Short Tempered Stereotype

What am I doing with my life? I questioned as the dishwasher was burning up my naked back.

My name is Chester and I have been a dwarf ‘entertainer’ for 6 years… it was supposed to be a stepping stone but like so many before me I’d been lured in by the easy money. The financial security came with a price however; dignity. How many more pies to the face would I have to endure? How much more forced laughter would I have to put on?

Stuck inside the darkness of the kitchen appliance a hatred burned deep inside me, hotter than the scalding water. The drunk customers were the worst, hence his current predicament.

What would I do when I was finally released from this watery prison? Kick their shins and waddle off in a temper!
Brilliant, that’ll show them.

But a sudden feeling of dread filled me. I pictured the scene it would create. What a stereotype that would be, something out of those stupid fucking films, I doubt they would ever think I was legitimately angry just part of the act.

Act. I had wanted to be an actor, but where would that lead a remake of Wizard of Oz or a part as an Oompa-Loompa. Even if I could find some serious gig as an actor, like that Game of Thrones prick I’ll just be known as “the serious dwarf actor”, actually no I would be “the second serious dwarf actor” part of an overall movement which would be broadcast by Fox News, CNN and fuck knows who else.
Screw that.

I was born just to be a jester.  A laughing stock to the Lords and Ladies all through history and for all eternity.

What was the point of living like this? Chester was too angry to go out without a bang. I remembered the hunting shotgun hanging on the wall as I was being swung around by the feet. Could climb up the cabinet, and blow them all away with that big fucking gun.

Big fuckin’ gun. A dwarf with a big fuckin’ gun…
Shit shit shit, it would look ridiculous. Another stereotype. I would kill them with laughter long before I had fired the shotgun. The world treated me as a laughing stock just because of my size.
“I am still human,” I would say to myself over and over during the tumultuous time in school.

“Make lemonade when the world gives you lemons, Chester” his mother would tell him.
So that’s what I did and highschool wasn’t as bad, I played along. They were still laughing, but laughing with me not at me.
The feeling of animosity and hatred were still present.

The world had done him a wrong. What did I owe anybody?
“People only respect power,” I thought to himself.

“I take this world and destroy it. I know I’m smart enough, I’ve been called a genius even!”

A dwarf a evil genius with a plan to take over the world. What the fuck, that sounds like a Mike Myers movie.

I’m a stereotype whatever I do. I take up professional poker I’ll be that “dwarf poker player”  or if I take up ball room dancing I’ll be the “dwarf dancer”. And people will fawn, ooo and ahhh, “Oh good for him, he’s really trying even though…”

Even though fucking what? I don’t know… I need to just-

Then it came to me, a beautiful idea. You know the feeling when you get that perfect thought unique, utterly yours, entertaining and growing as you add more and more to it.
They didn’t have to know that I was a dwarf. It wasn’t hiding who I was, it was the opposite it was a way to truly express myself.

It was writing. When had there been a comedy film about a dwarf writer? Never. It’s perfect. No stereotypes.
Chester Ross was going to show the world what he was truly capable of. I’d need a pen name first.

Beep. Beep. Beep. It looked like the eco-wash cycle was finished. The doors opened and I stepped out a new man, laughter greeted  me but I just continued walking, and walked straight out of the house.

I laughed as well, but not with them.

Hi guys, this story is actually very personal for me. It’s not strictly true but it comes from very similar experiences and a special place within me. I was born with achondroplasia dwarfism and have had to deal and live with the lifestyle that has come with it, if I didn’t have writing novels in my life I wouldn’t be able to express myself. To be completely honest I hated the world for a long period in my life. I was angry… really angry, I had been dealt a bad hand in this universal game of life, but writing novels and short stories allowed me to change this. Without you guys, and I mean YOU reading this and my other books I would still feel alone and I am eternally grateful for this.

And for the record, I have never been in a dishwasher (a washing machine is another story though!).

P.S. No offence to Peter Dinklage, he’s a bloody legend!


Thanks for everything guys!
Chester Ross


Shouting. Was it close? It was close, I could feel the breath hitting my face.

Didn’t understand it. Could hear ringing. Were my ear drums busted? No, it was Arabic. Fuck was I captured?
Tried to move my hands, cable tied.

I managed the strength to look up at my surroundings. I was trapped. Shit there was a camera, it the red LED light was piercing.

I looked behind me, Taliban flag. A hand slapped me my face back to facing the front. Fuck Fuck Fuck, I didn’t want to go like this.

We had all seen the videos when we were shipped over to this shit hole. Give us an idea of the consequences if we were captured, but it was more to build hatred.
I had tried to imagine what it would be like… Now I knew.

Only Arabic echoed around interrupted by a crying moan.
More like deep sobbing trying to be choked down in the distance. Risking another boot in the face I looked up to see a boy, can’t have been more than 10 years old. The AK-47 weighed his thin shoulders down, an oversized toy.

I too felt like crying. I choked back a sniff.

“Hold it together, Kant” someone said in the background.

Holy shit, did I just hear English?

Another voice stated “Shut up. Your time will come Colonel Richards…”

Richards, my CO. I was filled with joy that I wasn’t alone, but that was soon replaced with dread as I realised he in the same position.

The front of my collar choked me as the back of my shirt was yanked up, bringing me up to an upright kneel.

The full scene became apparent to me. There was Richards, strapped to a chair, his blood stained stubble twisted as he gave a toothy grin.

“We are in deep shit, Kant.”

I remember asking him when I was maggot, what being in deep shit was. He told me I better pray never to find out.
Should’ve prayed harder.

“Allah Akbar!” A synchronized chant called out.

A lone man talked to the camera in Arabic.
The ranting seemed to be over, a machete was produced.

Mom. Ah shit Mom, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
Would she see the video?

A hand ripped at my hair.
A whispering voice emitted from a hooded Taliban.
“Lower your head, it will be easier, american dog.”

“Don’t you do it Private, keep eye contact with me that an order.”

The arab swung around and hit the colonel with the butt of the machete in the mouth.

“Fucken’ Pigs” he murmured as he flexed his injured jaw.

“That’s it” the Head Taliban gestured to Richards “Him first”

They started lifting me.  An anger arose in me, those fucken amateurs.
“Fuck you. I’m first. YOU FUCKING PIGS, I’M FIRST.” I shouted.

The colonel let out a brief laugh and clapped his shoes together in a lonely applause rocking his rickety chair as we swapped positions.
“A commendable effort young Kant, but we can’t spend all day playing musical chairs. I am first. You can thank me in hell for your extra time on this miserable earth.”

“Are you ready to die Colonel Richards?”

“DIE!?” outburst Richards from the rear.
“I’ll never die,”  laughing with a tremendous roar, the seat buckling to and fro from his great mass.
A butt of a rifle collided into the side of his face, “Isn’t that right boy?” he shouted to the frightened kid.

“He’s your son isn’t he?” Richards said to his executioner. The Taliban turned to his son and murmured something in Arabic.

“I’ll be in your nightmares forever, kid”

“Shut up dog” the boy muttered in a meek voice.

“So the little sand nigger can talk english? I’m never going to die, you’ll wake up in a cold sweat to my screams for the rest of your life.”

“Be quiet!” the taliban raged as he smashed a end of a rifle into his forehead so hard it split the skin.

Richards just laughed, spluttering blood on the rug at his feet.

“Traumatized… just like me. You never forget the horrors you see, I’ll be glad for rest.” He relaxed his neck.

The machete fell down. He swung his head to the side, the blade clipped his ear.

“Ow fuck that tickled!” he shouted, “Okay, Okay get it over with” He lowered his head in defeat.

I tried to turn my head look away but a boot stamped on my head.

“SCUM” the taliban shouted as he swung again. This time he rose his to meet it.

At the impact of the blade a blend of the Colonel’s teeth and blood exploded as it sunk into the back of the mouth splitting the cheeks.

A silence smothered the room, with only a slow gurgling sound coming from Richards collapsed throat, laughing even in death?

The executioner groaned as he struggled to pull the machete out of the wound, his jaw tightened on to it.

Using both hands he wrenched the blade upwards, in a motion similar to opening a tin can swinging the skull backwards like a grotesque pez container. Richards was dead.

Cursing as he spat on the mutilated body.

I closed my eyes but couldn’t ignore the smell.

The man at the camera shouted in frustration and there was an overall

“You are lucky, your turn is tomorrow” The Head Taliban left me and tried to comfort his son.

He kept vomiting till he was dry gagging.
He would never forget what he saw and neither would I.


Canis Lupus

Mankind has been fascinated with the wolf since the dawn of civilisation. This is evident in cultural mythology such as the traditional children’s fable Little Red Riding Hood and the long told tales of horrifying werewolves. Perhaps this obsession stems from the wolf being an ancestor of the modern dog. Wolves share the characteristics of modern dogs with their keen sense of smell, strong jaws, and acute hearing. Another reason wolves are such a topic of interest to mankind is their similarities in social conventions and behaviour to us humans.

Wolves belong to packs much in the same way we belong to our families or a group of friends. These packs (usually in groups of 6 to 20) are organised into a dominance hierarchy with an Alpha pair acting as leaders of the packs (much like a father of a family) dominating over the Beta or second in command as well as the Omega the lowest standing member. Further similarities are shown in body language such as the tensing of muscles and baring of teeth conveying aggression for both wolves and humans. However without the use of language the wolves make up for the lack of communication with amazingly accurate sense of smell. This sense of smell can be used to receive messages from other wolves which excrete pheromones from glands in their tail. The tail can also be used as visual communication with the tail rising again for aggression and the tail being tucked between the hind legs to communicate submission. This communicative nature also allows the wolves to hunt as a pack intelligently which has unfortunately affected farmer’s livestock, as a result wolves have been intentionally exterminated from many countries.

Wolves have thrived all over the planet, including North America, Europe, and Asia. This is largely due to their adaptations to cold climates such as their thick coat consisting of an outer layer of bristles and a waterproof inner layer that conserves body heat. Their paws and pads also conserve heat against harsh winter conditions with their special blood vessels which allowed them to survive in central Europe and North America until they were hunted to extermination. Although their diet (in North America) is 97% undomesticated animals they were hunted for their coats and 25kg-40kg of edible meat.

Conservation efforts have been made to reintroduce the wolves back in those areas with the stigma against the infamous wolves having dissipated through re-education on the species. The wolf is often represented as man’s link to his primal origins in the animal kingdom, perhaps this is the symbolism that has made the werewolf such a long lasting myth. Reflecting on this it would be a shame for this beautiful animal to become nothing but a myth, but with these positive conservation efforts being made the future of the wolf is looking hopeful.

Fashion Misery Inc

Over the last decade the fashion industry has developed a controversial reputation and for good reason. This industry has placed impossible standards on our young people of today who can’t live up to the appearances of these so called ‘models’. They certainly are not role models for several key reasons. The current advancement of technology has developed highly advanced photo editing software such as Photoshop which fabricates images. Other factors include the impossible dieting that the models undertake as well as the completely unreachable goal of the genetic lottery which these super models have evidently won.


Firstly, every photo shoot you have seen of a beautiful woman or man has be ‘retouched’ in order to improve her features. These alterations include the slimming of the waist and belly, the inflation of the glutious maximus and of course the expansion of the bosom! these features are not impossible for the poor people who aspire to these models it is also physically impossible for any human body! This fantasy beauty is causing a rift to tear between fiction and reality creating a pitfall which many of this generation’s youth have fallen into. This coupled with the expensive and health risking dieting creates even more impossible standards.

Supermodels will go to almost impossible lengths to calculate the exact calories and the exact nutrition they receive. I am a plus sized mother of two and even though my love handles may stick out more then when I was twenty (if only we could turn back the clock! Am I right ladies?) , I still find myself beautiful without resorting to eating celery for two months. Furthermore these models have supremely more resources than your average female teenager who doesn’t possess a personal trainer and a a team of nutritionists either. It is absolutely ridiculous that I am expected to keep my belly flat when I have to feed two other people.  I can’t afford to buy blue ring octopus or whatever the newest food fad the fashion industry has invented! This links to the biggest act of cruelty and exclusion by the fashion industry which is the judgement on the impossible standards of your genetics.

Everyone on the planet will either be born beautiful or they won’t. The fashion industry has created an impossible standard for all of us ladies who weren’t born with the lips of Angelina Jolie or the breast of Scarlett Johanson! For the some there is the expensive option of plastic surgery but this is still a pale appearance to those who are lucky enough to be born with the right genetics. It isn’t fair that these ‘idols’ are paraded around in our faces like we are supposed to aspire to them. My daughter asked me last night why she doesn’t look like Miley Cyrus and I had to explain to her that mono-brows have run in our family since Great-Grandfather Clarence married his cousin Great-Grandmother Bernice.

Isn’t true beauty within? Outward appearances can be fraudulent and deceptive; with the use of Photoshop, excessive and expensive dieting and the impossible goal of changing your genetics. All of these are unreachable to the 99% of us, however simply changing your attitude and mindset is achievable. This is the message I wish to give to my one brow daughter and thousands of young people; you don’t need aesthetics to be a beautiful person.