, and returned as a vengeful spirit . . . whose possessions have been donated to us by the Tsukiyami family for the sake of this evening’s entertainment.” I stand up and scream. “It’s Hound versus Haunt, who will win?  Let’s get ready to RUMBLE! Three . . . two . . . one, FIGHT!”

Gareth begins by jogging across the graveyard towards the ghost. She watched, creepily, tilting her head awkwardly, her black hair hung over her face so that only one of her eyes could be seen. As he came within three metres, she suddenly shrieked.
 “Don’t you dare . . .” Sasaki hissed.
 “What, are you scared?!” said Gareth with a smirk. “Or are you just trying to scare me?”
He swung a right hook at her head, but his fist passed right through. He just sighed.
“I should have figured as much . . . so does this mea-”
The ghost shoved him with both hands, and Gareth went flying backwards. Head over heels, he landed awkwardly on his shoulder and rolled backwards, landing on his front.
 “You can’t hurt me . . .” Sasaki hissed, as she lifted off the ground and floated towards him. He didn’t move at first, and it seemed like maybe he’d been knocked out, but after four seconds, he suddenly pushed himself up and shook himself off.
 “I’m starting to really hate you,” said Gareth, his voice deep, almost hoarse, “I’m gonna have to lose it . . . faster than I expected.”
There was a sickly cracking sound as his bones began shifting and growing. There was a swift ripping as his muscles expanded through his shirt and became covered with wiry, brown fur. His face became elongated, his teeth grew. As he transformed, he got to his feet in time for claws to shred through his shoes. The werewolf snarled and as the clothing fell from him and the last of his form snapped into place, he took a step forward and roared.
The force of the sound made the ghost’s clothing and hair move as though in a sudden, strong gust of wind. The werewolf snarled and leapt, face-first with jaws open wide. He dove straight through the ghost, but as his enormous form flew through hers, her body dissipated like smoke.
The werewolf looked confused, as it sniffed around, pawing at the ground. Sasaki reappeared, looking a little dazed as it stumbled to its feet, but before the ghost could regain her composure, the werewolf ran forward and slammed a great claw through her, and into the ground. Breathing heavily, the wolf sniffed left and right. After another ten seconds, Sasaki reappeared, this time behind him. Before he could turn around she floated off the ground and grabbed him by the hair on his back. The werewolf barked sharply, as she drifted upwards, and pulled him off the ground. The werewolf twisted and swiped, grunting and snarling but couldn’t reach the fur on its back. The ghost drifted a good five storeys above the ground, and sideways so they were floating above the gravestones. Then, she dropped him. A headstone crumbled as he landed on top of it with his chest, and the werewolf made a high-pitched yelp.
It crawled away from the headstone, limping, and looked up at the ghost in the air, frothing at the mouth with rage. After a few deep breaths, the werewolf stood on its hind legs and pounced up. It leapt almost twice his height, claws outstretched, but it wasn’t high enough. It tried again, but couldn’t get any higher, and the ghost floated overhead, looking down at the wolf from above.
The werewolf let out a mournful howl, then seemed to tense and flex its muscles. The beast started to shrink, muscles shivering and bones snapping as he returned to a man-like form. But the transformation did not complete, rather than Gareth’s human form, he reduced to a wolf-man, with muscular arms and a wiry mane, but smaller and with more exposed skin.
 “Gotta fight smart . . .” growled Gareth, holding his bruised side as he wandered towards the path in front of the church. Gareth saw the shattered remains of the glass jar near the fence, he sniffed at the pieces before scraping it into a pile, scooping it with the dirt so he wouldn’t cut himself, then he looked up at the sky. “You’ll never win if you fly around up there!”
Sasaki flickered for a moment, then held out her arms, as though on an invisible crucifix and screamed as she began to plummet down towards the ground. Gareth scooped up the dirt and glass quickly into both hands, and as Sasaki landed on the ground, he threw it.
She shrieked in pain as her ghostly form dissipated again, like smoke.
 “Salt and iron,” said Gareth, smiling. “You can’t just slip through salt and iron, can you, bitch!”
Sniffing around, Gareth caught a scent and ran towards the church. It was only a small, wooden thing, barely twenty-five square metres. Inside, the lights were lit, and Gareth was looking around until something caught his eye. Sitting atop the lectern, and very much out of place, was a little, china doll. He approached it, but as he got half-way, Sasaki appeared behind him.
 “You can’t hide from me . . .” she warned. Not wasting a second, Gareth leapt towards the lectern, and grabbed the doll, landing awkwardly and rolling into the wall. But he managed to get to his feet.
 “Does this look familiar?” he said, breathing heavily.
 “No . . . wait, don’t!” shrieked Sasaki, as she recognized the doll.
With a cruel grin, Gareth held the doll above his head.
 “NOOO!” screamed Sasaki, but the doll’s head collided with the corner of the lectern, and shattered. Sasaki screamed an otherworldly scream and her form was encompassed by blinding light, then exploded into particles of smoke.

A bell sounded, and I stepped out from behind the commentators desk.
 “We have a winner!” I yelled, running towards the church. “That was way more exciting than I imagined . . . ghostly apparition has its benefits, but being linked to an inanimate object seems to be one killer weakness. Gareth, come out here!”
Gareth stumbled out the door, still holding his side, but smiling.
 “Gareth, you’ve survived round one. How do you feel?”
 “I feel like crap,” he said, breathing heavily. “But I’m glad I got rid of that shrieking banshee . . . that was fun, but it hurt like hell when she dropped me.”
 “Yeah, I think you’ve got a broken rib. We’re gonna get you patched up before your next match. But, ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the Werewolf!”
The other three commentators clap, and Gareth stumbles off towards the churchyard gate.
 “Alright, but that was just round one. To find out the Monster Supreme, you’ll need to stick around. Come back tomorrow for Round Two, where two more monsters will face off in our Monster Bash!”

Short of Breath, Long of Thought

Good evening, my faithful followers . . . don't worry, I'm not dead. Not yet, anyway.
I've disappeared for a while, for a hiatus, a holiday, a healing reprieve. Call it what you will, but I'm back.
And not without pomp or ceremony, because I always act a little pompous and ceremonious on a day like today. After all, today is my birthday.

Hip . . . hip . . . hurrah.

Y'know, that reminds me. During this month, in 1819 (and several months preceding), there was a series of riots in Germany by a collection of anti-Semitic Germans, who killed many Jewish citizens, and destroyed their property.
they were known as the Hep-Hep Riots, for the way the rioters called out "hep hep" to the German Jews they were rounding up and beating, the same way that a shepherd would call to round up sheep. Just something to think about.

Yes, we've come around once more to my birthday, and that means that we have to resurrect that old, dusty tradition. The Halloween Countdown:

A count of the days, counting down from thirteen,
From today, thirteen nights till we see Halloween.

Now, I must admit, it's been a while since I've written anything for the blog. I do sincerely apologize, I didn't want to see you all suffer . . . not like that, anyway. But, don't think I've forgiven and forgotten you all! Rather, I was working on something special for the blog, for this very countdown. No, please, don't go getting your hopes up.
See, the reason I haven't written a blog post is because I was working up until this very second on it . . . and I'm still not done.

See, I came up with a twisted, little idea for the Countdown. Because it's Thirteen blog posts, I thought I could write a little story with 13 chapters. Sounds fun, right?
Well, yes . . . but, I bit off more than I could chew. So in the interests of completing in time, I've decided to spit out the gory, bloody chunk of meat I've been chewing on in the hopes of nibbling on some lighter Halloween Candy.
Don't fear! I still plan on writing that story, and I think I'll even give it to you all next year. I've written chapter one, and it is delectably morbid fare. I won't give you any spoilers, since I will share it with you next year, all I will say is this:
"the scariest moment is when you come to terms with reality."

But, this year, we'll try to make this a little easier. After all, I haven't been feeling well lately . . . so please, pity, the poor, simpering madman.
For that reason, the Word of the Day is: 'ANXIETY'

Anxiety /ang'zuyǝtee/ n. 1. Tension or unease of mind caused by fear of danger or misfortune. 2. Concerned desire; eagerness. 3. Psychology A state of fear and tension found in some disorders of the mind.

See, I have been feeling a little nervous, lately. A little anxious. It's hard to shake that oppressive cycle of self-destructive worry. But, I've been learning. It's weird, though. See, anxiety is a bad thing, definitely, for me it is one of the most unsettling and disruptive forces in my waking life (and my Beloved has forewarned me that sufferers can even have 'anxiety dreams').
But, anxiety is not really a "bad" thing. Just like fire, blood and knives, it's not the thing itself which is evil, but the things that we do with it.

For starters, anxiety is meant to protect us. You're walking through the forest, you hear a twig snap, a strange noise or see a shadow flicker past your vision, then your body reacts. You tense up, adrenaline floods your body, your breathing quickens and shortens, your eyes narrow, your brain goes into overdrive analyzing your senses and thoughts to try to quantify the danger.
Anxiety is meant to be your friend, your bodyguard and your protector.

By that same token, anxiety can also have a positive influence. I want to share something with you fine readers from two earlier blog posts. These are two different blog posts I wrote in 2013, but I will copy my own words here, because I want you to stay focussed here, not off reading those elsewhere. Here's what I said:

  "The thing is, relaxing isn't fun. I don't like to relax. Sleep is boring, sitting around is just stupid and not thinking is a slow torture. I don't like holidays and I don't like to relax."

- The Absurd Word Nerd, Pause for Thought, Sunday, 21 April 2013

  "See, I like a challenge, I like to make my mind-gears whir overtime, and overclock my cortex to a point where I feel like it doesn't fit in my skull. I like thinking BIG, so even when I tackle something potentially 'simple' I like to see if I can complicate it."

- The Absurd Word Nerd, The Writing on the Wall, Thursday, 30 May 2013

In retrospect, both of these are fuelled by a sense of anxiety. I don't like sleeping and relaxing, and I don't like being bored or boring. Now, this kind of anxiety is one of excitement, but that is, nonetheless, anxiety. Just as the definition says, some anxiety is concerned desire, or eagerness.
It's the same reason why people enjoy horror films. Adrenaline, fear and horror are not bad things. So, even though I am still working on my feelings of anxiety, I am confident that a little Halloween fun will do me good.

And, of course, since it's one of the scariest things I'm dealing with, it might just inspire a little fear in my readers. For now, I'm going to go eat some birthday cake. But until tomorrow, I'm the Absurd Word Nerd and I hope you enjoy this Countdown, and that you're all excited about Halloween!

First Things First

Sorry for the long gaps between posts. I'm just having trouble sleeping lately, but I don't want to talk about my anxiety all the time, that can get a bit heavy and depressing if that's all I'm talking about. So, what do I want to talk about instead? Well, a while ago I was doing research for stories, and I came across a trope regarding early incarnations of modern characters, and that idea struck a chord with me.
For example, there are a lot of vampires in the modern day fiction, but there are all kinds of variations, from Nosferatu to Edward Cullen, even to the Count of Sesame Street. So, what inspired all of these? You may think Dracula, but you'd be wrong. No, he wasn't the first. Vampires did exist in folklore, such as the Greek vrykolakas and the Romanian strigoi, as well as some German poetry about vampires. But the very first vampire character in fiction was actually Lord Ruthven, of the 1819 short story The Vampyre by John William Polidori; you can even read it online at Project Gutenberg if you want.
But isn't that fascinating? I think it's fascinating, these progenitors of fiction, predecessors that inspired modern characters; even though they are not as famous as their later incarnations these firsts iterations are both fascinating and inspiring.
The Word of the Day is: 'FIRST'

First /ferst/ adj. 1. Being before all others in time, order, rank, importance, etc. (used as the ordinal number of one); 1st. 2. Motor Vehicles Of or relating to the lowest gear ratio. 3. First hand, From the first or original source. ♦adv. 4. Before all others or anything else in time, order, rank, etc. 6. For the first time: She first met him at a party. 7. Rather than something else; sooner. 8. At the beginning. 9. First up, at the first attempt. ♦n. 10. Anyone or anything which is first in time, order, rank, quality, etc. 11. (pl.) The best quality of certain goods.

So, the following list is a list of firsts. However, I have to say, it can't be a comprehensive list. One of the things I discovered while doing my research is that stock characters are a nebulous concept.
For instance, what was the first vehicle? Some might say the "car", but is a vehicle a vehicle if it is man-powered? If so, does a bike count? What about a rickshaw? A pair of shoes? If not, what about a horse? Is a horse a vehicle? It's an animal, but if animals can't count, could a horse-drawn carriage count? If that counts, what about a sled? What about a rickshaw, or are we not counting human-drawn vehicles?
There will be different definitions based on each person's understanding of what defines a certain thing (in this instance "fictional character"), so I will try to list a few examples of "other firsts", and my reasoning for why they don't count, as well as my definition for that stock character.
So, with that disclaimer out of the way, this is . . .

The A.W.N.'s List of Stock Character Firsts

The First Mary Sue
What is a Mary Sue?
A fictional character whose accomplishments are unreasonably positive and successful, with very few flaws and is written as an author surrogate to live a more successful life vicariously through the character, but is not an author insert.

Honourable Mentions
First, I considered Dante Aligheri, from The Divine Comedy, since that's an early author surrogate, but the story is about Dante going to Hell, so I don't think that is unreasonably positive and successful. Also, since Dante is his real name, and the character doesn't do anything unrealistic, I think this is merely an author insert. So, after then, I considered Marco Polo. Although Marco is his real name, I figured that the character's exploits of travelling to outlandish places and surviving was wild enough that the character wasn't really him. But I felt uneasy about him having the same name, and the semi-fictional accounts of his exploits didn't feel like they painted the main character in a great light, so I also dismissed MP. However, in researching him, I found my true Mary Sue.

FIRST!
"Sir Jehan de Mandeville". Sir Jehan is a fictional English knight who travelled all over Africa. He served the Sultan of Egypt, fought the bedouins, was offered marriage into royalty (but denied, for he could not forsake his religion); he also travelled through Europe, including Russia and Ukraine, drank from the Well of Youth, served the Emperor of China & his story is totally true, you can trust me, because it was confirmed by the Pope as a true story.
However, this is a total lie. In truth, this is a French story, called The Travels of Sir John Mandeville, a fictional travelogue that was written before 1357 and the British Sir John Mandeville does not exist. The story is most likely written by a Frenchman, some suggest Jehan a la Barbe, others say Jean le Long, but either way, this character did not really exist, so he was not self-insert. While some facts are accurate, it is believed that these are accomplished by careful research of the writer (Jean de Long, one of the writers, was a monk who collected genuine travelogues, which would explain why he would need to live vicariously through his Mary Sue character), and the fact that the character meets royalty and serves them greatly, yet does not appear in history, exposes this story for the fiction that it is.
It just seems like some preening French fanboy idolized English knights, and wanted to go on an amazing adventure.

The First Murder Mystery Detective
What is a Murder Mystery Detective?
A fictional character who solves crimes for a living, often murders. They are suited to the job because of an extraordinary skill set that they possess, and for this reason they often find themselves encountering cases which are more difficult than the commonplace. They, along with the reader, investigate the clues and their job is finished when they uncover the answer to the mystery.

Honourable Mentions
Around the 1300s, China had its own version of the Mystery Genre, called Gong'an, which centred around fictionalized versions of historical judges and magistrates who deliberated over local crimes. Despite having some interesting characters, such as Judge Bao & Judge Di, these crimes are not mysteries, as the plot of the story is the telling of how the crime was committed, and ends with the judge using some manner of making the guilty party confess. Also, many involve supernatural elements, using magic to solve the crime and all of them contain very little investigating or detective skills, so they are dismissed outright. Next, I considered the works of Conan Doyle, and while quintessential, he was not progenitorial, as more came before him.
The first murder mystery in English history was The Notting Hill Tale by Charles Felix, which involved a complex mystery of poisoning, only discovered by the lawyer managing the deceased's estate, but the lawyer himself was not a detective and only solved the case after the fact by looking through his papers. So, for a long, long time, I thought the very first was "Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin", the main character from The Murders in the Rue Morgue by Edgar Allen Poe. But then, in doing some last-minute research, just now in fact, I discovered that there was a detective that came before him.

FIRST!
"Zadig". An ancient Babylonian philosopher, Zadig travels from Babylonia to Egypt and then back again, encountering woes, helping others and getting into trouble thanks to his trysts with women (femme fatale, anyone?). What is most odd about Zadig is that he comes from Zadig ou la Destinée by Voltaire in 1747, and it is written as a satire of the philosophical and political issues of his day. Yet, Zadig himself is like Genre Refugee, because although he partakes in drama, romance and tragedy, he has an uncanny ability to use his powers of "discernment", to determine truths based on keenly observed evidences. He dedicates himself to justice, firstly as a philosopher dedicated to uncovering truth and reality, then as a Babylonian minister (basically an arbiter of law) and then as a wayward traveller who seeks to help those which have suffered injustice.
Admittedly, he only uncovers one murderer within the novel (unless he arbitrates over a few as a minister), but only by using his skill to discover the lead witness - the queen - and not through direct analysis of clues. But by the nature of his discerning skills; his solving of several mysteries, riddles and troubles in the land including crime and murder & finally evidence that Zadig was the character that inspired Edgar Allen Poe to write Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin (as Poe himself admitted), leaves no doubt in my mind that Zadig is, in fact, the first murder mystery detective in fiction.
If you're curious, you can read it online if you want (Zadig begins on Page 47),

The First Slasher Killer
What is a Slasher Killer?
A fictional antagonist within a story with a monstrous look, either through costume, disfigurement or genetic anomaly. They kill three or more people and often cause fear either because they stalk their victims effortlessly, they terrorise their victims mercilessly or they kill their victims gruesomely. They tend to have an iconic weapon, yet most murder using a variety of methods.

Honourable Mentions
For a long time, I believed the first slasher was the killer from Black Christmas, a 1974 slasher film. However, despite the film being a horror with abundant murder, the killer in those films was not iconic, and while he was a serial killer, he was not a slasher. Also, just like with the Murder Mystery Detective, I thought I had found my man in The Terror, a hooded serial killer from a 1927 play (and 1928 movie, the first ever horror with recorded dialogue), but that wasn’t the first.
So, I looked earlier - much earlier - to find an iconic murderer, disfigured and in costume, and I actually came across Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus. Titus, the titular character of the play goes mad after his daughter is raped. He even cuts off his own hand, disfiguring himself, and he is a renowned Roman General and often portrayed wearing his Roman Helmet and decorations, so he is quite iconic and he kills six people through the course of the play (as well as condemning his two sons to execution. However, fourteen people die throughout the course of the play, and although he kills over 50%, most Shakespearean tragedies are bloody and Titus, despite his insanity and horrendous murder, he is not portrayed as fearsome, as he is not really a villain and not all portrayals include the iconic Roman General costume (and the disfigurement is just his hand), so fear is not a part of his character. So, while this kind of play inspired Grand Guignol theatre, which was the progenitor of Gorn which is a subtrope of the Slasher genre, the character himself is not the kind of scary monstrous killer I’m looking for.

FIRST!
"The Bat", I uncovered this character when I was researching superheroes. The character inspired Batman, but he is by no means a superhero as he is the villain, so I put him aside. However the Bat is a masked criminal who dresses up as a bat, commits crime and also terrorizes his victims and commits murder.
In this play from 1920, several people are staying in an old, mysterious mansion so they can look for a treasure stashed within. But as they do they are terrorized by The Bat, a legendary criminal who has committed robbery and murder in the past. At first he scares them with flickering lights, threatening notes, mysterious phone calls and glimpses of him through the windows, but when the occupants refuse to leave, and instead bring in more people to investigate, the Bat starts killing them off one by one. The play was a mystery and melodrama moreso than a wholehearted horror, but the villain’s use of fear, a frightening masked killer and several murders at the hand of the caped criminal makes The Bat the first Slasher Killer.
You can read or download the original play online in digitized pdf format [link may cause a download], or if you prefer a more visual medium, you can find the silent film on YouTube.


So, I was going to make a list of ten, but the research was taking too long (and I could only come up with 7 Stock Character definitions anyway), and it's been so long since you've heard from me. So, I'll continue this list in a later blog post (or two). For now I just hope that this inspires something creative in you, as it has in me.
Also, if you disagree with my definition, or you think you know of an earlier incarnation of one of these characters (or, just an early incarnation of any fictional character or trope), feel free to leave a comment.
Until Next Time, I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, and you read it here first.

Healing Diary: The Mindtrap

Anxiety is a cruel beast. Just as I think of depression like a black dog, I think of anxiety like a living organism. Not exactly like butterflies, but it's as good an analogy as any. And just like any other living thing, it feeds, it grows and it fights for its survival. Anxiety feeds on doubt and stress, it grows in severity and avoids any predator that would defeat it.

In fact, butterflies are a good analogy, because they start of as cute, little caterpillars. But caterpillars feed and feed and feed until they're strong enough to grow up. Unfortunately, when these caterpillars grow, they don't turn into butterflies. In my case, they metamorphose into panic attacks.

The Word of the Day is: 'PANIC'.

Panic /'panik/ n. 1. A sudden terror, with or without clear cause. ♦adj. 2. (of fear, terror, etc.) Suddenly destroying self-control and causing hasty, unreasoned action. ♦v.t. 3. To (cause to) feel panic.

I had a panic attack three days ago. It was a terrifying, confronting and painful experience; so, I am dealing with it in the same way that I deal with a lot of life's troubles. I want to write about it, because it was a terrible ordeal, but here I am the one that's in control. I am here to vivisect this monstrosity, in the hopes that as I pull it apart, it will die on the operating table.

So, what exactly is a panic attack? Well, essentially, it is what happens when your body triggers a fight-or-flight response, without any actual, physical danger. It may seem like a malfunction, but it is more accurate to call it a dysfunction. The flight-or-flight response isn't broken, so much as overly sensitive; your fear response is working perfectly well, but when you suffer from anxiety, your body is responding to stressors more severely.
A panic attack is what happens when those stressors (or your response TO those stressors) develops to the point where something harmless makes you react as though it is an imminent threat. In my case, it was something as simple as boredom, silence and loneliness . . . to me, it felt like I was dying. So, why would something so simple set off a panic attack? Well, because it wasn't that simple.

It started way earlier than that. Remember how I said that anxiety defends itself? Well, regular people with regular anxiety know how to handle it; you do things you enjoy, you talk to people, exercise, eat food that you like, laugh and smile and ignore such petty problems. But when you have chronic anxiety, the way that it defends itself is insidious. It starts by feeding on those little doubts you have, the ones that we all have. But the really sneaky part is that it continues by attacking your defenses. If you eat to feel good, it makes you feel sick about eating and worried about your weight. If you like watching movies or listening to music, it occupies your mind; it makes you lose focus and forget about the joy that it brings you.
Or, like in my case, it made me draw away from people, I hid away because I began to worry about what could go wrong on social occasions. Then, as those worries continued to fester, I entered a heightened state of anxiety. It meant that my body was often producing adrenaline, I would feel a tightness in my chest and I would feel exhausted because of the drain on my body from worrying all the time. This meant that I would feel tired, and go to sleep. Fatigue is a common symptom of anxiety, and if you are sleeping during the day and don't get out of bed, it becomes practically impossible to do any kind of stress relief. Worst of all, this stress took something away from me that matters the most . . . my ability to write. When you're stressed, your mind wants to think about that stress, it becomes a constant distraction and makes it hard to focus. When I lose focus, I can't write, and so that wore me down the most. It will probably be different for different sufferers of chronic anxiety, but for me, this was when the trap was set. Not a bear-trap or mousetrap, but a trap to set off a panic attack; a mindtrap.

Everything was already in place, the target was isolated, demoralized, tired, distracted, weakened and surrounded by attackers, of anxiety and stress, and without even my ability to write all of my weapons had been taken away from me. Even though I worked to fix my sleep and exercise, it was already too late. It just took a trigger, and that trigger was silence, boredom and loneliness. I was watching a video in the hopes that it would cheer me up, but I was losing interest in it and when I lost interest, my mind began to wander. It started a cascade effect, and I began to doubt everything. I doubted the reason for what I was doing, I doubted my ability to cope, I doubted whether or not I would get better, my ability to write and my ability to cope. Then I started doubting my own life, if I was going to have anxiety for the rest of my life; would it continue to take the things I care about away from me? Then I doubted the purpose of my life, and what good it was to live if I wasn't doing any of the things that mattered to me; and I doubted whether life even mattered at all.

I felt trapped, and when my anxiety closed around me, I freaked out. My response was flight at first, I ran, I jumped from my chair. Then it became one of fight. But because the attack was in my head, I couldn't see what I was fighting. I ran outside, I threw my shoe at the floor, I yelled out and screamed. To any mentally healthy person, it would seem that I was acting like a crazy person, and by some definitions I was. But if you saw the steps that lead me to that position, and the way I had been trapped by my own mind, it would seem perfectly logical to you, as it did to me too.
I think that's the most disturbing part about mental illness. It's not mind control, it's not possession; and although I personify and identify my anxiety like an animal, it isn't literally a thinking creature. It is the result of my mind reacting to stimuli in a way that it considers logical. Like I said, it's not a malfunction, it's a dysfunction, and if you were in my shoes, you would act the same way.

As a result of this panic attack, I was exhausted, tired, unable to focus. But thankfully, I had one key thought, which was "I need help". So, I asked for it. I grabbed my computer, and I looked for help with panic attacks. I knew that more than anything I wanted to talk to someone, and I learned that Lifeline is not just for crisis support and suicide prevention, but that they offer support for those suffering a panic attack.
I called them up, and a very nice lady on the phone talked to me, and helped me to calm down. She talked some sense into me, gave me some advice and guided me to a better mind-space. I thanked her and hung up the phone, but since then I was in a much more vulnerable state. If I was left alone for even a second, or I was left in silence, I would feel stressed and depressed, and it was very tiring. And I think, if there is a reason why anxiety produces panic attacks, that is it - it leaves you prone for another one, while also providing plenty more stress, doubt and fear to feed those little anxiety caterpillars.

I am feeling better. You'll notice I'm writing again, I've also calmed down and I am no longer on the verge of another attack, I feel pretty good. And the craziest part is, all I did was some of the simplest stress-relief there is.
After seeking professional help, I spoke to my girlfriend; I got a good night's sleep; I got some exercise and I meditated whenever I felt my breathing get sharp and shallow. It's simple, but effective stuff. And I guess that's the part about this that you need to remember, although it seems like a silly analogy, anxiety really is a lot like butterflies. It's not really that powerful, all things told, and it can't really hurt you. That's why it needs to be so insidious and set up little traps to catch you. But, if you do those simple little things, you won't let the butterflies in your stomach get the better of you.

Healing Diary: Why I'm Nervous about Driving

I get very anxious about driving my car. I used to be really confident, and if you read my post about getting my provisional license, I was ecstatic that I could drive on my own, I felt free, I described it as one of the greatest feelings in the world.
But now, when I drive, I feel this sense of dread. Not about crashing or anything, oddly enough, I know how to drive safely and I have airbags even if I crash. No, my concern is getting lost, running out of petrol and, basically, my car losing its abilities to get me home.
It's irrational, you don't have to tell me that, I know that. But there's precedence for it. There were three incidents in my life which have triggered this anxiety when it comes to driving. The Word of the Day is: 'LOST'

Lost /lost/ adj. 1. No longer possessed or kept: Lost friends. 2. No longer to be found: Lost articles. 3. Confused as to place, direction, etc. 4. (of time, etc.) wasted. 5. Not achieved or won: A lost prize. 6. Attended with defeat: A lost battle. 7. Destroyed or ruined. 8. Lost to, a. No longer belonging to. b. No longer open to: The opportunity was lost to him. c. Unfeeling to: To be lost to all sense of duty. ♦v. 9. Past tense of lose.

Incident 1: You Can't Trust Petrol Stations

The first time I drove my car on my own late at night, it was because my brother James had just finished work and discovered a flat battery. He called me, asked if I could come with jumper cables, I said no problem. As I'm driving, I see that I have about a quarter tank of petrol. I figure, no worries, I'll just get some fuel. There are two petrol stations on the way, but one's on the other side of a busy road, I figure I'll pull into the one on the way. So, I pull in, open the fuel panel, undo the cap and rest it on the back of the car, then I put the pump in and pull the trigger . . . nothing. I was confused, so I put the pump back and walk up to the storefront. All of the lights are on, but it's closed, dead empty.
I thought that was pretty stupid, but I figure I'll cut my losses. I get back in my car and drive off. As I execute a lane-change, I see in my rear view mirror that I've left my fuel panel open. So, I easily pull over the car by the road. There, I get out, walk around to close the panel and . . . the fuel cap is missing. Because of the disconnect of not having the fuel pump work, the whole ritual of refueling had stopped mid-session, I hadn't put the cap on or closed the panel. I left it on the boot of the car, but it's not there anymore, it must have come off as I drove. I'd driven about 100 metres at this point, so I run up the road, looking in drains and all along the gutter for my fuel cap, but I couldn't find it. I looked for a solid 20 minutes, since I didn't know what would happen if I drove without a cap, but after searching for ages, I again, decide to cut my losses and drive on.

My dad bought me a new petrol cap a day later, but ever since that experience, I've been wary of petrol stations. I mean, if it's closed, why are the lights on? Even the lights up the aisles, is it for the security camera?
It's very confusing to me, because unless I'd looked it up beforehand, how am I supposed to tell if it's open or closed? The closed sign wasn't on the door, the shop was just empty and the door wouldn't open. I didn't even know that petrol stations could close, sure after I put some thought into it I can understand why some might, but I hadn't consciously considered it until then; especially because they leave their lights on even when closed, it was very misleading. So, I was wary of petrol stations.

Incident 2: "You Can't Find Your Way Home"

Not long after that, I was still pretty confident with driving, but I had become wary of petrol stations, so I avoid them unless I have to use them, not only because I don't want to waste money buying fuel any old time if I can wait for a cheaper day, but also because this was before I was on Newstart Allowance, so every tank of fuel was a scoop out of my slowly depleting bank account, and I liked to wait for a moment when I could con my parents into driving and then refuelling my car.
I organized to watch a movie with a friend of mine, at Indooroopilly Shopping Centre, a mall nestled beside the Brisbane CBD.
I left the house with a quarter tank of fuel, and I figured that, if it took too long to get home, I'd just refuel on the way back. In fact, as I drove into the city, I saw two petrol stations on the road I'd have to take back, so I felt safe that I could use them. In fact, as I drove into the carpark, I saw a third petrol station just next to the shop, so I felt satisfied that I had plenty of opportunities to refuel.
  Three hours later . . . 
I've seen my friend, we had a fun time at the movies, we had lunch, now it's time to go home. The sun is setting as I get in the car, and I see that my fuel is still around the ⅛ mark. It's enough to get home, but I figure I should get a refill anyway, if I can. So, before I even leave, I check my directory to make sure I know where the petrol station is. I find it, it's all good, I just need to go around the block and there it is. So, I drive out. Unfortunately, Indooroopilly is a shopping centre, and this petrol station is right beside it, as is the entryway, so by the time I spot it, I'm past it. But I don't worry at first, I just figure I need to circle the block and I'll get it next time, right?
Well, no. There's no "circling the block" in the city, because for some reason, whoever designed the city had more of a "plinko" style of traffic flow, whereby even if you knock around left and right, the one-way streets still drain you in the same, general direction. So, despite looking for more left turns to escape, I find myself passing down several side streets with "no left turn" signs, By the time I finally do, I'm passing a school zone, and I have no idea where I am. but, before I can take another left turn and start heading back, I find another "no left turn" at a T-section, I have to head right again.
So, I join another river of traffic, and I just get carried along. I consider pulling over to the side of the road to check my map, but I wasn't very confident with my parallel parking, and the side of the road was lined with cars bumper to bumper, no spaces except for alleyways, crossings and corners. Now, I'm heading further into hills and suburbia at this point and I have no idea where I am, so I decide "I'll meander until I can pull over, then I'll find my way again."
So, I find a side-street away from main roads, drive in and pull over next to some school field somewhere. Okay, so at this point, the sun is well and truly down, it's night time. I look for this school on the map and find it quickly, then I find a path back. I abandon that petrol station, it would be too hard to get back, I just want to find the highway that heads home, because I know there are TWO petrol stations there, remember. I'll be fine. The petrol is still around that eighth, but I'm feeling uncomfortable about it, and no longer is it an option, I know I need petrol, I just need to get back to the main road. So, with my path figured out, I get in the car and drive. I've memorized. Drive straight down, right, left, right, right (or something like that) and I'll be on the road back to the main path.
So, I drive straight down . . . right, then wait for it, drive down this road . . . left, and there's my turn . . . no right turn. I get to the intersection and it's a one-way street, or so it seems, I can't pull over, I have to turn in. So, I follow the road left instead, starting to feel uncomfortable, but maybe I can turn around? So, I try to correct this little error, but i can't. The road heads for an intersection, and my only options are to cross the road or turn left again into a slip lane. So, I opt for the slip-lane, but that slip-lane leads me onto a main road in a suburb I don't recognize. I am swept along, swaying and dipping with the hills as we go, and I don't remember this many hills driving into the city, so I feel very uncomfortable. But then I get to a T-intersection. I don't have time to decide, I have to turn right, I'm in the right-turning lane, so I enter it, but I'm on some kind of escarpment overlooking a rolling suburbia, and I start to get upset.
No no no no, I tell my steering wheel, as we follow another winding road, and I can't pull over, because cars line this street too. So I follow the street, but I don't know where I'm going, I feel lost. And I start going up and down hills, shifting gears so that the engine can manage. And I start to panic as I go up one hill that's so steep I'm in first gear, and I imagine the gurgling fuel getting sucked dry like chocolate milkshake at the bottom of a parfait glass, getting slurped dry.

In fact, as I head uphill, the "low fuel" warning light comes on. I panic and pull over. I immediately turn off the car and the lights and I start to fret. As I catch my breath, I realize that it's just the tilt of the car because I'm on a hill at a forty degree angle or so. There's still fuel, it's just not near the indicator in the tank; but I still feel my heart racing anyway.
I have no idea where I am, I have no idea how much fuel I have, I have no idea where the next petrol station is, I have no idea how much fuel I'll need to get home and even if I use my directory to point me in the direction of a local petrol station - thanks to my previous encounter with a small-chain petrol station - I have no idea if it will even be open at this time of night.
But, I am determined not to panic. With a surge of nervous energy, I jump out of the car and run up the street. There's an intersection up there, and a street sign. I just need to find two street signs, and I will have identified my location. Then, knowing that, I can find my way back to the main road. As I run up the street, I also realize, one of the stations I passed on the way here was covered with lights and had a recognizable name. Those brands are always open 24/7, I can feel hope for the first time all evening. So, with sore legs, I get to the top of this hill, I find one sign, but the other one is further down the road. I jog across for twenty metres or so before I come to it, I write the name down in my notepad, then I head all the way back. I walk down the hill, in an effort to slow my heart rate down, but it doesn't work, I'm anxious, but kind of excited, I have my first clues.
I get to the car, quickly open the door, grab my directory and shut the door. I don't know how long it will take to map this out, so I don't want to use my car's interior lights, I use the flashlight on my phone to search the book.

When I found out where I was, I realized it was rather far from where I had come from (about two pages in an A5-sized street directory), but I saw that I was close to a main road that would lead me to a highway, and towards home, I just needed to follow a little route to get to the highway. So, I double-check to make sure that I won't get turned away from my route, I hop in the car and, with fingers metaphorically crossed, I start the car. Easy as pie, Gemini fires up and we head up the hill, I'm a little upset that I have to head all the way up in first, but I follow the path and soon I'm on the main road again.
But, I'm not on the main road for more than a minute when I see an opportunity. A big, green sign pointing off, it had a street name on it that I recognized. It was basically a sign saying "highway - this way! >>" I took the chance, I slipped right through, and shortly after that, I was back on the highway, baby!
I came to a set of lights, and stopped, and as I sat at the lights, I realized that my feet were shaking. As my foot sat on the clutch, and my other on the brake, my heels were bouncing nervously, I couldn't control it. I used the floor mat to steady my feet, so that it wouldn't disrupt my driving, but it was very distracting. In fact, when I saw the petrol station, I didn't even realize that I was in the wrong lane. I quickly changed lanes, and as I did, I heard a screech of tires!

I didn't crash, but I don't know what happened, I can't remember. At the time, I assumed that I didn't check that the lane was clear, properly, and that the person behind me had hit their brakes, but I didn't see any lights in my rear view mirror, or in the lane I'd just left, and I hadn't hit anything because there was no crash. I pulled into the petrol station, and I checked the car and looked over at the road, there were no dings or skidmarks or wrecks, and I figured that if I'd gotten into an accident, one of the three other people at the pumps would have told me, but they didn't even look up when I checked around. Perhaps the brakes were mine as I slowed down to turn up the drive, and I was so focussed on turning I hadn't realized how quickly I'd decelerated, but I honestly don't know, all I know is that it also set me on edge.
I had a $20 note, so I filled up my tank that much, and paid the person inside. I made sure that I'd re-capped and closed my fuel tank, then I headed off. But I was shaken up, and the whole way home, my heels were still shaking.

Incident 3: "You Can't Trust Your Car"

Throughout all of these occasions, there has always been one constant: my car. I love my car, I call it Gemini. I bought the car from my friend who is a car fanatic, just like his father, and they took great care of the car. It has a lot of power, a lot of torque and although its fuel economy isn't as slick as newer cars, it's a reliable car and hasn't let me down.
Well, that is to say, it usually doesn't let me down.

It's probably my fault. See, I had an appointment to get to - I can't remember what it was, but it was just a month ago or so - and I got in my car, turned the key in the ignition and . . . nothing. I was confused.
There wasn't revving, no spinning, no lights. All I could hear was the keys jingling in my hand when I turned it in the ignition. The battery was flat. I didn't believe it, it made no sense that the battery would just die for no reason, so I checked around the console, and when I turned the dial for the lights, I realized that I could turn it off. The lights had been left on.
I don't know whose fault it was. There's a very high possibility that it was me, and I choose to believe that, although there is doubt in my mind because the "P-plate" stickers weren't on the windows (which are always on after I drive my car home), and the doors were unlocked, and since I park my car in an open carport, I always lock my car doors.

But, the reason why doesn't matter, what matters is my battery was flat. Now, I was fine with that. It's happened before, once Dad was driving and broke the alternator, but the alternator failed in an open position and that depleted the battery. That wasn't what made me anxious. Rather, Sean wanted to go out one time, and I told him "I can't, my battery is flat".
He said that he'd come around and we'd give it a jump start, so he drove over and we hooked up the cars, and we charged the battery. It was very, very flat because it took the full ten minutes before the ignition could even catch a spark, there was a tense five minutes when every turn of the key gave a slow, sad, rolling whir from the engine. But eventually, it started, and we got ready to set off.

Now, I think I made two fatal mistakes now. Firstly, I relaxed. I don't think that I should have been tense and anxious, that's part of why I have a problem in the first place, by being tense all the time. But I probably should have been a little more cautious, because I just rolled back into my same routine.
I got in the car, turned the air conditioner on, turned on the radio, all of that. Admittedly, some of this was to make me feel more comfortable. I don't like sitting in silence, so I always listen to the radio when I'm alone in the car, but that might have been a little silly. But I didn't think it would matter. I knew that the battery would charge when I got on the highway, I just needed to get onto the highway, so the alternator could recharge that battery as I sped along.
I stopped on one street to turn the corner, but as I hit the brakes, the lights dimmed slightly. I thought it was a little odd, but I was fine when the car stopped, so I went down the hill and turned the corner.
My second mistake was, I didn't use that opportunity to stop and/or change my driving. Because of my experiences with being unable to find a petrol station, I used to drive in quite a high gear, since that uses less fuel. It's a bad habit, but because my car has a lot of torque, it wasn't usually a problem. I could get away with it, since my car had the guts to do it. But I wasn't concentrating, so when I turned onto the main road, I revved up through second and third and got to my comfortable fourth, then cruised up the street and saw the lights.

I changed down to second and third, then I applied the brakes. As I did, the lights began to dim again. I figured I needed to come to a stop and revv the engine a bit, but I was freaking out about running up the arse of Sean's car that had stopped in front of me. If I had the time, I would have realized that I could have held the clutch in, and given the accelerator a tap. Hell, I could have slammed on the accelerator as hard as I wanted, since with the clutch disengaged the car wouldn't have moved forward; and after giving the battery some juice, I could have pressed the brake to my heart's content.
Hell, in a pinch, I could have applied the handbrake and given the engine a roar, ignoring the foot-brake completely. I did none of these things, however, I pretty much held the brakes, and prayed for a miracle which didn't come . . . the lights turned off, the engine went cold.
All warmth dropped out of my body, as silence and darkness fell over me. I turned the key, but it didn't even turn. The ignition lights turned on, but it wasn't turning the starter, the battery was as good as dead.

Sean was right in front of me. I pressed the horn, but the horn didn't work. I tapped it three times, hearing the pitiful click of the plastic button tapping against a metal switch that was on a dead circuit. So, I opened my door and rapidly tapped on my roof and waved to get Sean's attention. He got out and asked if the car would start. I showed him, no, totally dead out. I pressed for my hazard lights, but they too couldn't turn on, the car was dead.
He said to open the bonnet, and wait for him to come back, he needed to move his car out of the intersection. So, he got in his car, and drove around. As he left, I knew my hazard lights weren't working, and although my hood was up (the international symbol for "this car is fucked"), cars were approaching from behind, and couldn't see it. So, I stood around the back of the car, waving cars to go either side. That's perhaps the worst part, I was in the centre lane, cars either side and I felt like I was surrounded by danger. No sane person wants to get hit by a car, I needed to get people to go around me, as I stood in the path of oncoming traffic, hoping that they would see me and my unlit car as we stood in the middle of a busy main road.
Some people asked why my hazards weren't on, so I just called out "dead battery", they seemed to get it. But I was panicking, I wasn't sure what to do. I checked my RACQ card and called the number, but my phone was out of credit and wouldn't connect. Sean had disappeared from view (since it was a main road, and he couldn't just park on it, he had to move his car out of the way and run back), and I didn't know what to do. It was the only number I could dial anyway, so I tried 000. The operator asked if I needed fire, ambulance or police. I explained my car was obstructing the intersection, and I needed help to move it. He paused for a moment and asked. "So, do you want me to transfer you to fire, ambulance or police?"
I thought for a second, and in a stomach-sinking moment of clarity realized that I wasn't on fire, I wasn't hurt and there wasn't any crime going on. I apologized, and said I didn't really need any of them. I hung up as Sean returned. He asked who I was calling, and I said I tried to call RACQ, feeling embarrassed, exposed, lost and completely incapable of helping myself.
He told me to get in the car and he'd push. I offered to push, but he insisted, just get in, go down the hill and pull over somewhere. So, I got in my cold, dead car and he pushed the car to the intersection. My window was wound down so I could hear him, and he told me to ignore the lights, just go. The path was clear, so I let go of the brake, he pushed, and I turned the corner. I had to force the wheel around, because my power steering was off, and then I began to roll down the hill. Sean jogged to keep up and told me to pull over where it was safe, then he ran back for his car. I pulled into the first side-street, by braking slightly, then peering out my windshield in the darkness, trying to see where the curb was, and I steered myself as close to the side of the road as was comfortable, and braked to a stop.

After starting my car up again, I didn't feel comfortable driving at all. Even when Sean offered to drive my car for me and get me to drive the car he'd brought, I couldn't do it. So, we drove my car back to my place, and I got in the passenger seat, and we went to his house.
We just kinda chatted for a while, and blew off the outing we were going to go to, but for some reason, I lost my cool. See, I tend to just go with the flow, I enjoy different experiences, if someone needs for me to stay on the couch or make my way home, that's fine. However, I didn't feel comfortable, and as the time slipped on, I wanted to go home. So, although he was tired, Sean drove me to the train station and I caught one of the last trains inbound to the city.
But, as I stood at the train station, I felt uncomfortable. It's a feeling that I now associate with anxiety, but at the time I thought it was a niggling edge of depression. I was basically stuck, wondering what the point if that night was. I wanted to go out, and all I had achieved was a broken car, and feeling cold, stuck at a train station, with no idea when the train would actually come.
Worst of all, I remembered what I used to do at train stations. I used to think about story stuff, and solidify ideas. I tried to do it, but I couldn't, I was cold and exhausted and alone in the dark.
I managed to distract myself by reading the graffiti scratched into the chairs and phone alcove, and wondering what kind of maintenance would be required on the soda vending machine which stood out in the open, noisily humming away, and wondering what kind of technology stabilized the refrigeration temperature. It was all dumb, boring stuff, but it was better than sitting quietly and waiting, because my mind would then start going in circles, trying to figure out how exactly I got from happy at home to stuck at a cold, empty train station in the dark with a dead car battery, no writing done, no job and feeling lost.

I also had some trouble getting home, because after the train arrived, it was the last train meaning it stopped at central, and they told me to get a taxi home, and then I had trouble paying because I didn't have enough money in my front account. But, I was glad for that, because it occupied my mind, and kept me from worrying. When I finally did get home, I felt tired, but I talked to my girlfriend about it, and managed to move on. But ever since then, I have felt very uncomfortable about driving my car, especially refuelling it or driving with less than a half-full tank.


In conclusion, I know that it's irrational, and after buying a battery charger and restoring my battery, I have driven my car, and on some occasions - especially driving somewhere I know - I have even felt that sense of freedom I used to feel whenever I drove. I do enjoy driving.
But if anyone says they need me to drive somewhere, I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and try to avoid it, because there is this sense of unease. Thankfully, this is something that I'm working on with my psychologist, identifying these feelings and working to resolve, appease or annihilate them, but I'm not over it yet. I hope this has helped you to understand a little better what it's like to be inside my struggling mind.

"The Do's and Don'ts of Prom Night Sex"

DISCLAIMER: A little while ago, my friend Sean and I were talking about journalism, how so often the news is nothing more than a biased writer/reporter expositing on their own agenda. To explain his point, Sean showed me an article called Do’s and Don’ts of Prom Night Sex. After reading it, I was a little annoyed, this wasn't a list of "Do and Don't", it was a list of "Don'ts and Do Nots", a thinly-veiled attempt to hide the writer's distaste for Prom Night Sex. If you read the article yourself, you can see what I mean. Now, don't get me wrong, I have no ill will towards the writer, Genevieve Suzuki. She makes it clear that this was an editorial mandate, and she clearly wasn't keen on this idea, and the fact that she managed to write anything at all is admirable, and I'm on her side, Prom Night Sex probably isn't a good idea.

However, she made a commitment she couldn't meet; she didn't follow the brief and she didn't provide the article requested of her. I complained to Sean and said "There are no 'Do's in this list", and he conceded that, since Prom Night Sex is a bad idea, there wouldn't be that many to choose from, but I said off-handedly: I could write a better article than that.
And after thinking about it, I not only decided that I could, but that I would. I am not a man to back down from a challenge, and since I would love to be a professional writer, this one tickled my fancy. So, I decided that I had given myself an editorial mandate: I would write a "Dos and Don'ts" advice column about Prom Night Sex, which doesn't covertly demonize those who do it. So, for those of you that would otherwise be wondering what the hell I'm doing writing about teenaged sex, consider it nothing more than stepping up to a challenge.

5 DOs and 5 DON'Ts of Prom Night Sex

Prom Night Sex, is it a good idea? Well, no. But hey, it happens. Hell, if your Mother is young and you were born around September, you could very well be the result of Prom Night Sex. So, I'm not here to judge, I do that in my free time. Rather, today, I'm here to offer you some advice about Promenade Coitus in a manner that is easy to remember, and will make this bad idea slightly less horrible.

DO:

1. Avoid Capture
As dangerous and exciting as it may seem to fuck under the tables at the prom reception, you're not a ninja, you'll probably get caught. Also, if you try to sneak into a closet during the photo sessions, someone is going to wonder where you are. Consider something before or after the prom, in a car, or a bed somewhere. Or, if you absolutely must do it during the ceremony, make sure you do it when everyone is mingling, with no structure or schedule, that way no one will miss you. Also, take note, a condom can make for an easier clean-up.

2. Consider Comfort
I mention using a car for two reasons. One, it's secluded (and if your fella/lady has a car, that's a bonus), but also, it has a backseat. While it's not the most dignified fuck-zone in the world, it's better than on the grass, in a closet, against a wall or on a stranger's couch. In fact, the best place is somewhere in a house where there are no supervisors (of the parental OR peer variety), since there are beds, blankets, couches, tables & showers. Also, you'd have free resources to hide any evidence afterwards.
But I'm still assuming that you won't have that kind of freedom, because not only is that rare, but otherwise there's not much advice I can offer.

3. Lower your Expectations
This is not going to be the best thing in the world. This may seem like a negative thing, but that's not what I'm saying at all. Either this is your first time, so one or both of you will be inexperienced, or it ISN'T, in which case it's just for the thrill of unlocking the "fucked on prom night" achievement. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying "it will definitely suck", but if you have low expectations, then you will either meet them, and be happy for trying, or you will surpass them, and be quite happy about your intercourse. Like with anything else, if you expect too much from an experience, then it becomes even harder for it to impress you.

4. Communicate
If you want to have sex on Prom Night, it's a good idea to tell your partner BEFORE Prom Night. There's nothing more melodramatic than getting slapped by a girl in a pretty dress, or turned down by a man in a suit, because you tried to suggest something fun. It also means that you can plan beforehand, together, and potentially even set things in motion so that you can have some privacy. Moreso, if you're both inexperienced, one way to counter that is to talk, and make sure that you're both prepared for what you want to do.

5. Have a Back-up Plan
You may have planned a beautiful evening, you'll take her to the top of the cliff, put out a blanket under the stars and let her screams of delight confuse the wildlife. Or maybe you planned on taking him back to your house, since your parents are on a weekend cruise, and you'll make passionate love in your room. Well, what if after putting out your blanket, it starts to rain? She doesn't want to be THAT kind of wet. Or what if you come home, turn on the lights, and your parents are home early, because they wanted to surprise you on prom night with a cake. So, make sure you have a fallback, consider any setbacks due to weather, family, car trouble, timing or accident, and try to plan accordingly.

DON'T:

1. Fuck in Public
Everything is a camera . . . EVERYTHING. If you go to someone's prom after-party and fuck on the couch, that is going straight online, as porn. Forever. Not to mention, there are some idiots out there. Fucking in public sometimes makes people think they're allowed to join in. Not only would that ruin the moment, but there are undoubtedly people at your school who you wouldn't want to risk that with.

2. Take Drugs Carelessly
Hey, you're having Prom Night Sex, so there's a good chance you do drugs. I'm not here to tell you to avoid drugs during your prom night sex, but rather, if you do, make sure you plan ahead. If you rock up to some party and someone offers you a toke, needle or pill you weren't expecting, either plan out your intercourse accordingly (planning for privacy, potential freakouts or munchies) then and there, or say no. In my opinion, if you want to do drugs, bring your own and make sure your partner knows. After all, if your sharing your genitals, surely you'd be expected to share your drugs, it's only fair.

3. Tell Everybody
I know, I know, this is half the fun of Prom Night sex, I get it. But the fact is, this is the kind of lowbrow gossip that can damage a reputation. If you absolutely must tell people, first of all, let your partner know; and secondly, make sure you only tell people you trust. Also, implicit in this is - Don't tell people beforehand. First of all, this could bring around Looky-loos, which is basically the same as fucking in public, you'll get unwanted attention. But also, it might turn your partner off the idea altogether, and everyone will see you as a lying braggard.

4. Have Unprotected Sex
The last thing anyone wants is a prom night, dumpster baby, back-alley abortion, or to go to college with morning sickness and/or child-related debt. Prom Night sex, generally, will be spur of the moment, so make sure you have protection, and/or quick and easy access to a morning after pill. Even if you think you can "pull out" fast enough, it's not worth risking the deposit on that dress.

5. Confuse It with Love
Sex is Sex, and Love is Love. Sure, people in love have sex, but don't go assuming that by having sex, that it means anything more than that. If you've already planned ahead, communicated & picked a good partner, sure, this MIGHT be a good moment for you both, as a couple. But if the person you're fucking isn't already your "significant other", it is stupid to assume that THIS is going to change that, and more than likely, you'll be seen as nothing more than a meat-based dildo, or free pussy.

In conclusion, there are a lot of things you can do to ruin your Prom Night. And I hope that this list has shown you that "having sex with a classmate" does not have to be one of them. Have fun, play safe and make it a night to remember.

Healing Diary: How to Panic

Ugh . . . I am writing this immediately after I finished writing the first blog post in this series, and I have to tell you, it was a harrowing ordeal. Not because of the doctor, the doctor was great, but the events leading up to it . . .
The Word of the Day is: 'APPOINTMENT'.

Appointment /ə'poyntmənt/ n. 1. An arrangement to meet a person or be at a place at a certain time. 2. The act of placing in a job or position. 3. The person who receives such a job or position. 4. The job or position to which such a person is appointed. 5. (pl.) A fixture or fitting. 6. Property Law Nomination to an interest in property under a deed or will.

Okay, two nights ago (at time of writing [i.e. the 22nd of June]), I realized that self-help and occasional calls to a support line weren't going to cut it. All my sources were advising me to see a G.P., and on the 20th of June, I booked an appointment online to see a doctor. I know this date is accurate because I have a text on my phone, sent to me on that date, asking to confirm my online appointment. I set that appointment for two days later, because I was terrified of the idea of having to suffer at home for too much longer, but I couldn't book it on the weekend. See, the opening hours were shorter on the weekends and my sleeping patterns were all over the shop, so I didn't think I could wake up early enough for even a midday appointment (it really was that bad).
Also, I already had a dentist's appointment booked that day. I didn't mention it in the last post, because it kinda slipped my mind (when I wrote that post, I'd just come from the dentist), but I figured, if I had a dentist appointment in the same place, I'd feel more confident leaving the house.
So, I booked online, and I could finally relax for a while . . . I was going to get help, it's a good feeling.

Now, fast forward, the time is 1:30pm, right after writing up the first blog post in this series. I go and eat some lunch, some leftover creamy tomato & tuna pasta; with some cheese on it, it's pretty tasty. Then, my phone alarm goes off, I have to leave in 5 minutes, I put my jacket on and grab my bag (with a book in it to read, while waiting in the waiting room), then I head out the door.
I time it perfectly. It's a gloomy day, but I feel good, because I'm doing what I set out to do. It's even a little sweaty in my leather jacket, but I don't give a fuck, because it's winter, and I'm allowed to wear my black leather jacket without looking like a spaz and I feel good.
I get to the door just as my 3-minute warning alarm goes off on my phone, which I set up so that, if I dawdled too much, it would be my "run, you're late" alarm. I delete the alarm, walk in and say to the receptionist:
  "I'm here for my 2:30 appointment."
She looks at her book, then looks at me.
  "I don't have one for you," she says. "Are you booked under 'John'?"
  "No . . ." I say, frowning. "No, it might be under 'Matt'."
  "One moment please," she says, as the phone rings. While she's on the phone, I grab my own phone to check if maybe they sent me a message or something to confirm the time, so I check my phone, and all I find is that text message, the one I mentioned in the earlier paragraph, to confirm my online appointment. The receptionist finishes on the phone and says. "Are you sure it was here? You might have booked for the dentist, and there's a G.P. at Sunnybank or Warrigal Square."
  "I've already had my dental appointment," I explain, feeling very sheepish. Then I show the phone to her and ask. "Do you do online appointments?"
  "No," she says.
  "Okay," I say. Immediately, I slip out of there and start heading along the road.

Where is it? It must be in Warrigal Square, I said to myself, but should I just head straight there? I don't know where it is, and that's a 40 minute walk from here, I'd be an hour late by the time I found it.
So, I made up my mind to go home, and drive to Warrigal Square. But, the lady said that there were a lot of doctors around the place, I didn't want to go to the wrong one again. I didn't want to leave the home, and get lost again.
With all this in mind, the plan was when I got home, I'd look up the website I'd used to book online, call them and make sure they hadn't cancelled my appointment, then I'd double-check the address, then I'd drive over there.

See, here's the fun part where I get to talk about some of the symptoms of my anxiety, because they're relevant to this story. One of them is having difficulty concentrating, because I get distracted with worry, with regret about the past or fear of the future, I lose focus of the present moment. The reason why I'd gone to the wrong address in the first place was because I wasn't paying enough attention when I booked it, so I saw the street and didn't concentrate on the rest.
(As a side-note, another symptom of anxiety is difficulty when it comes to uncertainty. Notice how I set two alarms for one appointment? It's because I was worried that, even if I adhered to the first alarm, there was a chance that I wouldn't move fast enough to get there on time, hence including a second alarm "just in case". But, as you can see, I was so worried about micromanaging the future, I completely missed that I was going to the wrong place. There's a difference between "preparing for the future" and "worrying about the future", I engaged in the latter.)
The third symptom of anxiety that I want to talk about today, is worry, but one of the differences between everyday worry and worrying as a symptom of anxiety disorder is severity; one way to identify worry as a symptom is if it has a cascading effect. Like dominoes knocking one another over, one worry will lead to another and another, almost like your mind is constructing a little narrative in your head to convince you that you're well and truly fucked . . .

As I walked home, for the full 20-minutes, as that hauntingly grey sky loomed overheard, I worried that I would miss my appointment; and if I missed that appointment, I may not be able to reschedule today (and may even get some kind of late fee, do doctors do that?); and if I couldn't reschedule today, then when could I? Tomorrow, or the next day?; and if I have to schedule for tomorrow, it means I would have to go another day without treatment. If so I could have another panic attack tonight, which means that I might stay up late trying to calm down and miss any appointments tomorrow, so I can't reschedule tomorrow, I'd need to book a few days later, so that I have time to get my sleeping schedule right; but if I have to postpone my next appointment for three days or so, then that means I'll have another week without help & my parents come back on Thursday and want me to pick them up from the Gold Coast! If I can't get help before then, then I can't pick them up, I can't drive if I'm still suffering from anxiety like this, because I'll be wound up tighter than a jack-in-the-box in that car, on my own, for two hours or so on the road! So, I'd have to let them down, and sit at home, suffering, waiting for someone to take me to the doctor.
I was literally on the verge of tears as I got home, I was a mess.

I know, if you're reading this, it might sound silly, but, that's because it is. I know that it's silly, that's one of the reasons anxiety is so stressful, because even if the possibility of that worry isn't real, the concern I feel - and the tension in my chest because of that concern - is real. And for me, if I worry about something and then realize that my concerns are unwarranted, I then get upset that I was worrying about something so stupid.
This is why, as I said in my last post, I think that anxiety is worse than depression. Not only can it have a cascading effect, but it can also have a cycling effect, worrying about worrying like a spinning top whizzing around in your head. So you can start worrying about one thing, and if you're unlucky, you can get thought in a cycle, and the longer it cycles around, the more likely it is to set off a cascade, like a set of dominoes, like I mentioned before. So it's like spinning tops and dominoes all colliding together and toppling over until you make a total mess of your toyroom, which is to say, your head.

Anyway, I got home, and I found the number for the doctor. I said my name and that I had missed my appointment, and the receptionist recognized me instantly, since she'd been wondering where their 2:30 appointment was. Thankfully, and perhaps obviously, she said I could reschedule, no problem. I said I could drive, and I'd be there in five minutes, but I asked her to give me a ten-minute window, because my heart was still beating really fast in my chest, and I could hear the upset in my own voice as I tried to explain why I'd missed my appointment. She was perfectly fine with that, she said she'd see me soon, and I hung up.
I used what time I had to go to the toilet and I even found our Medicare card and then I got in the car.

I am a little nervous about driving. I will get into why in a later blog post [since I tried to explain it here, but ended up writing five paragraphs. It's a long, episodic story, which I'll save for a later blog post]. But needless to say, when I'm nervous, I become even more nervous about driving because I'm nervous that my nervousness will make me nervous . . . and that makes me even more nervous (round and round goes the spinning top).
So, I attempted to calm down, planned my route and set off. I'm actually thankful that I passed through an active school zone, because I practically cruised in third gear half of the way, and the carpark was empty, and I'm quite proud of the fact that I claimed a space, then pulled out and lined up perfectly. But then, I went into the doctor.
My heart was beating like a thumping bongo of an enthusiastic Kongo. So, I filled out my form, and as I sat in the waiting room, my book was untouched. Instead, I practiced my mindful meditation. It's something I learned from E-couch, basically, you close your eyes and concentrate on your breathing and the different parts of your body in that moment. I did a quick, six-breath session, and although it didn't relax me fully it calmed me down enough that I could focus on the task at hand. Then the doctor called me in.

I didn't ask permission to reveal his name, so I'm going to call him Dr A.M., because that's anonymous enough for my purposes and because it sounds to me like the name of a kooky morning radio host. I told him what was going on with me, basically telling him what I said in my first blog post, with a few more specific details about the frequency and content of my anxieties and symptoms.
He listened to me explaining my symptoms and experiences and got me to fill out a form which basically confirmed my, and Dr A.M.'s, suspicions:
I am suffering from mild depression, as well as more serious anxiety and stress.
After talking to me about what I was comfortable with and what I could afford, Dr A.M. gave me a prescription for an anti-depressant, some sleeping tablets and said that he would set up a care plan whereby I could get up to ten sessions with a psychologist, to talk about what's going on as well as monitor my progress on the anti-depressant.

So, that's that. I have to admit, all things considered, I am a little sad that I'm on medication again, I didn't want to get back to this point, and now I'm very conflicted. I'm excited to be getting help, and I'm nervous about how my body will react to them. But at the same time, I'm not on medication yet [at time of writing], since I'm meant to take it in the morning (for the first few days), and the other medicine is to be taken only when necessary, to sleep.
And it makes me realize that, for the next few hours at least (or until tomorrow, if I have no trouble sleeping), I'm still technically the same way I was yesterday. So, I'm still just as vulnerable now as I was before. Of course, this is just my mind working against me, taunting me, probably trying to get the last few jabs in that it can before I start fighting back.
I know that things are moving up from here. And even though I have to ease my body into this new regime, and the doctor said it will probably be a week before the drug is working properly, in about two days I'll get a call about this care plan, and work on it from there.

In conclusion, the weirdest part about all of this is that (in a way) I'm actually kind of relieved that I had this little freakout before going to the doctor. One of the reasons so few people go to see the doctor about anxiety is because they think it's not serious. They may freak out, but either they know it's silly, or unrealistic or illogical; or, they are worrying about something worth worrying about, and think that panicking is a natural reaction, not worth "fixing", but that's not true.
So, although I hated it at the time, in retrospect I'm glad that I had a little tightness in my chest while I was there because it means that I'm not crazy. Well, I am crazy (I don't think that's derogatory, it's descriptive), but at least hypochondria isn't a symptom of my mental illness. Even while writing this, I feel perfectly fine, I'm writing, I'm glad to be writing again, so, it makes me feel a little confused that, without warning, I become a squonk, and feel dreadful.
If a tree falls in the forest, no matter how loud it is, that sound is meaningless unless they can hear it, and so I'm glad that someone else could see my anxiety and confirm "yes, that is a really big tree, we should do something about that".

I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, and I will keep you updated on my progress. But until next time I'll write about something other than my anxiety, I promise.