The War Blog

The War Blog

by Glen Sobey

Paperback(First Printing ed.)



“Sobey, a resident of rural Alaska, portrays Crystal’s (a teenager) world with an insider’s perspective, vividly depicting the environment and traditions.” –KIRKUS REVIEWS

Crystal Rose, a 17-year-old high school junior, and her younger brother were abandoned by their drug-addicted mother fifteen years ago in an Alaskan Native village, an event which Crystal resented for years. However, when she learns that her mother was raped in high school, Crystal declares war against a society which reduces girls to their looks, forcing them to feel worthless without the approval of guys.

While living in a small Alaskan town, she starts The War Blog website, along with her best friend and crush Kato—a brilliant Native boy—attacking everything promoting female objectification and offering ways to fight back, all supplemented by her original songs. Crystal rises from nothing in the wilds of Alaska to become a champion for change, risking her life against men who would force her to keep silent. She faces her parents’ abusive past and fights for a better world.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781684331475
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Publication date: 12/20/2018
Edition description: First Printing ed.
Pages: 316
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.71(d)
Age Range: 13 - 18 Years

About the Author

Glen Sobey taught and lived in Alaska Native villages for many years and continues to live in rural Alaska with his wife, three dogs, and a forest cat. He plays several musical instruments, hikes, kayaks, catches fish (sometimes), builds things, repairs more things, gardens, shovels lots of snow, enjoys his family, and writes as often as he can. Though he has written many musicals and songs, The War Blog is his first novel.

Read an Excerpt


My father had risen from the dead, and all I wanted to do was slap him.

For what? I wasn't sure. My grandparents had said he was evil and dead. If one part was a lie, was everything else?

One story I'd been told: During the entirety of my mother's pregnancy with me, she and my father cooked meth, used meth, and sold meth. For months she denied she was pregnant. Then, surprise! I arrived. Eight weeks premature. All two pounds of me screaming for meth. So, my dad, being a humorous guy, a fun-loving jokester of a guy — especially high on meth — and my mom — evidently a doormat for every crazy idea the old man popped out of his euphoric head — embraced the idea of naming me Crystal M. Rock. Yes, that was actually my name until my brother, JD, and I were adopted by our grandparents Mac and Summer Rose.

JD and I had also been told that when I was three years old, our parents were killed in a car wreck. But apparently my father had actually been in jail.

Eugene Rock called my grandfather at lunch just as my brother and I were about to leave for afternoon classes at our high school in Anders Fork, Alaska. That was the first time I had heard anything about my father being alive. Or in prison.

Mac nearly choked when he answered the phone and heard Eugene's voice. He jumped up and walked quickly through the living room onto the deck outside. I heard him say, "When hell freezes over, Eugene! And they're not your kids!" just before he slammed the sunroom door.

My grandmother threw her towel into the sink. "You need to hurry back to school," Summer said to us then followed Mac onto the deck.

JD put our dishes on the counter. My little brother was six foot three with massive shoulders. Though two years younger, he dwarfed me by more than a foot and a hundred pounds. "What's that all about?" he asked.

"Our father is evidently calling from hell."

JD shot me a confused look. "How can he call from there?"

I ran through the living room and sat by an open window. I could see Mac punching the air while Summer sat holding her head. All our lives we had been told that Eugene killed our mother and ruined her life.

"No, you cannot see our kids!" Mac shouted. "If I see you anywhere near them or our house, I will shoot your ass!" Mac ended the call.

"Is he coming here?" asked Summer.

"He'd better not."

"Why did they let him out?"

"They can't keep him locked up forever."

Summer grabbed Mac's arm. "He killed our Maya."

"He served his time, and now he's out. He said he wants to see his kids. When I answered the phone, he said, 'Hey, Mac. It's me, Eugene. How are my kids?' all chipper like we were old friends meeting at the store."

"He never tried to contact them all these years," said Summer. "Why now?"

"I have no idea."

"Crystal! We need to hurry!" JD yelled then went outside. Mac and Summer looked into the house. I ran back to the kitchen.

Mac opened the door. "Crystal Rose!"

"Got to run, Mac. I have to sing to the Lower School in five minutes." I closed the kitchen door and ran to my Honda ATV. JD climbed onto the back. I was the only one my age who had no car or truck, but that was OK. I could win any race against another 4-wheeler.

"Crystal!" Mac yelled as I turned down our long gravel driveway twisting through the trees toward another gravel road.

For years I had wanted to know why my father drove the car drunk, why he flipped off the road into a tree, killing my mother and his irresponsible self. Why he kept Mom away from my grandparents. Why he beat her and kept her hooked on drugs and alcohol. Why he kept her from finishing high school. Why I lost my mother before I even knew her.

"Slow down, Crystal. Jeesh!" JD yelled over the growl of the engine as I skidded through the turn out of our driveway. A gust of cool wind from the west blew dead leaves across the road, only to be crushed by my tires.

Our father was alive, and he supposedly wanted to see us. Why had Mac and Summer told us he was dead? We already knew so much about our sordid past. Why would they keep that fact from us? Because they hated him so much? They blamed him for Maya's addictions, abandoning us when we were babies, and for killing her in the wreck. But now I wondered whether any of that was true. Did they tell other lies?

Eugene Rock was alive, and I had no idea whether to be angry or happy or worried. I had no time to think this through because my first public performance of my own song happened in five minutes.

* * *

My school backed up against a stretch of spruce forest between the town and the river park. Most students lived within ten minutes of the K-12 building, and most had attended every grade before graduation. Teachers and principals changed frequently, but classmates grew up together.

A crowd had gathered near my usual parking spot at the school, all watching a video on an iPad of Mike doing a pole dance at a party the night before. Even after the hundredth viewing, it still provoked mindless giggles. A now-clothed Mike was standing in my spot, enjoying the attention.

"Excuse me, Mike," I said as I slowly drove straight toward him.

"Careful, Twig," he said as he jumped to the side.

JD loomed over him by six inches and fifty pounds.

"I heard everyone got laid at the party," I said to Mike. "Too bad you had to settle for that pole." Some girls laughed.

"Crystal," said one of them, "you can come to my party tomorrow night. Everyone would love to see you there." She smiled so sweetly.

"Yeah, but wear something low-cut so we know which sex to pair you up with," said Mike, so proud of himself. A couple of guys laughed.

"Gender, Mike," I said. "Sex is something you do, like humping the pole. Gender is male or female, which you seem to have a hard time distinguishing between. You girls should give him lessons. Thanks for the invite, but I'll have to check my calendar."

Once again I had been called Twig. Every guy in high school measured a girl's worth by her bra size. Part of me wanted mine to stay small to keep the cave men from staring at me; part wanted to be normal and look older than twelve.

I walked quickly toward the main doors then heard the scraping of shoes on gravel behind me. I stopped and looked back at JD, who was struggling to keep up with me.

"Sorry, JD. Wasn't thinking."

"You don't have to wait, Crystal. You have a big song to sing. Go get ready."

He was the sweetest brother I could hope to have, but he had been messed up his whole life. His hips were deformed, so he walked with a rolling limp, like he was always skating up an imaginary little hill with his left foot first. He failed everything at school. And he was teased a lot. We thought he would never be able to live by himself.

One of the great loves of my parents' lives — so we had been told — was Jack Daniel's whiskey. Old No. 7. Mom practically bathed in the stuff. My brother was drunk when he was born, and so were my parents. They'd just come off a weekend binge, so they called him JD. I never knew his real name was Jack until he'd turned fifteen two months ago.

How much was true?

Probably this was. JD's middle name was Daniels, and who would name a kid suffering from Fetal Alcohol Syndrome after whiskey, except total drunks and jerks?

And one of those jerks was on his way to see us. To apologize? Or to get another kick out of his handiwork? The only father I knew of was the devil, so I didn't expect apologies.


The worst part of coming to school was running the gauntlet past our new principal who had started a program of shaking every student's hand as they entered the building. This was supposed to make us all feel special and cared for, but everyone in high school hated being treated like babies. I called out, "Good afternoon, Mrs. Trimble!" trying as hard as I could to mimic her enthusiasm-on-steroids voice. She could not speak like an adult. Every one-syllable word was stretched to three and hit at least three notes. I half-sprinted through the hall trying to escape the "GoooooOOd AaaafterrrnooooOOn, Cryyyyyyystaaaaall!!" before it stole some of my brain cells.

Young kids were filing into Jody's music room. The pre-kindergarteners walked with their arms hugging their bodies to prevent touching anyone or being touched. Even the teacher hugged herself. A touch would evidently kill. I squeezed past them and found Jody, her spiked blonde hair shimmering in the sunlight filling her room, the greatest music teacher ever. We had worked after school all week arranging the song I had written for a physics assignment.

I was ready to exhibit my "deeper understanding" of the content by writing a song on any topic in astronomy rather than take a test. I sure welcomed this new assessment program the school had adopted; otherwise, I could not pass physics.

Jody had worked with me the previous summer, improving my guitar and vocal skills. She taught me music theory and songwriting. She used to produce and sing demos for songwriters and bands in Nashville, both pop and country, until a few years ago when her husband was transferred to Alaska. She encouraged me to post cover songs on YouTube for the past month, and I already had a very small following, mainly younger students, but also a few others.

This past week we had worked on my song, "Be the Star." She created tracks for drums, keyboard, and guitar, so our performance today would sound like a band. Jody had faith in me. My voice was great, she said, and I had a knack for lyrics. "Be the Star" would be my first public performance of my own song, and I was a little worried how everyone would like it. Actually, pretty scared.

"Thought you would come a little earlier," said Jody with a singing voice like Taylor Swift. She was about as short as I was, which was a nice change from having to look up to everybody.

"Unexpected family problems," I said, tuning my guitar. Actually, Jody's guitar. All I had was an acoustic. She let her students borrow her old Telecaster.

"Everyone all right? Nobody died, did they?" She was joking because my family was probably the most straight and narrow in town.

"No, he undied."

She raised an eyebrow, expecting more.

The kids started clapping and stomping feet. "We want Crystal!"

The room was full with a few high school kids peeking in at the door. Normally the presentation of student projects was not such a big deal, but Jody insisted that all of her music students be able to come.

"How is everybody?" I shouted. "You OK?"

"Yes!" they roared back.

"Great. As you know, I'm going to sing you a song today, with the help of our amazing music teacher, Jody."

Jody blushed and bowed as kids pounded the floor with feet and hands.

"This is a new song I've written, called 'Be the Star.' I know some of you follow me on YouTube" — several kids shouted — "but all those are someone else's songs. This is my first original song, and I hope you like it."

Jody started the track, then stood a little behind me with a microphone and guitar, ready to sing harmony. I played the opening riff then sang:

Be The Star

A beautiful star Breathed its life into heaven Such a long time ago The journey became a legend

The silver found your eyes And the gold became your smile Iron filled your soul with strength And love sparked the fire


The stars above are shining for you A stellar family God chose His brightest and His best And put you here with me

Be the star that you are And shine your light For the world to see The stars above are shining for you A Heavenly family

You have so many cousins And ancestors beyond your sight So far away yet with you The sky glows with all their light

Stardust fills the air And every word I sing to you The heavens know your name And everyone you never knew



Sometimes you'll feel very small Like a crumpled leaf tossed by the wind And you'll wonder, "What's the point of it all?"
Just raise your eyes and look again Just raise your eyes and look again


Be the star that you are (repeat 3x)

The room erupted in applause. Everyone leapt up, causing teachers fits. Alan had somehow snuck in a bullhorn and ran around the room shouting, "Go, Crystal, go!" until someone yanked it from him.

I raised my hands. "Thank you. Thank you. Do you want to hear it again?"

"Yes!" they shouted.

"Do you want to sing along?"

Some of the guys shouted, "No!" but the girls drowned them out. Teachers handed out the lyrics to the chorus. I explained to them when they were going to sing and went over the melody a few times, then Jody restarted the track. So many voices belting out, "Be the star that you are," was amazing. Even some of the boys sang.

Afterward I explained why they were all made of stardust and the meaning of the lyrics, as my physics teacher smiled at my supposedly deep understanding of fusion and supernovas. Yeah, what?

Teachers tried to line up their kids, but several came to me with paper and pencils for autographs, including the fifth grade twins, Junie and Janae. I almost cried every time I saw them. They'd been born ten weeks premature and had needed many operations. One day Junie lifted her shirt to show me all her scars — horrible, twisted things. Janae reached puberty in third grade and now had a chest ten times bigger than mine. I knew she had heard guys making comments about her, comparing her size to that of several high school girls. She walked through the high school wing staring straight ahead, trying very hard to ignore everyone and remain stone-faced. I worked with them as an aide in the Special Education resource classroom everyday.

As I was signing autographs, their mother, Ashley, came in with her newest boyfriend, Harold. She wore a sparkly dress, heels, and a jacket with a fur ruff. Bling hung from ear lobes, wrists, and neck, and the air suddenly cloyed with her perfume and weed. If her boobs had been pushed up any higher, they would have touched her chin. She still tried to be the hottest chick in town.

Ashley had five children. All of them premature. All in special needs. The only two we were positive had the same father were Junie and Janae. I had heard a rumor that their grandmother was trying to get custody of all the children.

Harold looked like he was eighteen. Tall, pretty face, but with leering eyes. They both seemed stoned, and I swear he was ogling Janae's breasts. He carried their Love Pink backpacks. Our SPED teacher, Beth, greeted them both with warm handshakes and smiles, trying to counter Ashley's obvious upset, her high-heeled, knee-high boots slapping the floor as she scowled at her girls. Beth was the kindest, most patient teacher I knew.

"Junie, why aren't you waiting for me in the office?" asked Ashley. "I told you to be there right after lunch." Then to Beth, "I'm taking her with me to have her nails done. She should have told you."

"I forgot, Mommy," said Junie.

"You always forget. I should just leave you here."

"I want to go, too," begged Janae.

"You don't have any nails because you chew them off, even though

I've told you not to," Ashley snapped.

"I try to let them grow, but then I forget and chew them."

"You both have sieves for brains. I'm surprised either one of you can remember your names from one day to the next," said Ashley.

Both girls looked at the ground.

Beth moved between them and put an arm around each girl. "It might be best if you took both girls today. Maybe Janae can get some false nails. They would keep her from chewing."

"Please, Mommy?" asked Janae.

I couldn't take it anymore. I knelt between both girls and held their hands. "Remember the song. You guys are stars, made from the brightest and the best." They smiled at me. "You are going to look so pretty with new nails. You'll be an even brighter star."

And then I sang, "Be the star that you are, and shine your light for the world to see. The stars above are shining for you, a Heavenly family." They giggled then hugged me.

"I love you, Crystal," said Janae.

"Me too," said Junie.

"Love you both. Now go with your mother and show me your nails on Monday." I stood up and looked at Ashley, deadpan. "You have two great girls, Ashley."

Harold grabbed Janae's hand and walked her out of the room, staring at her chest. Ashley turned in a huff and followed him, with Junie trying to catch up.

"Thank you, Crystal," said Beth. "You are so good to them."

"Trying to make up for what they don't get at home, and because they are precious little girls who were screwed up for no good reason."

Beth squeezed my hand and gathered her students.


Excerpted from "The War Blog"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Glen Sobey.
Excerpted by permission of Black Rose Writing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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