John Enter, the Writer -

[chimpburgers]

Something that hasn't really been talked about much here on these subforums is Enter's own writings. He's claimed in several of his videos that he's also a writer and that he's done a lot of work in the field. Here's an example of one of the stories he wrote when he was younger.

http://mrenter.deviantart.com/art/Little-Cassie-Chapter-1-449806526

It's literally about 16 parts of this and counting just to give you an idea of what his work is like. He also has a mature content filter on it.

He claims this is one of his darker stories that he's written. If anyone has more information about his work, feel free to give some input here.

 

[Simplicity111]

http://mrenter.deviantart.com/art/Mr-Enter-and-the-Old-Man-456411046

CLICHE. Yet his mindless fans continue to praise it.

 

[Piga Dgrifm]

http://mrenter.deviantart.com/art/Wartorn-Chapter-1-506989155

He claims that this MIGHT have some 'themes' in it some day...

Here's the first Little Cassie chapter, for those without a dA account:

My name is Robert Wright. I have an average life. I wake up, drive to work, work, drive home, and then prepare to do it all over again. I do this five days a week and recover from the grueling monotony in the remaining two. It deadens the soul, but that's how you live in this modern world with its rules of regularity. You spend your first twenty years preparing to waste your next fifty, and then the world forgets about you. If you attempt to break away from this cycle the harness of reality shoves you back into your role like a product on a storefront shelf etched out of place. As far as I can tell, that's the way it's always been; that's the way it'll always be; and no one will ever have a problem with it.

My life may be mundane but I am content with it. I live it from day to day, and enjoy the moments of bliss as they come to pass. I find joy in the simplicities that surround me. Every so often I go to a restaurant, or see a movie, or find some other distraction that the city has to offer. Tonight I embrace the simple pleasure of sitting on my porch in the cool summer air, just gazing at the stars that have entranced me since I was young. Such black and white beauty shouldn't fit in this grey and urban world. Somehow it does and I couldn't be happier with such simplistic majesty.

I'm left alone with my thoughts. Very few cars break the silence; living out of the way of the world does have its benefits. The only sound I can hear above my solemn breaths are the symphony of crickets doing what they have done since time's inception and the buzzing of electrical wires above me. I close my eyes in peace.

They're thrown open when I hear a shatter, followed by an echo of muffled shouting. Why does this still surprise me? I look to my neighbors' house towards the direction of the row. It's the same thing every single night. They never stop. They never shut up, and it's starting to drive me crazy. Another shatter is heard through the air. I don't even blink. I sigh and go inside. I'm done with this.

My living room provides a safe barrier from the disturbances of urban life. I don't hear traffic passing by. I don't hear buzzing electricity. Most importantly I don't hear the shattering of glass, the breaking of plates, or the turmoil of my neighbors. They're annoying yes, but they're easy enough to ignore. It's none of my business and if they want to kill each other it'll only bring the silence faster.

Jesus Christ, why do I think things like that? I know I should call for help or do something, but I often resort to waiting. I wait for them to stop, for it to never happen again. I wait for someone else to get so fed up with this bullshit and call someone. No one does. The arguments and fights occur every single night, like clockwork. I began to think that they'd be out of things to fight over a few months ago, and the belief bordering on hope does crop up once in awhile.

I stare out my window towards their house. Their blinds are closed so I see nothing to accompany the soundtrack of bickering. It doesn't stop my imagination from playing guessing games. I don't know the context of anything so it runs wild with all of the vivid possibilities, and it gets really depressing really quickly.

I turn away when another thought pierces my mind. Why do I care? In all honesty, this is none of my business. I can't hear them from inside my house and neither parties are calling the police. The only harm seems to be done is to the solemn night and to the flatware that continues to break. I sit on my sofa and just close my eyes. I'm finally taken away from my thoughts of my neighbors and their continuous fights.

I wake up several hours later. My eyes rest on the clock under my television. Shit, is it nine already? My stomach is bothering me. Supper isn't sitting well. Ugh. Damn, it's Thursday. I need to take out the trash. I stumble around in my daze and walk out the front door. The fresh air stirs me from my stupor. It feels good. Then I noticed that it's still going on. They're still at it? Really?

I'm in no mood to put up with this. I pull my trash to the curb as quick as I can with my groaning stomach, trying to ignore the goddamn bickering. I don't succeed. I take the only other option. I abandon the trash can and head back inside. It's late, I'm not feeling well, I have to work tomorrow, and I'm just tired of this. I'll deal with it tomorrow. I'll deal with all of this tomorrow.

The front door is now locked. I wearily walk upstairs and crash onto my bed. A chill breeze blows through the open window, followed by the muffled shouts. I'm too tired to close it, and I'm too tired to care. I close my eyes and struggle to get to sleep. Sleep comes, eventually. One of the simplest joys in the world and it never fails to settle my mood.

The next day the record is back on track. The alarm clock pulls me out of my slumber. I eat my breakfast of toast, the only thing my sleepy self has the care or ability to make, and I notice the trash can still sitting in the drive way. I take care of it, take care of myself, and drive off to work. While I work, the thoughts and conflicts of last night become buried behind concerns of paperwork that needs to be filed, meetings I need to attend, and the weekend.

The solace doesn't last forever. A coffee break is disturbed by the echoes of the past. Lunch tastes sour with the flavorings of turmoil and conflict. I try to forget these tumors in my thoughts during what should be my reprieve to the grind of the day, but the more that I look away, the more that I ignore, the more flagrant they become. I try to convince myself that there's absolutely nothing I can do now to end the ongoing war, but my thoughts don't care. They keep belting me with the facts. This has been going on for far too long and someone will seriously end up hurt if no course of action is taken.

I feel Guilt. If someone ends up hurt, would it be my fault? My mind goes both ways, telling me both yes and no. If they decide to kill each other then it was their decision, not mine. If they decide to kill each other, I might have been able to stop them. I seriously need to make up my mind and call for help or forget this whole ordeal before I hear gunfire.

Traffic is annoying. I don't usually mind it. There's no reason for me to hurry home. I've got no pets or family to care for and I'm not that hungry. Today is different. It allows me to contemplate my thoughts, and it's something that I really don't want to do. I've heard the story a thousand times today and it's grown tiresome and boring. I click on the radio to the sounds of static and breathe a sigh of relief. It's something that plays to a different tune than the bombastic parade turning about my mind.

Sweet peace hums. It doesn't last long before its jarred loose. I've arrived at my drive way, and gaze upon something that I've been trying to ignore. A little girl sits on the porch of my neighbor's house, bearing the same rusty colored hair as the man that lives there. Perhaps she's the one that has been peddling guilt this whole time. That face that I refuse to look at surely gives the theory some substance. She's quite the peddler, if that truly is the case.

I pull into the garage, turn off the car, and just sit there in near darkness. I don't want to move. I don't want to think. I don't want to do anything, except freeze this moment in time. It's a peaceful moment, one which I haven't had in such a long time. It can't last forever though. I reluctantly open my car door. It bangs into the garage wall. I don't care. I get out and shut the door, then I breath in deeply.

I'm stalling. I guess it's one of the things I've always been good at. Whenever I get into a problem, I stall. If there's a meeting I haven't prepared for, I bullshit until its over. And if there's something I just don't want to deal with, I walk as slowly as possible out of the garage. Unfortunately my talents aren't very useful here. The slower that I walk the faster that my mind runs. It isn't fun. It isn't pleasant. I just want it to end.

My hand is on the doorknob to the driveway. I don't turn it. I wait a second, then I take a deep breath. The odor of rusty nails makes me cringe and this room is suddenly I place I no longer want to be. I thrust the door open and breath in the late summer air. It's a breath of relief to say the least and finally it's a moment I manage to enjoy despite its brevity, dashed by pressing matters.

I walk along the drive way, trying to avoid looking toward my neighbor's house. My eyes betray my command and I see the girl. I see her emerald eyes, stained red by the harshness of her reality. It's only a glimpse but it's all that I need. I turn my face towards her, almost out of sympathy and more brush strokes are painted in this canvas of tragedy. A scarlet slash cascades across her face.

Before I can look away in a stew of teary horror, she looks towards me and our eyes connect. An emergency flare is shot into the sky, and my mind is wrought with pleas of help, clamors of confusion. Those silent shouts are met with a void of nothingness. I do something that I will regret until the day that I die. I turn the other cheek and start heading indoors. A lesser me would use a facade of "it's not my problem, things will sort themselves out." The me that I am is not that weak, but the me that I am is not strong enough to make the horrors that I am far too aware of disappear from her life. It still doesn't stop me from feeling like a worthless excuse for a human being as I shut my front door behind me.

I feel queasy. I sit down on my sofa and stare at the wall. I know what I have to do, and I know that the strategy of laissez faire, which I have clung to for so long, will not break these shards of calamity apart. A minute later and my phone book is opened on the table, and I hold my cellphone in one hand. Time slinks along at a snail's pace as I dial one button after another.

Why am I so hesitant? This is the right thing to do. What am I so afraid of? Is a question I ask myself in deceit. I know what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid of relinquishing my status as an innocent bystander. I'm afraid of making the situation worse. Worst of all, I'm afraid of being ineffective despite all my best efforts.

The final number is pressed and I hold the cold phone to my head. It's ringing. Stress and relief form a torrent in my mind and the persistent ambivalence begins to cause my head and heart to ache. Another ring. Are they busy? If they are, what do I do? Is this a good thing.

"Hello, you've reached Child Protective Services. What is the situation?" a woman's voice clears the storm.

I take a deep breath and I begin to explain everything.

 

[Shokew]

That Old Man is one creepy fuck who Enter copied off of someone else...

 

[chimpburgers]

http://mrenter.deviantart.com/art/Wartorn-Chapter-1-506989155

He claims that this MIGHT have some 'themes' in it some day...

Here's the first Little Cassie chapter, for those without a dA account:

This is about as boring as all his Growing Around scripts. Jesus Christ. It's trying to be all serious but I just can't give a shit about any of the characters in this.

 

[Simplicity111]

This is one of the comments on "Mr Enter and the Old Man"... obviously this person has no taste.

 

[The Jumping Dwarf]

Scumbag Mr. Enter.

Complains about cartoons being too dark.

Includes child abuse in his writing.

 

[Piga Dgrifm]

That Old Man is one creepy fuck who Enter copied off of someone else...

Who'd he copy it from?

 

[Shokew]

Who'd he copy it from?

He reminds me of a character from Sym-Bionic Titan; other than that, not sure - but I know he's copied. I can just... Feel it.

 

[Steamboat_Bill]

@Piga Dgrifm: That first chapter of his novel kind of reminds me of a bad film noir. Like, something Dashiell Hammett would have written on a very off day.

 

[Piga Dgrifm]

Chapter 2

They can't deal with this shit until Monday. My mind flashes through shades of red and gray. I'm angry. I'm horrified. I'm distraught. I'm confused. Did I not state the case clearly enough? I look to the clock on the wall and catch time continuing to crawl. The phone is placed upon the coffee table, and I attempt to enjoy the silence for a moment. I desperately try to put all conflict out of my mind. Now I truly have done everything that I am capable of, and I know it. Unfortunately I don't agree that knowledge

I get up and walk to the window. The girl no longer sits on the porch. She must have gone back inside to what is probably some facsimile of hell's burning brimstone. I can't help but stare and take in every minuscule detail. I have come to know every chipped piece of paint, and the location of every single loose nail. I can't really explain it but gazing towards the madness makes me feel like I'm actually doing something useful, though I know that I'm not.

I can't stay here. Not now. Not like this. There's nothing I can do for the moment, and worrying about what if's aren't doing good things for my psyche. I exit my house and leave behind a conflicted mind of stress. I walk, so ignorant to the world around me that my eyes may as well be closed.

I haven't taken a walk such as this for the longest time. As I do so the benefits of an average life and all of its mundanity come to the forefront of my thoughts. I don't have to worry. If I did, maybe I wouldn't get hung up over this scenario. I'd be too concerned of my own failed relationships, my own demanding job, or my own haunting past instead of worrying about something that barely pertains to me and of which I can do next to nothing about.

I sit on a park bench and choose to concentrate on the sights around me rather than my own thoughts or emotions. The faint speckles of stars are beginning to appear in the near-violet sky. Some birds fly overhead, some peck and scavenge at the ground. People walk by. There's a bicycle or two among them. I begin to feel a ghostly chill through my body. The realization that summer is almost over takes its hold. The thought tastes bittersweet compared to the sour tang of the other flavors gracing the palette of my mind and I do manage to find some pleasantry within it.

The sun goes down and the mosquitoes come out. My hunger lets me know that its time to return home. So I walk and return to the world, and as I approach my house an all too familiar clatter fills my ears. I grit my teeth and return to the warmth and silence of my house. Here I do the usual tedium. I make my dinner. I eat it. Then I clean the remains. Its a clockwork little system that's been drained of anything but necessity.

The television can't teleport me away from my own thoughts. I try to mindlessly flip through channels. Black and white movies from God-knows-when flip to cartoons flip to reality shows flip to programs in a language that I can't even identify, let alone understand. Just because the noise is gone doesn't mean that I don't hear it. I hear every deafening insult, every piercing shout, and each one makes me cringe. I fill my mind with thoughts of better days but they soon join the taint of corruption that is the world around me.

Finally there is relief in the form of alarm. It's Friday and I remember a chance to forget all of this chaos, even if it is only for an hour or a few. I pull my windbreaker off of the coat rack and once again return outdoors. Each step I take becomes filled with more and more outrage. I clutch my keys tightly and grit my teeth as if I could shut it all down with the sheer force of mind. I could be dumb and deaf and my soul would still hear the very next noise to pierce the air.

A frightened scream falls into a crescendo of hushed whimpering. The keys fall onto the driveway. I stand distant from all actuality. After racing all day my mind finally tires out. There are no thoughts. There are no words. There are no actions. There is just now, a moment defined by pure emotions.
The moment comes to pass, as all do. Both moments placid and disturbed eventually die. The moments proceeding are filled with silence. Even the crickets seem to have stopped chirping in sheer revulsion. I don't hear my breaths. Perhaps they too have stopped in the mere awe of the moment. I know that my heart has stopped beating.

The shouting returns, pulling me forth from my daze. I don't know whether to be disgusted by the despicable piles of filth these people are or to be distraught at the innocents who are forced to suffer by their contemptible actions. Unsure, I choose to react with nothing. I'm lost, for thoughts, for feelings, for fears. I pick up my keys and do the only thing I know I can do for sure. I leave the premises.

The roads are lonely tonight. I'm left desolate with the passing street lights in the more suburban part of town. I feel broken. I want so desperately to forget all of this, even for just one solitary night. But I also want to remember this lost tragedy for every waking moment for the entirety of my life. These are the struggles that deserve to be known for an eternity, no matter how much it hurts, out of some sort of respect to those affected.

My knuckles turn white as I clutch the steering wheel. I fight back sheer disaffection as all time turns into a blur. This world with its horrid causality is almost too much for me to bear, and it's definitely too much for me to ignore.

My car comes to a halt at long last. I'm here at the home of a person I call friend. The driveway is packed with three cars, so I park on the street. I turn off the ignition, pocket my keys, and exit the vehicle. My face betrays no emotion. It feels as though something integral to my being had burst into flames earlier this night and all that remains are a few dim embers, which slowly become more and more distant.

"Hey Rob, how's it going? You feeling alright?" says a man standing on the porch. He takes his cigarette out of his mouth and blows a puff of smoke into the air.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I lie. "Hey can I bum one off of you?"

"Knew you'd eventually give in," he says, rolling his eyes as he passes me a cigarette. "Suppose you want a light too?"

"If you'd be so kind."

My worries mellow out in an aura of nicotine serenity. It feels satisfactory for the moment. I find myself in pure ecstasy, almost a roar of euphoria. I nearly crack a smile at the calmness that surrounds me. I experience something like nostalgia, a remembrance of days where the world was still a happy mystery. It's at times like this when I wish for my youthful naivety above all else, the one desire that will never come true.

I throw the cigarette onto the pavement of the driveway, crush it out and go inside. If all goes well tonight I'll be able to obliterate the thoughts and worries from the turning tornado that are my hopes and sentiments. It's a simple wish and a simple plan and if the world were perfect all would go according. The world is not perfect, though it doesn't stop me from hoping to see a glimmer of sun through the storm clouds even as their thunder clasps wildly through the air or its lightning blinds me in horribly intimate ways.

"Five card draw, deuces wild," says one of my friends. His name and face escapes me from the moment.

He deals around cards. I pick them up and stare through them, barely able to concentrate on the simplest of gambling strategies. Two of my friends burst out laughing and I join in. This silent joke is the funniest thing that I have heard all day. Once I manage to find the humor in the room the card game becomes autonomous. I win some money, I lose some money; tide and riptide now that the waters have finally calmed.

I am nearly transported away from the worries of the world, but an anchor of verity keeps me grounded. Shadows of doubt cloud the outsides of my mind and chains of fear hold my eyes in petrified patterns. I see it in hazy reflections of bourbon. I wear a Plasticine grin and laugh in broken chortles. It's all an act. I'm not sure if it's to hide my feelings from my friends or to hide them from myself, but if it's the latter case than I have most certainly failed in every regard.

The games of truth and deceit go on late into the night. Each hour drains by faster than the former, and each hour brings new stories of routine excitement. I have barely said anything all not beyond the standard call, raise, and fold but none of them truly seem to notice. I guess that's the glory of friendship. If there's a heavy demon on your shoulders that you just don't want to talk about they won't bother you to bring it into the light. I suppose that's why I have friends: the perfect people to waste time with, the perfect people to forget our innermost secrets around.

It's well after midnight before we run out of time to waste. Most of us are tired, beaten back by our escapism and diversions. I put on my jacket and leave the house with seldom a word. This isn't their problem so they don't even spare me a passing glance. As I drive the lonely road home the chaos and confusion come speeding back and crashing into my more subdued thoughts. I worry about everything.

I'm home at long last. Streaks of dawn break the sky as I roll into my garage. Exhaustion finally hits me. I practically crash on the drive way. The only thing lifting my sullen self is the aura of silence, a true surprise to say the least. I cast my eyes to the day-broken sky, and am greeted only by the sounds of morning songbirds. They perform a lullaby of sweet relief now that the storm has broken.

My eyes droop until a scream shutters them open. I examine my surroundings. The birds continue to sing and squirrels continue to run about their day-to-day routine. No one exits their home to learn of the tragedy that lives so very close to them. I need to sleep. I'm so worried that I'm beginning to hear things.

 

[Steamboat_Bill]

Does he have any moments of levity in this stuff?

He should try writing non-emotional stuff. Maybe a satire or a fantasy of some sort.

 

[KFC]

He wrote poems on the Speculara Blog, most of which being just bland shit that could only have been read at my Kindergarten graduation. He also posted a few other works, including some long ramblings.

Going back further, the Speculara (the main one) and the Galidar (i think that's the name) Wikis seem to have been intended for story writing, with Galidar being some fantasy-universe. Sadly, after trudging through old ween's vandalism, I found that all pages were blank. What a shame, we could have found some good shit.

 

[Teddy]

I read the first paragraph of the old man writing. Poorly written. I know freshmen in high school that write way better than him.

 

[FK 635]

http://mrenter.deviantart.com/art/Mr-Enter-and-the-Old-Man-456411046

CLICHE. Yet his mindless fans continue to praise it.

Not only is it cliche, but it's a 2deep4me dialogue about analyzing MLP episodes.

 

[Steamboat_Bill]

@YetAnotherLurker: You know, I don't think Roger Ebert put this much importance onto his work. He didn't think his reviews were going to change the world.

 

[Shokew]

I skimmed thru some of that hot shit, myself - I don't know about you guys, but I think what Entard doesn't get, or worse still, fails (even more worse, deliberately!) to get is that in order to be listened to - you need to be likable in order to be liked back by others you want to listen to you, period. Otherwise (I know this from experience!) don't ever expect anyone to listen to you. Especially if you're not talking to people who obsess over That. Damn. Pony. Show, for example.

 

[Anchuent Dictata]

He reminds me of a character from Sym-Bionic Titan; other than that, not sure - but I know he's copied. I can just... Feel it.

Which one?

The Old Man's easily the worst thing regarding his creative choices I am yet aware of. So I'm afraid to read this stuff now.

It can always get worse.

 

[Shokew]

Which one?

The Old Man's easily the worst thing regarding his creative choices I am yet aware of. So I'm afraid to read this stuff now.

It can always get worse.

Either Solomon or Modula - take your pick... Either way, yeah - it can always get worse.

 

[Gazelle_Bro]

Scumbag Mr. Enter.

Complains about cartoons being too dark.

Includes child abuse in his writing.

He doesn't have to care. His work isn't for the children.