Tortive

Parody of “Chicken on a Raft,” specifically as performed by Pyrates! Apparently, things have gone off the rails in the Chopped kitchen. / / / Ted Allen’s on the set and is drinking gin (Hi-oh, basket from a fan) I’m stressed as hell, but I ain’t joining in (Hi-oh, basket from a fan) Maneet’s laughing like a drain (Hi-oh, basket from a fan) She must be looking at the chaos again (Hi-oh, basket from a fan) Basket from a fan in the Chopped kitchen And oh, what a terrible sight to see! Chefs, please open up your baskets and… Standing there gawking at a basket from a fan Hi-oh, basket from a fan Hey-oh, basket from a fan Hi-oh, basket from a fan Hey-oh, basket from a fan Now using ingredients one and two (Hi-oh, basket from a fan) I’m counting on my grandma’s stew (Hi-oh, basket from a fan) The timer’s ticking overhead (Hi-oh, basket from a fan) I’d rather take on Bobby head to head (Hi-oh, basket from a fan) Basket from a fan in the Chopped kitchen And oh, what a terrible sight to

Parody of “Video Kid” by The Birthday Massacre. / / / Next half, next play Next nothing new Got the quarterback Beat him up Black and blue Broke the Patriots’ Belichick heart in two Turned them into A fizzle-out team like you I know we’re just all playing To the IR for that break I know you’ll intercept me There’s no playoff left at stake Sacked the quarterback Down on the forty-four Need a new game Need a new something more Got a new coach Got a new way to score Got a year like something I’ve seen before I know we’re just all playing To the IR for that break I know you’ll intercept me There’s no playoff left at stake (Fizzle out) The message receiving We’re trying; we’re failing We’re only repeating The mistakes and losing I know we’re just all playing To the IR for that break I know you’ll intercept me There’s no playoff left at stake (Fizzle out)

I Sit in a black dress Wondering why I Denied myself a label Over something so trivial. For two years, I embraced The night, the ghosts, Whatever black I had. I dark-ified my likes. I was confident in myself. Then, I found a band. For four years, I rejected The darkness I liked. I feared being compared To Lucy Loud all because I'm a Street Soldier. For four more years, I crawled out of denial That made me insecure. Back to the darkness, Back to the night, with my Headmates as cheerleaders. I was goth this whole time, And I didn't know it. It doesn't relieve me. It makes me sad because I denied myself a label Over something so trivial.

Title: Nightingale Genre: poetry Year self-published: 2023 (through B&N Press) Copyright: CC BY-ND 4.0. (You may copy and distribute this book as long as you credit the original work and don’t make changes to it.) Blurb: When the Angel completed suicide, I began to worry about my Nightingale. So, I wrote these poems to cope. This is my parasocial journey through grief and worry. I can't wait to share it with you. Format: novella Page count: 68 (physical copies), 56 (e-book) Price: $3.94 (paperback & ebook), $11.92 (hardcover)

I spent a month writing it because the suicidality is more explicit than usual (not too explicit, though.) Read when you’re ready. / / / Troll: If you were a good friend, you would have known what was going on. THEN you abandoned Brad, Rob, Joe, and Dave. Do this for the Linkin Park fans of the world. Slit your lying throat. That post again: someone took Mike’s guilt, bargaining, and catharsis to make an insult that invalidated those feelings and topped it with a suicide dare. He had spent all night ruminating over those things. In a hotel room. Alone. It was the last straw. (But at least the person used that texting app instead of trying to find his true phone number.) Mike: Fine. The maids will clean it up, Mike thought. He grabbed a pen and put its tip to his throat. A few minutes later, he drew a line across it. His hand shook. See? It’s not that hard. Just a little more pressure. Before Mike could push the pen’s tip into his throat, he felt a presence. It didn’t feel cold.

I want to make music with you, but I can’t. And so, Mike cried himself to sleep. / / / He wore the same clothing from that night: a red button-up shirt with a black plaid pattern and a pair of ripped blue jeans. This time, he found himself in a petrified forest. Its floor showed no signs of life’s reclamation, and glorified stakes touched the sky. Chester doesn’t exist, so he didn’t have the same objective, right? There would be no sense in trying to find him… Right? Well, Chaz didn’t exist inside… So, he must exist outside! Never mind. Mike started walking. “Chester!” he called. / / / “Chester! Chester! Wait.” Mike stopped. Didn’t I see that tree before? (It was y-shaped and the only one like that in the forest.) He growled, I’ve been walking in circles! It shouldn’t be too hard, he thought. There aren’t any hiding places, he thought. “That’s it!” Mike crossed his arms. “I’m sick of chasing my own tail. How about you tell me where you are?” “Right behind you.” He smiled

Mike locked himself in the bathroom. He didn’t want to be around any lights, screens, or bright colors because his eyes hurt. But it was too dark with the door closed, so he turned on the lights, sat in the bathtub, and closed his eyes. Who knew you could wake up with eyestrain and not be hungover? He took off his glasses. I couldn’t even try to put on my fucking contacts without wincing. They aren’t red, so it can’t be pink eye. Thirty minutes passed, but the pain in Mike’s eyes remained. It began to sting, so he rubbed his eyes. Then, he opened them. Pain was no longer the problem. That’s not blood, is it? Mike put on his glasses and hurried to the mirror. Oh my god, it is! Blood fell down his face like tears. The stinging only worsened it. I need to tell Anna. He unlocked the door. Wait, our kids can’t see me like this; it’ll scare them. Text her. But I don’t have my phone. He closed his eyes. Oh god, it hurts! It hurts so much! Make it stop! “ANNA!” Mike hit the door. “ANNA!