Dave Grohl from Foo Fighters

 

My Name Is Starship Cobain

VERSE 1

My name is Starship Cobain and I’m from Washington State

The capitalist kiss of death is something I fucking hate

Lost my job at the Amazon warehouse, tossed out like trash

Now I live check-to-check by slaving away for Door Dash

I can deal with my pain with a roll of medical Mary-Jane

I’d smoke that shit regardless of what the lawmakers say

It’s as legal as whoring yourself out in the city of Las Vegas

Until the feds catch you with your pants down playing Sega

VERSE 2

My name is Starship Cobain and I’m from Port Orchard

They should really think about changing the name to Poor Tortured

Everybody’s got a truck and they all voted for Trump

They got the bumper stickers to prove it and the sense of a tree stump

Everybody’s transmission sounds like a smoker’s cough

If you turned it up to eleven and exploded their heads off

Not much to do here but sit in line at the Burger King

And order a hundred whoppers with a tank of onion rings

VERSE 3

My name is Starship Cobain, let’s all go to Seattle

And pray we don’t get caught up in a gangster gun battle

All I want out of this city is a show with Pop Evil

Fuck around in the mosh pit with some drunk ass people

I miss the days of Nirvana and that whole damn scene

A generation depressed when Kurt blew his head off clean

There were many imitators, but none of them could compare

To the gravelly voice that made your hair stand in the air

VERSE 4

My name is Starship Cobain, what does that even mean?

Hell if I know, it probably came to me in a dream

Or maybe it was chosen by my schizophrenic voices

Because from here on out, they’ll always make my choices

Impostor Syndrome

***IMPOSTOR SYNDROME VS. ARROGANCE***

Last year when Hollow Hills put together the Still Standing anti-bullying anthology, Aurora Styles wrote a blog entry joking about how that book should be known as “The Curse of the Self-Loathing Authors”, or something to that effect. It was true. There was something about writing that book that made the authors, myself included, feel unsatisfied, like they have Impostor Syndrome. While it’s nice to be humble throughout your writing journeys, you have to believe in yourself at least a little bit in order to get shit done.

I must confess that I’ve struggled with Impostor Syndrome since I began writing and editing Emilio & Marigold for this year’s Hollow Hills anthology. I held such a negative opinion of my own writing that I actually started having anxious thoughts about potentially being fired from Hollow Hills. Of course, it would take more than writing a mediocre story for that to happen, but anxiety is anxiety and it doesn’t give any quarter. I’m not looking for sympathy nor am I fishing for compliments. I’ve dealt with the beast of Impostor Syndrome before and I can deal with it again. Beside, the anxious thoughts about a potential firing went away after twenty-four hours. That’s it.

It seems as though I’ve spent a good while trying to find a balance between Impostor Syndrome (extreme self-doubt) and arrogance (unjustified self-esteem). The middle passage is somewhere out there. I’ve got to find it. Just like I’ve got to find the middle passage between Mary-Sue characters and those whose flaws make them the most hated characters in my story. If you throw a pin into a gigantic pool of water, that’s where the middle passage is. Some authors have found it, others have not and their writing suffers because of it. Oh, there goes my Impostor Syndrome again!

In case you’ve ever felt like you were alone in this, know that you’re not. I don’t want to say that Impostor Syndrome is a necessary part of the creative process, because it’s not. Sure, you need to recognize your own flaws as an author and work on strengthening them. Sure, you need to take criticism gracefully and use it to build a strong foundation. But when your Impostor Syndrome is all-consuming, it can have some detrimental effects. I’m not saying I have the cure for what ails you, because I don’t. All I know is that some days you’ll feel like you can take on the world and other days you’ll feel like dog shit. Can you do anything about this? Can you have more high days than low ones? Hmm…

Not to let my Impostor Syndrome kick in again, but I really didn’t plan this blog entry through very well. I’ve got one page worth of text and I’m guessing it’s about five hundred words long, which is a thousand less than a novel chapter or short story usually is. Don’t worry, I don’t have my compliment fishing rod and tackle box out and I’m not a gold medalist in the Oppression Olympics. I’m just working through some things right now, that’s all.

You know what would work great for my Impostor Syndrome? Being able to rest my head on someone’s lap while they stroke my hair. It sounds perverted on the surface and that’s probably why my short story Schizophrenic Playboy wasn’t a smash hit anywhere that I posted it. But you know what? It doesn’t have to be perverted. It can be completely platonic. Gender wouldn’t even matter to me. Just resting my head on someone’s lap would feel nice right about now. I’ve been watching a lot of Cuddle Sanctuary videos lately, so that might be where I’m getting this from.

Do any of you struggle with Impostor Syndrome? I bet I’ll get a shit ton of yeses to this question, but I figured I’d ask anyways. What are some of your coping techniques? Do you just push through the days and hope that you’ve got more good days than bad ones? I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

In between edits of Emilio & Marigold, I’ve been quietly writing new chapters of Beautiful Monster and the next one will be number twenty-three. In this chapter, Windham, Llewellyn, and Tarja are taking shelter in a cave on the beach and they’re trying to figure out a plan to reclaim the Xavier Village from the Shadow Asylum mercenaries and Atwood Queendom soldiers. Three warriors versus an entire army? How is that even possible?!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Rape me. Rape me, my friend. Rape me. Rape me again. I’m not the only one. Hate me. Do it and do it again. Waste me. Rape me, my friend. I’m not the only one. My favorite inside source. I’ll kiss your open sores. I appreciate your concern. You’re going to stink and burn.”

-Nirvana singing “Rape Me”-

***POST-SCRIPT***

I feel that Nirvana’s anti-rape song will become a rallying cry for Windham Xavier throughout Beautiful Monster’s final five chapters. I’m strangely okay with that. It’s certainly more appropriate than “I’ll Be Over You” by Toto, which is what I’ve proposed for the first draft. The first draft…Millennium for emo kids…(shivers). Goddamn Impostor Syndrome!

Silent Warrior, Chapter 10

Scott George could have stayed locked up in his own imagination for a thousand years and he would’ve been happy. Even in a fictional dream, holding Adrienne Simpson in his arms was a warm experience that made him tingle all over his body. But eventually the real world caught up to him and it was time once again to go to Perkins High School a.k.a. hell on earth. Not even fictional escapism could free him from his responsibilities. At eighteen years old, he wasn’t a kid anymore. This shit had to be done.

But instead of catching the school bus and surrounding himself with laughing troglodytes, Scott woke up just before dawn and walked the whole way in solitude. Instead of starving his already pencil-thin body even further, he grabbed two unheated Pop Tarts and nibbled on them gently like a hamster. And instead of looking like a homeless Power Ranger with a rat’s nest for hair, he combed his hair backwards and wore blue jeans and combat boots with his obligatory black shirt.

He toed the line between love and war with his new dress code and eating habits. If he wanted to make his dream a reality, he had to fight for what he wanted. “Heart Shaped Box” by Nirvana wasn’t exactly war music, but the MP3 soundtrack powered Scott through his early morning walk to school. Not one shitty human being bumped his shoulders or cursed him out the whole way. Either that was a good sign or the calm before the storm.

Scott had taken his last hamster bite of breakfast by the time the sun bloomed in the sky and he arrived at school. To his surprise, not one student locked eyes with him or even gave off a hint of a mocking smile. Still, he had a knot in his stomach that wouldn’t stop pounding. He had to swallow hard to keep his Pop Tarts in his stomach, but he finally trudged up the stone stairs and past the front door. So far, so good. A sigh of relief escaped his frosting-covered lips.

“Mr. George. Can I have a word with you in my office,” said Principal Williams, who stood at the entrance with her arms folded, probably expecting Scott this whole time.

“Uh…,” stammered Scott as he looked like a deer in the headlights. “Can it wait until after history class?”

“Are you really that eager to put up with Mr. Simpson for another day? You didn’t seem to mind bailing out on him yesterday when you crept out of detention. What makes you so happy to see him this time around?” Lingering students let out their “ooo’s” and Miss Williams barked at them to shut up and keep walking. She then motioned for Scott to join her in her office before shutting the door behind her and instructing him to have a seat.

Scott’s face was aimed low at his boot laces, studying the various patterns as some kind of excuse to avoid eye contact with yet another authority figure. “Listen, Miss Williams, if you’re going to punish me, do it already and spare me the lecture. I know what I did was wrong and the sooner I get this crap over with, the better.”

Miss Williams lifted Scott’s head with a singular finger underneath his chin and said, “There’s more to it than that, my friend. Skipping detention is a serious offense on its own, but I’m more interested in the whys than the whats. I know about your lack of love with Mr. Simpson. I know this because pretty much every student he has says the same thing about him: that he’s senselessly cruel and doesn’t care one way or another about their fates.”

As soon as the Principal removed her finger from Scott’s chin, he asked, “If he’s really that much of a pain in the ass, why don’t you just fire him already? I don’t think there’s a single person in this building who would miss his sorry ass.”

“Duly noted, Mr. George,” said Miss Williams as she folded her hands across her chest. “Trust me, I’d love nothing more than to tell him not to let the door hit him on the ass on his way out. But it’s not that easy. It never has been. Teachers and other authority figures can’t just get fired over disagreements with the students. In other words, you don’t have to be a friendly person in order to qualify for the job. It’s screwed up, but that’s the way things go sometimes.”

A frustrated Scott slapped his own thighs and said, “It’s beyond screwed up, Miss Williams. School is supposed to be a place where kids can grow and learn things. What are they supposed to learn from having a bad teacher? That’s not a rhetorical question. I’d actually like to know the answer to that. Sure, there are bosses out there who never get their comeuppance, but that’s the very thing we should be avoiding when we have the chance.”

“I’m sorry, Scott. It’s out of my hands. What happens to you from this point on is up to Mr. Simpson since he’s the one who assigned you to detention in the first place. If you stiff him again, I’ll have no choice but to expel you.”

Scott folded his arms and said, “That’s right, Miss Williams. Punish the victim. Punish the guy who’s been laughed at for his whole high school career. Punish the guy who has few opportunities to stand up for himself. Punish the guy who actually knows what justice is supposed to mean. I knew it. I have no fucking allies in this school. Nobody really does. That’s why they’re acting out the way they do.”

“There’s no joy in this for me, Scott,” said Miss Williams as she leaned forward in her chair. “Even with students who deserve punishment the most, there’s no happiness in dishing it out to them. I also know what justice is, but I’m also wise enough to know that justice doesn’t always get served. Whatever Mr. Simpson has planned for you as punishment for ditching him yesterday, you’d better follow through with it.”

“Got it,” said Scott while sarcastically nodding his head. “Any other dreams of mine you want to crush while you have me here?”

“No, not particularly. But in order to make one of them come true, you have to endure a little bit of the suck for just a few minutes.” When Scott formed a confused look on his face, the Principal explained, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but there’s a video of you being circulated on You Tube. It has thousands of hits already and the comments are cringe-worthy at best.”

Reality smashed Scott in the stomach with a sack of bricks. He bent over in his seat and fought like hell to suppress vomit. Principal Williams rushed to get a trash bucket underneath his face, but after moments of intense breathing and body pulsations, it turned out Scott didn’t need it. He leaned back in his chair with pinprick feelings in his face and chest. He swallowed more saliva and it tasted like warm, bitter tea. Tears barbecued his stinging eyes as he struggled even harder to keep himself together.

“You already know about it, don’t you, Scott,” said Principal Williams with a hand on her student’s shoulder. The two of them hugged it out while Scott’s fiery tears bathed the Principal’s suit jacket. “You don’t have to tell us any more about it. We know who filmed that video.”

Scott broke the embrace and shouted, “So what?! You said yourself justice doesn’t always get served! So what the fuck are you going to do to that bitch-ass Alan Young?! Does he get to slip through the cracks or do only teachers get preferential treatment?!”

“If you’d stop bawling for a moment and see for yourself, you’d have the answer!” Miss Williams retorted while pointing her finger towards her office window.

Scott’s waterworks were cut short as confusion took over. Miss Williams pointed again and again until he pulled himself together and humored her this one time. His eyes widened as he watched two police officers talking to Alan Young. He couldn’t tell what they were saying, but whatever it was, it couldn’t have been friendly. The two cops spun Alan around and slammed him against the wall while cuffing his thick wrists behind his back. Straggling students screamed in horror at what they were witnessing. Even Alan himself couldn’t help but shed a few tears as he was being hauled away.

“Invasion of privacy, cyber harassment, you name it, this kid has done it all in that one video,” said Miss Williams. “If the other kids can pay attention to a stupid video, then they’ll damn sure pay attention to Alan’s arrest. He needed to be made an example of, Scott. Sooner or later, Mr. Simpson will get his. I can’t tell you when or how, but the domino effect is already in place.”

For the first time in what seemed like ages, Scott’s tearful smile seemed genuine instead of looking like a psychotic killer. He spun around and embraced Principal Williams once more while thanking her over and over again in a high pitched squeal. Feeling awkward, the authority figure returned the hug ever so slowly and noncommittally. “You’re welcome, Scott,” she said. “Please let go of me and get back to your classes. I believe second period is about to begin anytime soon.”

"Preacher, Vol. 4" by Garth Ennis

BOOK TITLE: Preacher, Vol. 4: Ancient History

AUTHOR: Garth Ennis

YEAR: 1998

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: Horror

GRADE: Pass

Three tales of bloodshed, three glimpses into the pasts of the famous Preacher characters we know today. The Saint of Killers started off as a wild west bounty hunter with a heart so cold he brought snowy weather to Texas (that’s not a clever joke, that’s a fact). Arse-Face’s was a disenfranchised teenager constantly bullied at school and abused by his corrupt cop father. The Good Old Boys Jody and TC were swamp fighters who stumbled upon a gang of mercenaries trying to recover a blackmail tape from a cop and a smoking hot lawyer. Nobody is safe in these homicidal stories. What doesn’t kill them will leave a scar.

The level of violence in these stories is maximum tier, maybe even beyond that if it’s humanly possible. It’s more than just splattering blood across the scenery. It’s more than just broken bones and squishy organs. It’s psychological torture. It’s reliving those horrific scenes for the rest of your life (however long that may be). Maybe if you’re lucky, your brain will explode in this hurricane of violence and you can be spared from this maddening torture. But then there’s always the possibility of living with a sadistic devil or a corrupt god. In which case, the bloodshed and brutality will come full circle long before you’re ready to be reincarnated and have it happen to you all over again.

Unfortunately, this kind of horrific display is also applicable to innocent animals that’ve done nothing wrong. The animal cruelty in this graphic novel is easily the hardest to stomach while the violence to humans is at least sick and twisted fun. Whether it’s Gumbo McCready’s gang shooting horses, Pube shooting a yappy dog, or Jody beating the hell out of a confused gorilla with a baseball bat, your heart will sink so far down it’ll think it’s in the ninth circle of hell. While the animal deaths are a true representation of how screwed up life can be, it doesn’t make them easier to read about, much less physically see on the pages of a graphic novel. Thank goodness for the ASPCA, which I donate to every month.

Just as alarming is the way in which Arse-Face is treated throughout his story. He’s constantly beaten by his father, beaten by the students at school, and rejected pretty much everywhere else he goes, and this is all before his face became permanently disfigured. His only escape in life is through his punk rocker best friend Pube, who happened to be the one to shoot the yappy dog with a shotgun. Not much of an escape, huh? If I had to live that screwed up of a life in Texas, I too would want to find solace in even the most horrible people while smoking marijuana until the end of time. Disturbing as hell, yet the most poignant of the three stories, especially considering how Kurt Cobain’s suicide played a role in Pube and Arse-Face’s decision-making.

Preacher, Vol. 4 is equal parts heartbreak and violent fun. The delightfully vulgar dialogue sets it all up with perfection and can be another entertaining part of the graphic novel, even with Saddam Hopper and his inability to swear properly. Garth Ennis knocks it out of the park yet again with these Preacher graphic novels. He probably needs many years of therapy, but it’ll be worth it if he continues pumping out awesomely violent fiction like this. How does a passing grade sound to all of you?

Blood Candy

VERSE 1

Orgasmic flavor, better than Life Savers

Better than Reese’s chocolate-covered greases

Better than Snickers, blood candy for dinner

The delicacy of choice for the natural born sinner

Just one bite and you’ll be hooked forever

Violence and lust both blended together

A romantic marriage never felt so tender

Get ready for a motherfucking acid-trip bender

CHORUS

Blood candy! Yum, yum, yum! X4

VERSE 2

Swallow it down like a bottle of Coca-Cola

Let it wash over your nerves like ice cold lust

Imagine a world where you’re always relaxed

Never have to worry about being dead or taxed

This is called nirvana, this is called a trance

This is called a red hot fire-belly soul dance

Forget the bills, come and get your thrills

Forget the outside world and all that it kills

CHORUS

Blood candy! Yum, yum, yum! X4

HOOK

Halloween can’t come soon enough

Some like their lust a little bit rough

Munch on the candy, slap on the cuffs

Show them you’re bold and you’re hot stuff

VERSE 3

Your wildest dreams are rolling the credits

The cinematography will see no final edits

Wake up in the morning with the heaviest eyes

Come down from your Rocky Mountain highs

Your wettest dreams were nothing but lies

Blood is dripping between your aching thighs

Until next time, my friend with special benefits

Try to enjoy the daylight’s loving sentiments

EXTENDED CHORUS

Blood candy! Yum, yum, yum!

March to the beat of your own drum!

Blood candy! Tasty and sweet!

It’s what you want and what you need!

Round two is coming, you wait and see!

You can’t get enough, it’s a demon called greed!

The final round is kicking down your door!

You’re forever a slave, a blood candy whore!

Getting With the Times

***GETTING WITH THE TIMES***

As someone who openly admits to being a millennial who still plays with toys, being time conscious isn’t one of my strong suits. I don’t follow trends, I don’t care if an interest of mine is dated, I don’t care what’s considered cool by other people, and I’ll wear pretty much whatever I want as long as it’s comfortable. The times may have changed, but my core values have not.

It didn’t occur to me how behind in the times I was until I was editing a short story for American Darkness called “Not Gonna Die”. In this story, there’s a party going on in the main character’s dormitory and the music that’s blasting out of the speakers is “Brass Monkey” by The Beastie Boys. I know of that song, because I was born in 1985, which means I’m twelve years older than the college kids in this story. There aren’t many 18-year-olds who know who the Beastie Boys are, so in order to have realistic cool kids who keep up with the times, I chose rap music that was a little more modern in Tech N9ne. No complaints yet.

Having an old school state of mind is easy for me because nobody has challenged me on it and anybody who did was met with the same nonconformist argument I give everyone. I actually had my brother James tell me that, “Nobody listens to Disturbed anymore.” I do. I listen to them a lot. They may have been popular in the early 2000’s, but to my way of thinking, they’ve stood the test of time in the year 2015. Obviously, my older brother is very time conscious while I couldn’t give two shits what year it is.

When it comes to my writing career, however, it should stand to reason that I have a new school state of mind, because websites like Twitter and Face Book are the future of book marketing. I do have a Face Book account under my real name of Garrison Haines-Temons. I don’t, however, have a Twitter account anymore. There were three separate occasions where I’ve had a Twitter account, but realizing it was about as useful as an asshole on my bicep, I’ve walked away several times and I have no plans to go back.

I also don’t have a smart phone like pretty much everybody does. I have a generic cell phone and even though it has texting capabilities, I don’t take advantage of them. Sending off misspelled sentences with cheesy emoticons isn’t appealing to me since I have too much respect for the English language. As far as technology goes, the only “cool” things I have are my desktop computer, Roku streaming device, and a generic MP3 player from a company that went out of business apparently.

Getting with the times isn’t something that appeals to me very much. If I want to follow a trend, I want that trend to actually have some substance to it. It’s the difference between choosing The Beastie Boys versus Lil’ Wayne or Nirvana versus…some rock band in the 2010’s I’ve never heard of before. There are things in the present day that appeal to me such as the metal bands Gemini Syndrome and Nothing More, which goes to show that it’s not about the time period something comes from, but rather the importance of its message. Rage Against the Machine is a relic from the 90’s, but their music still means something to me.

I have one last message for you all before I get into the posts about my latest artistic endeavors. Unga-bunga. Me caveman. Me want substance. Me no care about coolness! Me have ears! Me say cheers!

　

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

The official date of this journal’s publication is October 30^th, which means I still have two more days of Villains Month left. And man, do I have a villain for you guys: Ryan Brock from my most recent short story “Streetwalker”. We all know that rape is a bad thing, but Ryan Brock takes the humiliating and traumatizing act to a whole different level when he forces himself on a mage named Danielle Courtney. That’s a villain in my book!

　

***POISON TONGUE TALES: EDITING***

I have to be frank with you guys. Although Random.org has chosen “Death Blade” as the next short story to edit, I’m not looking forward to it at all. Don’t get me wrong, Marie’s comments never scare me. In fact, they make me laugh and feel lighthearted. It’s the actual job of editing that frightens me about “Death Blade”. It was my first official entry at the WSS Contest and Company and I wasn’t as good in late 2013 as I am now. In other words, what scares me the most…is my own unpolished writing. Maybe I’ll shelve Death Blade and choose a different one to edit for now.

　

***JANUARY FIRST***

I’ve been spending the past few days trying to bulldoze through another paperback book. Whenever I get in this mood, every other creative project takes a backseat with the exception of competing in WSS contests. What makes January First by Michael Schofield so special is its ability to speak to me personally. Like little Janni, I too have schizophrenia and I recognize her struggles. Watching her spiral into madness is heartbreaking and has almost brought me to tears a few times. I plan on giving this book an Extra Credit grade when I finish reading it, which it desperately needs because some troll assholes on Good Reads are peppering it with uneducated one-star reviews. I’ve heard of that kind of trolling happening to authors before, so I take good care not to believe anything those people say.

　

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

WYNARSKI: Excuse me, have you seen a set of keys around here?
RANDAL: No time for love, Dr. Jones.

-Clerks, a movie made in 1994 when renting movies from a video store was still “cool”-

"Love Letters to the Dead" by Ava Dellaira

Before I get started with the body of this review, I want to personally thank Stephen Chbosky for recommending this book to me. I still to this day don’t know if it was a chain letter or a personal note, but in any case, I still want to express my gratitude to him. “Love Letters to the Dead” often drew comparisons to “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” due to the themes of growing up, nostalgia, soulful music, and also due to the letter style in which both novels are written. After reading both books, I decided not to rank one before the other, because like family, they both have a special place in my heart.

This particular novel centers around Laurel, a high school student with a broken family made even more distant by the passing of her older sister May. There are so many secrets surrounding May’s death that it takes an entire novel to unravel them. And when they finally do get unraveled, there are a lot of waterworks involved, which means PTSD was involved. What kinds of secrets would cause somebody to develop traumatic memories? That’s for you to find out, my friend.

And during your quest to solve the mystery of May’s death, take some time to digest the fact that these chapters are written in the form of letters to dead celebrities such as Kurt Cobain, Amelia Earhart, Amy Winehouse, River Phoenix, and many others that had a huge impact o Laurel’s life. It started out as a simple English assignment: write a letter to a famous dead person. Laurel wrote one to Kurt Cobain, but never handed it in. Instead, the one assignment evolved into an entire notebook of letters to various celebrities chronicling Laurel’s heartaches, triumphs, traumas, tragedies, and ultimately resolutions.

I will admit that reading these letters really put a timestamp on how old Laurel really is. In other words, she writes and talks like a typical teenager. There are even times when she attempts to use a clever metaphor, but it backfires into something that only makes marginal sense. However, these are flaws I am very easily able to forgive for the sake of a beautiful and heart-wrenching story. Imagine that: me, an English major, forgiving a strange writing style. It’s something I would have done anyways even if this book was assigned to me in either college or high school.

While “Love Letters to the Dead” didn’t bring me to tears like “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” almost did, I’m crying on the inside for Laurel and I hope she goes on to do great things in her life. I feel the same way about her friends and family, who have also proven to be three-dimensional in their own special way throughout the book. People on Good Reads like to take shots at this book for being “immature” and having “cookie cutter characters”. While it was amusing to see two people named Tristan and Kristen, I have to disagree with those cheap shots. This is a wonderful book for anybody who recently spent over $100 on Kleenex.

　

***TELEVISION QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“You’re not in love with him. You’re in love with what you want him to be.”

-Dr. Phil-