Saturday, November 29, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Cranberries (The Early Days)
Patterson didn't mind that they'd left early. The after-dinner entertainment had been the same for years now: the men gathered around the television, the women in the kitchen, cleaning up and gossiping, the kids who were too young to do either dispersing to the basement or another round of football in the yard.
Mitchell, for all his love of baseball, loathed watching football. And Trevor's lewd comments about the sport had been immediately unwelcome.
Frankly, Patterson had been glad to have an excuse to leave. He wasn't much of a football lover, himself, and family togetherness had its limits when there was so much in your life you couldn't discuss.
He pulled the Bronco into its spot on the side of the driveway and sat for a moment. Trevor, in the back seat, had gotten awfully quiet. Too quiet.
Mitchell, beside him, hopped out of the Bronco like he didn't have a care in the world. Like leaving early wasn't a big deal. To the boy, it probably hadn't been. Spending the day with the family had been okay at first, with the annual flag football game and the cousins to catch up with. But if you kept Mitchell away from his guitar too long, he started to get twitchy. Once that happened, the cousins decided he was weird. Adding Trevor to the mix hadn't helped, but leaving that one at home had never crossed Patterson's mind. Trevor was part of the family now, no matter how hard he worked at reminding them all that he wasn't.
Trevor followed Mitchell out of the Bronco, but didn't wait by the back door with the younger boy. Instead, Trevor stared at the sky.
"Did you ever wonder," he said to Patterson, his face turned upward.
"I wondered what's bothering you tonight."
Trevor shoved his hands into the pockets of the leather vest he'd consented to wear over his denim jacket. He hunched his shoulders.
Patterson had a few guesses. But it was best if the boy talked without prompts.
Suddenly, the hands were out of the pockets, the shoulders were down, and the boy had spun to face his guardian. "Do you have any fucking clue what it's like to watch that table get cleared and hear everyone laugh that everyone forgot about the cranberries and this and that and everything else? Do you have any fucking clue how lucky you are to even have a fucking family?"
"Yes," Patterson said. "And not just because this is a holiday of gratitude, either."
Mitchell wandered closer, but stayed safely behind Trevor.
"Do you know what my Thanksgivings used to be like?" Trevor went on, his face turning red in the starlight. "Do you know what we'd have for dinner?"
"No," Patterson said. "Tell me."
Trevor just shook his head, like the words wouldn't come. Mitchell sat down in the grass and folded his legs Indian-style. He began playing with his shoelaces.
Trevor pulled his cigarettes out of the chest pocket of the denim jacket. "Some years, it was us sitting around the table, watching him drink a bottle of JD. One year, he beat Mom with the bird she'd brought home and then made her cook it and stood there while we ate it. I puked it back up about an hour later." He snorted. "And don't forget the year there was no food because Mom couldn't get a hold of his paycheck and he stole hers and drank 'em both."
Mitchell shook his head and visibly swallowed. Patterson just listened. He'd been witness to scenes like this, although not at the Wolff household. It didn't matter; the tragedy was still the same. The fact that he'd been able to make a difference in this young man's life couldn't even begin to make up for the families he hadn't been able to help so directly.
"Happy fucking birthday, Trevor," Trevor said, sniffing hard and rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his denim jacket. "They usually forgot. And there's the Voss family," he said, gesturing expansively, "with a birthday cake and apologies for being a week late."
Patterson looked at Mitchell; he felt the boy watching him. He'd managed to shelter Mitchell from the worst of Trevor's stories; this couldn't be easy.
Mitchell was imploring his father to make it stop. To help him know what to say or do.
Patterson pursed his lips and gave the barest shake to his head.
"And all that fucking food that everyone forgot to eat," Trevor said.
"We didn't forget," Mitchell said. "No one likes the cranberries. So Aunt Paula leaves 'em on the table because we're supposed to have cranberries. She's probably shoving them back in the container she uses every year, and she'll throw it in the freezer until next year. They'll make it to the table, probably still frozen, and then when we clear, everyone will joke about forgetting to eat them when the truth is, no one wants 'em."
"Think that's funny?" Trevor whirled and bent over to look at Mitchell, who shrugged.
"I think cranberries are okay," Mitchell said.
Patterson had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.
Trevor cocked his head, considering.
Mitchell started pulling at the grass.
"So you're saying I'm a cranberry?" Trevor asked at last.
Mitchell made a sound sort of like one of Trevor's indignant snorts. "No," the boy said. "You're an ass who's keeping me from my guitar. C'mon. Let's go make music."
Patterson moved to unlock the front door, wondering if a parent could be more proud of his son. It wasn't likely.
Want to know more about who these folk are? All the info you need is at West of Mars. Go check it out.
Mitchell, for all his love of baseball, loathed watching football. And Trevor's lewd comments about the sport had been immediately unwelcome.
Frankly, Patterson had been glad to have an excuse to leave. He wasn't much of a football lover, himself, and family togetherness had its limits when there was so much in your life you couldn't discuss.
He pulled the Bronco into its spot on the side of the driveway and sat for a moment. Trevor, in the back seat, had gotten awfully quiet. Too quiet.
Mitchell, beside him, hopped out of the Bronco like he didn't have a care in the world. Like leaving early wasn't a big deal. To the boy, it probably hadn't been. Spending the day with the family had been okay at first, with the annual flag football game and the cousins to catch up with. But if you kept Mitchell away from his guitar too long, he started to get twitchy. Once that happened, the cousins decided he was weird. Adding Trevor to the mix hadn't helped, but leaving that one at home had never crossed Patterson's mind. Trevor was part of the family now, no matter how hard he worked at reminding them all that he wasn't.
Trevor followed Mitchell out of the Bronco, but didn't wait by the back door with the younger boy. Instead, Trevor stared at the sky.
"Did you ever wonder," he said to Patterson, his face turned upward.
"I wondered what's bothering you tonight."
Trevor shoved his hands into the pockets of the leather vest he'd consented to wear over his denim jacket. He hunched his shoulders.
Patterson had a few guesses. But it was best if the boy talked without prompts.
Suddenly, the hands were out of the pockets, the shoulders were down, and the boy had spun to face his guardian. "Do you have any fucking clue what it's like to watch that table get cleared and hear everyone laugh that everyone forgot about the cranberries and this and that and everything else? Do you have any fucking clue how lucky you are to even have a fucking family?"
"Yes," Patterson said. "And not just because this is a holiday of gratitude, either."
Mitchell wandered closer, but stayed safely behind Trevor.
"Do you know what my Thanksgivings used to be like?" Trevor went on, his face turning red in the starlight. "Do you know what we'd have for dinner?"
"No," Patterson said. "Tell me."
Trevor just shook his head, like the words wouldn't come. Mitchell sat down in the grass and folded his legs Indian-style. He began playing with his shoelaces.
Trevor pulled his cigarettes out of the chest pocket of the denim jacket. "Some years, it was us sitting around the table, watching him drink a bottle of JD. One year, he beat Mom with the bird she'd brought home and then made her cook it and stood there while we ate it. I puked it back up about an hour later." He snorted. "And don't forget the year there was no food because Mom couldn't get a hold of his paycheck and he stole hers and drank 'em both."
Mitchell shook his head and visibly swallowed. Patterson just listened. He'd been witness to scenes like this, although not at the Wolff household. It didn't matter; the tragedy was still the same. The fact that he'd been able to make a difference in this young man's life couldn't even begin to make up for the families he hadn't been able to help so directly.
"Happy fucking birthday, Trevor," Trevor said, sniffing hard and rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his denim jacket. "They usually forgot. And there's the Voss family," he said, gesturing expansively, "with a birthday cake and apologies for being a week late."
Patterson looked at Mitchell; he felt the boy watching him. He'd managed to shelter Mitchell from the worst of Trevor's stories; this couldn't be easy.
Mitchell was imploring his father to make it stop. To help him know what to say or do.
Patterson pursed his lips and gave the barest shake to his head.
"And all that fucking food that everyone forgot to eat," Trevor said.
"We didn't forget," Mitchell said. "No one likes the cranberries. So Aunt Paula leaves 'em on the table because we're supposed to have cranberries. She's probably shoving them back in the container she uses every year, and she'll throw it in the freezer until next year. They'll make it to the table, probably still frozen, and then when we clear, everyone will joke about forgetting to eat them when the truth is, no one wants 'em."
"Think that's funny?" Trevor whirled and bent over to look at Mitchell, who shrugged.
"I think cranberries are okay," Mitchell said.
Patterson had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.
Trevor cocked his head, considering.
Mitchell started pulling at the grass.
"So you're saying I'm a cranberry?" Trevor asked at last.
Mitchell made a sound sort of like one of Trevor's indignant snorts. "No," the boy said. "You're an ass who's keeping me from my guitar. C'mon. Let's go make music."
Patterson moved to unlock the front door, wondering if a parent could be more proud of his son. It wasn't likely.
Want to know more about who these folk are? All the info you need is at West of Mars. Go check it out.
Labels: brotherly love, creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, Patterson, Trevor
Saturday, November 08, 2008
The Origin of Mabel
Many of you regulars may remember Mabel. Here's how the legend began:
It wasn't supposed to be a big deal. Just a cheap guitar that could take some abuse, something up to life on the road. Take abuse, it did. It got knocked, bumped, dropped. But in the end, not even the inflatable ones could handle being stepped on.
Just like that, Mabel's life came to an end.
Mitchell couldn't believe how much he missed the stupid thing. He moped. He whined. He made the band threaten to leave him at a rest stop.
It was Daniel and Eric who came to the rescue, of course.
And Mabel the second was born.
The idea for this began with this week's 100-word challenge: Resurrection. It continued with this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: change.
To read more about Mabel, check out this link. She's appeared in other spots, too. If you'd like to read them, search the blog by using her name. They'll pop right up. Have fun and remember to leave comments so I know where you've been!
It wasn't supposed to be a big deal. Just a cheap guitar that could take some abuse, something up to life on the road. Take abuse, it did. It got knocked, bumped, dropped. But in the end, not even the inflatable ones could handle being stepped on.
Just like that, Mabel's life came to an end.
Mitchell couldn't believe how much he missed the stupid thing. He moped. He whined. He made the band threaten to leave him at a rest stop.
It was Daniel and Eric who came to the rescue, of course.
And Mabel the second was born.
The idea for this began with this week's 100-word challenge: Resurrection. It continued with this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: change.
To read more about Mabel, check out this link. She's appeared in other spots, too. If you'd like to read them, search the blog by using her name. They'll pop right up. Have fun and remember to leave comments so I know where you've been!
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, Sunday Scribblings, Velvet Verbosity
Friday, October 31, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Needing Candy (The Early Days)
Warning: This outtake contains lots of foul language and men in women's clothing. Happy Halloween!
"Trevor, you may not go trick-or-treating!"
"Aww, Mom, why not?"
Mitchell dove for the safety of his room. If Ma wasn't going to let Trevor out of the house in spandex pants and a vest, she sure as shit wasn't going to let him out. Not with his hair spray painted orange and while he was wearing one of Amy's old bras. Aim would kill him when she saw him in her only long skirt, too. Hopefully she'd stay up at school tonight and hit up those stupid frat house parties she'd been raving about. As if he'd go to college, let alone join a fucking fraternity.
Trevor showed up a minute later, looking glum. "Mom threatened to barricade the door."
"Did you ask if we can hand out the candy?"
Trev shook his head. "She's on to that trick, dude."
"So let's fuck with her and really hand out the candy."
"What are you going to do about your hair?"
Mitchell shrugged. "We've got a gig tonight, right?"
"And no candy to throw during it." Trevor sat down on the bed and dropped his chin into his hand.
"Eric'll cover for us."
Trevor sat up and snapped his head around. He narrowed his eyes at Mitchell, who raised his eyebrows in surprise at the extreme reaction and waited. "What happened to pulling our own weight?" the bass player demanded. He jumped up and started waving his arms around, occasionally pointing at Mitchell. "We're a band and we rely on each other but that doesn't mean we slack off. It means we all work our asses off to be the best fucking band we can be. That doesn't mean you sit on your pampered ass and wait for Eric to show up with the fucking candy. That means you use my escape route out that window of yours and we go fucking trick-or-treat so we have something to give our fans, dumbfuck!"
"Not in a skirt," Mitchell said calmly, picking at a fold. Really, he thought, these things weren't so bad, once you got used to them. It was sort of free inside there, not all caught up inside a denim casing like a sausage or something.
Trevor jumped up and down, his eyes screwed shut, his motorcycle boots thunking on the floor. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Nothing. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Fuck off. I'm the one giving a fuck around here."
"No," Mitchell said, sitting up and adjusting the bra. They'd stuffed it with socks, of course, although Trevor had sniggered and suggested using underwear. It didn't matter what was in there; Mitchell now had a much better idea of why they called them knockers. "It's not about whether or not I give a fuck. It's about how long we have to wait to pull off my plan."
"Oh, a plan," Trevor said with an exaggerated sniff and wag of his head.
Mitchell stared at the ceiling and asked whoever was hanging out up there
for some patience. "Yes, a plan, you dumbass," he said. "It's simple. We hand out candy. One to the kids, one to us. By the time we need to split, we're set."
"And how are you planning on getting that past Mom? You know she won't go for it."
"It's simple. Either we take it, or we eat it. Remember what happened last time you hit a sugar high?"
"Fuckhead."
Mitchell laughed. He stood up and held his arms out. "So tell me. Do my boots go with the skirt?"
For more Scandalous happenings, check out this week's Sunday Scribblings. And, as always, I invite you back to my website where you can learn more about Trevor and Mitchell and where you can gain easy access to see more of them in action.
"Trevor, you may not go trick-or-treating!"
"Aww, Mom, why not?"
Mitchell dove for the safety of his room. If Ma wasn't going to let Trevor out of the house in spandex pants and a vest, she sure as shit wasn't going to let him out. Not with his hair spray painted orange and while he was wearing one of Amy's old bras. Aim would kill him when she saw him in her only long skirt, too. Hopefully she'd stay up at school tonight and hit up those stupid frat house parties she'd been raving about. As if he'd go to college, let alone join a fucking fraternity.
Trevor showed up a minute later, looking glum. "Mom threatened to barricade the door."
"Did you ask if we can hand out the candy?"
Trev shook his head. "She's on to that trick, dude."
"So let's fuck with her and really hand out the candy."
"What are you going to do about your hair?"
Mitchell shrugged. "We've got a gig tonight, right?"
"And no candy to throw during it." Trevor sat down on the bed and dropped his chin into his hand.
"Eric'll cover for us."
Trevor sat up and snapped his head around. He narrowed his eyes at Mitchell, who raised his eyebrows in surprise at the extreme reaction and waited. "What happened to pulling our own weight?" the bass player demanded. He jumped up and started waving his arms around, occasionally pointing at Mitchell. "We're a band and we rely on each other but that doesn't mean we slack off. It means we all work our asses off to be the best fucking band we can be. That doesn't mean you sit on your pampered ass and wait for Eric to show up with the fucking candy. That means you use my escape route out that window of yours and we go fucking trick-or-treat so we have something to give our fans, dumbfuck!"
"Not in a skirt," Mitchell said calmly, picking at a fold. Really, he thought, these things weren't so bad, once you got used to them. It was sort of free inside there, not all caught up inside a denim casing like a sausage or something.
Trevor jumped up and down, his eyes screwed shut, his motorcycle boots thunking on the floor. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Nothing. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Fuck off. I'm the one giving a fuck around here."
"No," Mitchell said, sitting up and adjusting the bra. They'd stuffed it with socks, of course, although Trevor had sniggered and suggested using underwear. It didn't matter what was in there; Mitchell now had a much better idea of why they called them knockers. "It's not about whether or not I give a fuck. It's about how long we have to wait to pull off my plan."
"Oh, a plan," Trevor said with an exaggerated sniff and wag of his head.
Mitchell stared at the ceiling and asked whoever was hanging out up there
for some patience. "Yes, a plan, you dumbass," he said. "It's simple. We hand out candy. One to the kids, one to us. By the time we need to split, we're set."
"And how are you planning on getting that past Mom? You know she won't go for it."
"It's simple. Either we take it, or we eat it. Remember what happened last time you hit a sugar high?"
"Fuckhead."
Mitchell laughed. He stood up and held his arms out. "So tell me. Do my boots go with the skirt?"
For more Scandalous happenings, check out this week's Sunday Scribblings. And, as always, I invite you back to my website where you can learn more about Trevor and Mitchell and where you can gain easy access to see more of them in action.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, holidays, Mitchell, Sunday Scribblings, Trevor
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Rusty's Place (Trevor's Song Era)
So this was it, Trevor thought as he followed Mitchell off the elevator and down the narrow, dark hallway. This was the other love shack, the one Mitchell bonked Rusty in when he wasn't doing her in his own place. Trevor wasn't so sure he wanted to go in. Hell, he wasn't sure why Mitchell wanted in Rusty, but the big idiot had never been the smartest thing around when it came to girls.
At least the door to Rusty's place was cool: floor to ceiling and on these rollers that made a great noise when Mitchell pulled it open. It looked old and industrial and was almost as interesting as his place.
The first thing Trevor noticed was the space. Huge. Empty. A few ugly couches, a few lights set around them like he'd seen at photo shoots the band had been on. And a drafting desk, white, facing the couches.
A couple of mismatched throw rugs on the floor. Rusty's bike by the door, and hooks for keys and shit. Not hooks, he realized as he looked closer. Carabiners. They made stealing her keys pretty fucking hard, the way they were rigged, there. It was almost a good idea.
Behind the drafting desk, he saw a couple of stools, one of which held Her Rustiness. Her shadow fell behind her on one of those screens for privacy that had some soothing nature scene painted on it. That must be her living space back there, but damn if Trevor could see any of it. Damn if Trevor wanted to see it.
He hated to admit it, but the whole place added up to some sort of artsy style. A little too serious to be a student's digs but at the same time it was obvious she wasn't on easy street. If this wasn't Rusty's place, he might even have been able to respect the person who lived here.
"Hey, you're here," she said from behind that drafting desk. She lifted her head and pierced him with those damn eyes of hers. Trevor still didn't understand how Mitchell had found a girl who had the famous Voss eyes.
"Yep," Mitchell said, crossing the couch area and going over to Rusty. He put his hands on her waist and kissed her like he was trying to crawl down her throat. All of him, not just his tongue.
Trevor looked around, wondering where the bathroom was. Just in case bad judgment got the better of him and he decided not to yak on her floor. Watching her clean up that mess would be sublime -- assuming Mitchell didn't make him do it himself, which the idiot would probably do. After all, Rusty might get her precious self dirty or something.
He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It hadn't hit him; it couldn't be Mitchell. That meant…
He jumped again, away from Rusty this time. He gave her a quick once-over: paint-covered sweatpants that used to be grey and a sorta snug but not tight t-shirt. He couldn't deny she had a good shape. Even worse, the paint streaks brought that out.
That she was barefoot didn't surprise him. Mitchell would have to fall for someone who hated clothes as much as he did. It was that simple, until you got to the eyes. That was just fucking freaky.
"Hi, Trev," she said like he hadn't just handed out this insult by getting away from her touch. Sometimes, he thought she was clueless, but then he looked in those eyes and knew better. The Queen of Polite, that's what he ought to call her. Maybe he would -- except Rusty fit so much better. And it pissed her off.
Trevor realized he had no cranky comeback for her. Nothing about the lack of walls helping make sure she didn't get lost. Nothing about the high ceilings or those couches. Nothing.
Mitchell growled and stuck an elbow in his ribs. Trevor glared at him and reached for his cigarettes.
"Let's get rolling," Mitchell said.
"I need to change," Rusty said. She vanished behind the stupid screen.
"You can't change enough," Trevor told her and placed an unlit cigarette in its usual place at the corner of his mouth.
"How did I know you'd say that?" she asked. It was weird, talking to her like this. He couldn't see her but nothing was muffling her voice. It was like talking to someone who was invisible. Then again, life would be better if she wasn't there at all.
"Maybe you're a fucking clairvoyant or something."
"Maybe I'm just smart," she said, coming around the screen all dressed in jeans and another t-shirt, this one without paint on it. "We ready?" She held her arm out. Mitchell grabbed it and wound it around his waist.
Trevor tried not to gag. "I'm readier than you'll ever know," he said.
"Good thing," she said as Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor's head. It wasn't hard; just enough to remind him to watch himself. Like he'd do anything else here in Rusty's lair. If she'd used it to snag Mitchell, there was no telling what she'd do to him.
So you've met Trevor, Mitchell, and Kerri over the past week. Now you get to see them in action, as part of the Sunday Scribblings prompt.
I don't know about this one. For those of you who're regulars, I'm going to drive you NUTS when I say this: it feels like it belongs right inside of Trevor's Song. Sorry, but it's true.
Stay tuned for news on how to help get that book into your hands. There's a lot brewing behind the scenes here. And yes, you'll like it all.
At least the door to Rusty's place was cool: floor to ceiling and on these rollers that made a great noise when Mitchell pulled it open. It looked old and industrial and was almost as interesting as his place.
The first thing Trevor noticed was the space. Huge. Empty. A few ugly couches, a few lights set around them like he'd seen at photo shoots the band had been on. And a drafting desk, white, facing the couches.
A couple of mismatched throw rugs on the floor. Rusty's bike by the door, and hooks for keys and shit. Not hooks, he realized as he looked closer. Carabiners. They made stealing her keys pretty fucking hard, the way they were rigged, there. It was almost a good idea.
Behind the drafting desk, he saw a couple of stools, one of which held Her Rustiness. Her shadow fell behind her on one of those screens for privacy that had some soothing nature scene painted on it. That must be her living space back there, but damn if Trevor could see any of it. Damn if Trevor wanted to see it.
He hated to admit it, but the whole place added up to some sort of artsy style. A little too serious to be a student's digs but at the same time it was obvious she wasn't on easy street. If this wasn't Rusty's place, he might even have been able to respect the person who lived here.
"Hey, you're here," she said from behind that drafting desk. She lifted her head and pierced him with those damn eyes of hers. Trevor still didn't understand how Mitchell had found a girl who had the famous Voss eyes.
"Yep," Mitchell said, crossing the couch area and going over to Rusty. He put his hands on her waist and kissed her like he was trying to crawl down her throat. All of him, not just his tongue.
Trevor looked around, wondering where the bathroom was. Just in case bad judgment got the better of him and he decided not to yak on her floor. Watching her clean up that mess would be sublime -- assuming Mitchell didn't make him do it himself, which the idiot would probably do. After all, Rusty might get her precious self dirty or something.
He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It hadn't hit him; it couldn't be Mitchell. That meant…
He jumped again, away from Rusty this time. He gave her a quick once-over: paint-covered sweatpants that used to be grey and a sorta snug but not tight t-shirt. He couldn't deny she had a good shape. Even worse, the paint streaks brought that out.
That she was barefoot didn't surprise him. Mitchell would have to fall for someone who hated clothes as much as he did. It was that simple, until you got to the eyes. That was just fucking freaky.
"Hi, Trev," she said like he hadn't just handed out this insult by getting away from her touch. Sometimes, he thought she was clueless, but then he looked in those eyes and knew better. The Queen of Polite, that's what he ought to call her. Maybe he would -- except Rusty fit so much better. And it pissed her off.
Trevor realized he had no cranky comeback for her. Nothing about the lack of walls helping make sure she didn't get lost. Nothing about the high ceilings or those couches. Nothing.
Mitchell growled and stuck an elbow in his ribs. Trevor glared at him and reached for his cigarettes.
"Let's get rolling," Mitchell said.
"I need to change," Rusty said. She vanished behind the stupid screen.
"You can't change enough," Trevor told her and placed an unlit cigarette in its usual place at the corner of his mouth.
"How did I know you'd say that?" she asked. It was weird, talking to her like this. He couldn't see her but nothing was muffling her voice. It was like talking to someone who was invisible. Then again, life would be better if she wasn't there at all.
"Maybe you're a fucking clairvoyant or something."
"Maybe I'm just smart," she said, coming around the screen all dressed in jeans and another t-shirt, this one without paint on it. "We ready?" She held her arm out. Mitchell grabbed it and wound it around his waist.
Trevor tried not to gag. "I'm readier than you'll ever know," he said.
"Good thing," she said as Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor's head. It wasn't hard; just enough to remind him to watch himself. Like he'd do anything else here in Rusty's lair. If she'd used it to snag Mitchell, there was no telling what she'd do to him.
So you've met Trevor, Mitchell, and Kerri over the past week. Now you get to see them in action, as part of the Sunday Scribblings prompt.
I don't know about this one. For those of you who're regulars, I'm going to drive you NUTS when I say this: it feels like it belongs right inside of Trevor's Song. Sorry, but it's true.
Stay tuned for news on how to help get that book into your hands. There's a lot brewing behind the scenes here. And yes, you'll like it all.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Kerri, Mitchell, Sunday Scribblings, Trevor
Friday, September 12, 2008
100 Words: Twist (Pre-Trevor's Song Era)
There had to be something fucked up about it. Normal people didn't come off stage and crave ice cream, but then again, Trevor Wolff wasn't normal people.
Not mere ice cream. Soft serve. Or softish old-fashioned, the kind that demands constant attention and a tongue pushing it down to the bottom of the cone and wiping up what spills over the sides and down over your hands…
Mitchell liked to drag a willing girl into the shower But Trevor, he liked to wait. To make that trip and choose which you felt like: vanilla or chocolate. Or some of each.
Methinks there's more than one twist going on here, but I'm not entirely certain. You decide.
If you're new to Trevor and Mitchell, well, what took you so long to get here? Come hang out with everyone's favorite fictional band! Click on the boys' names to be taken to a character sketch page that'll tell you all you need to know and even give you extra links to see them in action.
This short piece was written for Velvet Verbosity's 100 word challenge. Come join in; it's a great writing exercise.
Not mere ice cream. Soft serve. Or softish old-fashioned, the kind that demands constant attention and a tongue pushing it down to the bottom of the cone and wiping up what spills over the sides and down over your hands…
Mitchell liked to drag a willing girl into the shower But Trevor, he liked to wait. To make that trip and choose which you felt like: vanilla or chocolate. Or some of each.
Methinks there's more than one twist going on here, but I'm not entirely certain. You decide.
If you're new to Trevor and Mitchell, well, what took you so long to get here? Come hang out with everyone's favorite fictional band! Click on the boys' names to be taken to a character sketch page that'll tell you all you need to know and even give you extra links to see them in action.
This short piece was written for Velvet Verbosity's 100 word challenge. Come join in; it's a great writing exercise.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, food, Mitchell, touring, Trevor, Velvet Verbosity
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Fiction Outtake: The Time After Dinner (The Early Days)
It's not necessary, but it may help if you visit The Time Before Dinner. This is a sequel of sorts. You should be able to catch on to the basic idea if you're too lazy to go look, though.
When Mitchell got up after dinner and left the house, Trevor knew exactly where he was going -- and why. He figured he'd give the idiot a while to get his head together, but Amy started bugging him, grabbing at his forearm and being so fucking whiny that Trevor left the house to track down Mitchell sooner than he wanted to.
Sure enough, Mitchell was in their spot by the river, chewing on a piece of grass and staring at nothing. He was all stretched out, his legs crossed at the ankle, the hand that wasn't playing with the grass in his mouth tucked up behind his head.
He looked like Huck Finn. He even had his shoes off.
Trevor sat down beside him and stared at the river. It was barely moving today. Even the air was still. "Yeah?" Trevor asked. "So?"
"So what?"
With a curl in his upper lip, Trevor mimicked Mitchell. Like the idiot didn't know what this was all about. "I go to all that trouble to find you a girl who's willing to take on your virginal ass and that's all you can say to me?"
"Uhh… thanks?"
Trevor grabbed the grass and yanked it out of Mitchell's mouth.
Mitchell yelped and sat up, fingers hovering over his lip. "Fuckhead!"
"That didn't hurt, you baby." He made a show of looking Mitchell up and down. "It's a fucking miracle I was able to find someone for you, and this shit is exactly why."
Mitchell turned away and didn't say anything.
Trevor let him stew. He lit up a cigarette and waited.
"So," he said when Mitchell relaxed a hair, "did you last longer than thirty seconds?"
"Fucker."
Trevor crowed, the cigarette dangling off his lower lip as he laughed. "You didn't, did you! I fucking knew it!"
"I lasted," Mitchell growled.
"One day. Two miracles. Think Hell's about to freeze over?"
Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor's head. Trevor just grinned.
"How'd you do it?" he asked when Mitchell stopped growling. "Multiplication tables?"
"Chords. I talked myself through two different Rat Catcher songs."
"What?"
"What's wrong?"
"You're there with a girl for the first fucking time ever and all you can do is play your fucking guitar?"
"It worked, didn't it? Two Rat Catcher songs… that's, like, ten minutes!"
"You stupid fuck. You've got a girl. Don't you know what that means?"
"I do now, yeah."
Trevor wanted to smear Mitchell's grin into the riverbank. "No! No, no, no!" He jumped up and pulled his cigarette off his lip. It felt like it tore and for a second, he could see a piece of grass hanging out of Mitchell's mouth. But only for a second; he had more important things to set the stupid ass straight about.
Mitchell was looking at him, his elbows hooked around his knees.
He took that as permission to rant. "Girls are soft. They smell good. They're curvy and fun to touch. They squirm. And, oh fuck, the sounds they make. You didn't notice any of that, did you?"
"Yeah. Of course!"
"Then what the fuck did you need to play your stupid-assed guitar for?"
"'Cause if I hadn't, you'd be sitting here yelling at me for being too fast and not stopping to appreciate her the right way. Why'd you come out here, anyway? Nothing I do is ever right yet you never shut up about what a perfect person I am. It can't be both ways, know that?"
Mitchell was on his feet now. His eyes had turned that dark blue that Trevor knew meant danger, and his face was red.
Trevor took a step back. Maybe Mitchell had been smart enough to figure this girl stuff out on his own. But on the other hand, maybe he hadn't been.
"And you should just stay outta my sex life anyway!" Mitchell yelled.
"If I did that, you wouldn't have one!"
He knew the fist to his gut was coming. It felt good when it landed, taking some of his breath away and doubling him over not quite in half. Instinct made him want to cover his head, but this was Mitchell, and it ended there. He wasn't Hank; he knew when to stop.
Too bad I don't, Trevor thought as his breath came back and he straightened up. "You should be thanking me."
"For the girl? Yeah, sure, whatever. For showing up here and putting on your high-and-mighty act? No fucking way. Take it with you and leave me the fuck alone already." Mitchell sat down, his back to Trevor. He was probably staring off at the river, but his back was shaking.
Trevor went and sat beside him. "Okay, I'm done being a dick now."
"Good."
"Was it?" He nudged Mitchell with his elbow and watched as the guy fought with himself. It was more fun to stay pissed, Trevor knew that. Smart people got out of the way when Mitchell was pissed.
Trevor wasn't smart. He was also Mitchell's best friend. He knew if he waited, he'd get it.
"Yeah, it was good," the big idiot finally said. He let out a deep breath and nodded. "It was good."
When Mitchell got up after dinner and left the house, Trevor knew exactly where he was going -- and why. He figured he'd give the idiot a while to get his head together, but Amy started bugging him, grabbing at his forearm and being so fucking whiny that Trevor left the house to track down Mitchell sooner than he wanted to.
Sure enough, Mitchell was in their spot by the river, chewing on a piece of grass and staring at nothing. He was all stretched out, his legs crossed at the ankle, the hand that wasn't playing with the grass in his mouth tucked up behind his head.
He looked like Huck Finn. He even had his shoes off.
Trevor sat down beside him and stared at the river. It was barely moving today. Even the air was still. "Yeah?" Trevor asked. "So?"
"So what?"
With a curl in his upper lip, Trevor mimicked Mitchell. Like the idiot didn't know what this was all about. "I go to all that trouble to find you a girl who's willing to take on your virginal ass and that's all you can say to me?"
"Uhh… thanks?"
Trevor grabbed the grass and yanked it out of Mitchell's mouth.
Mitchell yelped and sat up, fingers hovering over his lip. "Fuckhead!"
"That didn't hurt, you baby." He made a show of looking Mitchell up and down. "It's a fucking miracle I was able to find someone for you, and this shit is exactly why."
Mitchell turned away and didn't say anything.
Trevor let him stew. He lit up a cigarette and waited.
"So," he said when Mitchell relaxed a hair, "did you last longer than thirty seconds?"
"Fucker."
Trevor crowed, the cigarette dangling off his lower lip as he laughed. "You didn't, did you! I fucking knew it!"
"I lasted," Mitchell growled.
"One day. Two miracles. Think Hell's about to freeze over?"
Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor's head. Trevor just grinned.
"How'd you do it?" he asked when Mitchell stopped growling. "Multiplication tables?"
"Chords. I talked myself through two different Rat Catcher songs."
"What?"
"What's wrong?"
"You're there with a girl for the first fucking time ever and all you can do is play your fucking guitar?"
"It worked, didn't it? Two Rat Catcher songs… that's, like, ten minutes!"
"You stupid fuck. You've got a girl. Don't you know what that means?"
"I do now, yeah."
Trevor wanted to smear Mitchell's grin into the riverbank. "No! No, no, no!" He jumped up and pulled his cigarette off his lip. It felt like it tore and for a second, he could see a piece of grass hanging out of Mitchell's mouth. But only for a second; he had more important things to set the stupid ass straight about.
Mitchell was looking at him, his elbows hooked around his knees.
He took that as permission to rant. "Girls are soft. They smell good. They're curvy and fun to touch. They squirm. And, oh fuck, the sounds they make. You didn't notice any of that, did you?"
"Yeah. Of course!"
"Then what the fuck did you need to play your stupid-assed guitar for?"
"'Cause if I hadn't, you'd be sitting here yelling at me for being too fast and not stopping to appreciate her the right way. Why'd you come out here, anyway? Nothing I do is ever right yet you never shut up about what a perfect person I am. It can't be both ways, know that?"
Mitchell was on his feet now. His eyes had turned that dark blue that Trevor knew meant danger, and his face was red.
Trevor took a step back. Maybe Mitchell had been smart enough to figure this girl stuff out on his own. But on the other hand, maybe he hadn't been.
"And you should just stay outta my sex life anyway!" Mitchell yelled.
"If I did that, you wouldn't have one!"
He knew the fist to his gut was coming. It felt good when it landed, taking some of his breath away and doubling him over not quite in half. Instinct made him want to cover his head, but this was Mitchell, and it ended there. He wasn't Hank; he knew when to stop.
Too bad I don't, Trevor thought as his breath came back and he straightened up. "You should be thanking me."
"For the girl? Yeah, sure, whatever. For showing up here and putting on your high-and-mighty act? No fucking way. Take it with you and leave me the fuck alone already." Mitchell sat down, his back to Trevor. He was probably staring off at the river, but his back was shaking.
Trevor went and sat beside him. "Okay, I'm done being a dick now."
"Good."
"Was it?" He nudged Mitchell with his elbow and watched as the guy fought with himself. It was more fun to stay pissed, Trevor knew that. Smart people got out of the way when Mitchell was pissed.
Trevor wasn't smart. He was also Mitchell's best friend. He knew if he waited, he'd get it.
"Yeah, it was good," the big idiot finally said. He let out a deep breath and nodded. "It was good."
Labels: brotherly love, creative writing, fiction, fiction outtake, Mitchell, Trevor
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Bored on the Bus (Trevor's Song Era)
They'd been on the bus for what felt like weeks. So long that they were way overdue for a day off inside of an actual hotel room -- and every single member of ShapeShifter was grossed out by the thought of how excited they were about something as sterile and isolated as a hotel room. But at this point, with only the bus or the inside of the venue to look at, a hotel seemed like the ultimate luxury.
During these stretches, it wasn't unusual for no one to talk. No one had anything to say, really. Not when you were spending exactly every waking minute with each other. Not when you'd done this dance for years.
Mitchell didn't even have much to say to Kerri, which was pretty pathetic considering they were still newlyweds. She didn't seem to care, except that she was as bored as the rest of them. So bored that she had squished herself on the couch beside him, her chin on his upraised knee. Instead of drawing, she was playing idly with the hair on his leg. He knew she wouldn't be doing it if he'd put his jeans back on, but when all you were doing was sitting on a bus, why bother with pants?
He could only take so much of Kerri's petting and stroking. It wasn't hot, it wasn't comforting. It was just damn annoying.
He lifted his leg and straightened it, moving gently so he didn't startle her onto the floor or hurt her. "Woman," he growled, "my leg is not a guitar. If you want to strum something, go find one."
With a shrug, Kerri stood up.
"What are you doing?" He knew he flailed as he sat up, but he didn't care. She'd been supposed to stop petting him, not do … whatever.
"Getting a guitar," she said carelessly, and disappeared into the bunks.
Eric and Daniel chuckled as Mitchell groaned, but Trevor nodded. "That'll teach your dumb ass," the bass player said and lit a cigarette. "You know she can't resist a challenge. Even an easy one like that."
"At least it'll give us something to do," Daniel said as Kerri came back carrying Mabel.
She sat down at the other end of Trevor's couch, facing Mitchell, and put the guitar properly on her right leg. Then she shook out her hair and straightened her back, looking to the table at Eric. Mitchell noticed how pointedly she ignored him. He tried to keep his latest groan inaudible; it would only egg her on.
"So. What do I do now?" she asked Eric, a too-bright smile plastered to her face.
Mitchell wanted to cover his own face with his hands. Anything to keep from watching this. But he couldn't look away.
"You need a pick," Eric said.
Kerri handed the guitar to Trevor, who took it with a sneer. She stood up, watching Mitchell as if she expected him to do something.
"What?" he asked as she stared down at him. Fuck, but he hated it when she smiled like that. All smug and full of herself -- and about to make him the butt of some joke, he was sure. Anyone with a shred of common sense would get up and leave before it happened, but he was stuck there, both by his own inertia and some sick need to be present.
Kerri bent down so she could reach across him, making sure she brushed her breast against his face. She dug in the change pocket of his jeans.
He refused to so much as breathe until she came up with one of the eight million or so picks they'd had made for this tour. He told himself not to panic; he still had two others in there. And maybe she'd give it back. Or, even better, make him come looking for it.
She smirked at him as she reseated herself and took Mabel back from Trevor.
"Okay," she said to Eric, "now what?"
Trevor leaned forward as Eric motioned Mitchell out of the way so he could sit across from Kerri and give her instructions. She made a show of not knowing how to hold the pick or how to use it.
Her performance set Mitchell's teeth on edge. And that was before she struck a note.
"What about my face?" she asked when Eric told her she was ready to move on to the next step.
"What about it?" Eric asked.
"Not even Asshole there can play guitar with his face," Trevor said, jerking his chin at Mitchell, who growled. Kerri didn't need to know about the time he'd tried. Hell, Mitchell wasn't srue Trevor knew about it.
Kerri took a deep, exaggerated breath. "I know that," she said. "But to watch the three of you, in order to play guitar, you also have to make faces. Like this," she said, puckering up like she'd eaten a lemon. "Or this," she said, opening her mouth and widening her eyes.
Daniel laughed.
"Oh, you're not much better, you know," Kerri said, pointing the pick at him. She stuck her tongue into her cheek and, again, let her jaw drop open.
Mitchell bit back a smile, but Eric didn't bother hiding it. Her faces were poor imitations of theirs, but they got the point across. Daniel pretended he didn't care, and Trevor was pretending he wasn't paying attention, even though his eyes flicked back and forth. He was, like always, too full of himself to give in and have a good time, especially because it was Kerri at the root of it all. Trevor couldn't stand it when she pulled shit like this -- because he wanted to be the one at the center of it.
"You know what's going to happen now?" Daniel asked, picking up Eric's cigarettes and fiddling with the pack. "We're going to get on stage tonight and obsess about our faces."
That was entirely too true.
Mitchell told himself he shouldn't care. Guitar players were supposed to make faces; the girls in the crowd ate it up. The guys thought it was the path to coolness -- and a lot of them practiced their faces more than they did their guitars even though the more you played, the more natural the faces turned. It was all part of rock and roll.
Besides, he told himself as Kerri tried to stand up, only to discover the hard way that guitars had straps for a specific reason, if this got inside his head too bad, he'd divorce the wench.
But in the meantime, at least he wasn't bored.
Has it been too long since we've had an outtake just for the fun or it, or WHAT?
If you're new around here, the best way to figure out what's up is to head over to my main website and poke around. Or click on each character's name above; that'll take you to their character sketch page on the website. You can read about everyone, or click on some of the links at the bottom of the page and be taken back here to the blog for more of the gang in action.
During these stretches, it wasn't unusual for no one to talk. No one had anything to say, really. Not when you were spending exactly every waking minute with each other. Not when you'd done this dance for years.
Mitchell didn't even have much to say to Kerri, which was pretty pathetic considering they were still newlyweds. She didn't seem to care, except that she was as bored as the rest of them. So bored that she had squished herself on the couch beside him, her chin on his upraised knee. Instead of drawing, she was playing idly with the hair on his leg. He knew she wouldn't be doing it if he'd put his jeans back on, but when all you were doing was sitting on a bus, why bother with pants?
He could only take so much of Kerri's petting and stroking. It wasn't hot, it wasn't comforting. It was just damn annoying.
He lifted his leg and straightened it, moving gently so he didn't startle her onto the floor or hurt her. "Woman," he growled, "my leg is not a guitar. If you want to strum something, go find one."
With a shrug, Kerri stood up.
"What are you doing?" He knew he flailed as he sat up, but he didn't care. She'd been supposed to stop petting him, not do … whatever.
"Getting a guitar," she said carelessly, and disappeared into the bunks.
Eric and Daniel chuckled as Mitchell groaned, but Trevor nodded. "That'll teach your dumb ass," the bass player said and lit a cigarette. "You know she can't resist a challenge. Even an easy one like that."
"At least it'll give us something to do," Daniel said as Kerri came back carrying Mabel.
She sat down at the other end of Trevor's couch, facing Mitchell, and put the guitar properly on her right leg. Then she shook out her hair and straightened her back, looking to the table at Eric. Mitchell noticed how pointedly she ignored him. He tried to keep his latest groan inaudible; it would only egg her on.
"So. What do I do now?" she asked Eric, a too-bright smile plastered to her face.
Mitchell wanted to cover his own face with his hands. Anything to keep from watching this. But he couldn't look away.
"You need a pick," Eric said.
Kerri handed the guitar to Trevor, who took it with a sneer. She stood up, watching Mitchell as if she expected him to do something.
"What?" he asked as she stared down at him. Fuck, but he hated it when she smiled like that. All smug and full of herself -- and about to make him the butt of some joke, he was sure. Anyone with a shred of common sense would get up and leave before it happened, but he was stuck there, both by his own inertia and some sick need to be present.
Kerri bent down so she could reach across him, making sure she brushed her breast against his face. She dug in the change pocket of his jeans.
He refused to so much as breathe until she came up with one of the eight million or so picks they'd had made for this tour. He told himself not to panic; he still had two others in there. And maybe she'd give it back. Or, even better, make him come looking for it.
She smirked at him as she reseated herself and took Mabel back from Trevor.
"Okay," she said to Eric, "now what?"
Trevor leaned forward as Eric motioned Mitchell out of the way so he could sit across from Kerri and give her instructions. She made a show of not knowing how to hold the pick or how to use it.
Her performance set Mitchell's teeth on edge. And that was before she struck a note.
"What about my face?" she asked when Eric told her she was ready to move on to the next step.
"What about it?" Eric asked.
"Not even Asshole there can play guitar with his face," Trevor said, jerking his chin at Mitchell, who growled. Kerri didn't need to know about the time he'd tried. Hell, Mitchell wasn't srue Trevor knew about it.
Kerri took a deep, exaggerated breath. "I know that," she said. "But to watch the three of you, in order to play guitar, you also have to make faces. Like this," she said, puckering up like she'd eaten a lemon. "Or this," she said, opening her mouth and widening her eyes.
Daniel laughed.
"Oh, you're not much better, you know," Kerri said, pointing the pick at him. She stuck her tongue into her cheek and, again, let her jaw drop open.
Mitchell bit back a smile, but Eric didn't bother hiding it. Her faces were poor imitations of theirs, but they got the point across. Daniel pretended he didn't care, and Trevor was pretending he wasn't paying attention, even though his eyes flicked back and forth. He was, like always, too full of himself to give in and have a good time, especially because it was Kerri at the root of it all. Trevor couldn't stand it when she pulled shit like this -- because he wanted to be the one at the center of it.
"You know what's going to happen now?" Daniel asked, picking up Eric's cigarettes and fiddling with the pack. "We're going to get on stage tonight and obsess about our faces."
That was entirely too true.
Mitchell told himself he shouldn't care. Guitar players were supposed to make faces; the girls in the crowd ate it up. The guys thought it was the path to coolness -- and a lot of them practiced their faces more than they did their guitars even though the more you played, the more natural the faces turned. It was all part of rock and roll.
Besides, he told himself as Kerri tried to stand up, only to discover the hard way that guitars had straps for a specific reason, if this got inside his head too bad, he'd divorce the wench.
But in the meantime, at least he wasn't bored.
Has it been too long since we've had an outtake just for the fun or it, or WHAT?
If you're new around here, the best way to figure out what's up is to head over to my main website and poke around. Or click on each character's name above; that'll take you to their character sketch page on the website. You can read about everyone, or click on some of the links at the bottom of the page and be taken back here to the blog for more of the gang in action.
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, Eric, fiction, fiction outtake, Mitchell, ShapeShifter, touring, Trevor
Friday, August 15, 2008
100 Words: Corn
Amy wanted corn. It was her turn to make dinner. Mitchell had volunteered to buy corn. "It's summertime," he'd said, then promised he would throw it on the grill. Mitchell liked grilled corn and Amy hated cooking. It worked all around.
Problem was, it was still early in the summer. The corn wasn't ripe. And Amy wasn't telling what else she was making, which made it hard to guess what else to buy.
There were packages of corn in the freezer, already shucked. That seemed wrong; everyone knew corn was better fresh.
But Amy wanted corn. She'd better appreciate this.
I wish I had a relationship with my sisters like Mitchell has with Amy. For more of their antics, see The Time Before Dinner, Naked, and Baking Cookies.
Notice how much I wind up writing about food? I wonder what a psychiatrist would say about me and this tendency of mine... No, on second thought, I don't.
More food: Soy Sauce 1, Soy Sauce 2, and Val's Cake.
If you want to know more about Mitchell and Amy, click on their names and you can take the magic ride back to their bio pages. At the bottom of those pages are more links for you, if these weren't enough.
Problem was, it was still early in the summer. The corn wasn't ripe. And Amy wasn't telling what else she was making, which made it hard to guess what else to buy.
There were packages of corn in the freezer, already shucked. That seemed wrong; everyone knew corn was better fresh.
But Amy wanted corn. She'd better appreciate this.
I wish I had a relationship with my sisters like Mitchell has with Amy. For more of their antics, see The Time Before Dinner, Naked, and Baking Cookies.
Notice how much I wind up writing about food? I wonder what a psychiatrist would say about me and this tendency of mine... No, on second thought, I don't.
More food: Soy Sauce 1, Soy Sauce 2, and Val's Cake.
If you want to know more about Mitchell and Amy, click on their names and you can take the magic ride back to their bio pages. At the bottom of those pages are more links for you, if these weren't enough.
Labels: Amy, Mitchell, Velvet Verbosity
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Key Lime Pie (Trevor's Song era)
No Thirteen this week, as I'm off to Cub Scout Camp again this summer. As a treat, I thought I'd show you what you guys inspired, based on your responses to this Thirteen I wrote back in May. Hope you like it; there may be more to follow if you do.
Eric didn't notice it until he was on his way back to sound check. He'd just taken a bathroom break that had been long enough to make his tech feel like part of the band instead of the stand-in for the real guitarist. Stupid touring; it got to him like this every few weeks, it seemed. It got to all of them, but he swore, he got it the worst.
He stopped by the deli tray to grab a slice of turkey. That's when he noticed it, sitting on the end of the table like it didn't need to be kept cold or anything.
Mitchell was not going to be happy about it.
Eric wasn't quite out of the dressing room when the rest of the guys pushed through the door.
"Nice of you to come back," Trevor told him with one of his usual sneers. "I thought you were a member of ShapeShifter."
"I didn't really want the guy puking on stage," Mitchell told the bass player. Eric tried to get a feel for the guy's mood. Sometimes, sound check went well and mellowed Mitchell out. Sometimes, it totally sucked and the guy was a dragon. Right now, he was talkative.
"Remember what happened when that one roadie puked?" Mitchell asked. "How fucking bad it smelled? And it lasted until the end of the tour, too. No, Eric, you did the right thing, ducking out on us. We wrote a new song," the band leader said.
Eric smiled wanly and flopped down on the couch. Mitchell was in a good enough mood. Maybe he wouldn't hurt someone when he noticed it.
… or then again, maybe he would, Eric thought when Mitchell growled, "What the fuck is that?"
Eric sat up to look.
Mitchell stood in front of it, breathing so hard, his nostrils flared. "Get someone in here who can explain this," he said.
Since the four of them were alone at the moment, Daniel jumped to do it.
"Just use it for an ashtray," Trevor said, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and reaching to lead by example.
Mitchell strong-armed him out of the way.
"Well, fuck you, too," Trevor said.
"Not until we get some fucking answers," Mitchell growled. He hadn't taken his eyes off it. Eric wasn't sure he would, even though it was pretty obvious the thing wasn't going to move by itself.
Daniel came back. "They're going to find someone," he said and stood on his toes to peek over Mitchell's shoulder, as if he needed to be shielded from it. "At least this one's not green."
Mitchell growled more loudly. Daniel backed off. Even Trevor took a step back.
A few minutes passed with no one really knowing what to do. All four of them kept throwing glances at it, like they expected it to get up and come after them or something. Maybe melt, Eric decided, picking up a can of Coke from a bus tray full of melting ice. If that ice was melting, there was no way the non-green thing was in good shape.
Not like any of them would be dumb enough to eat it.
"There's a problem?" The mousy man who led Charlie, the band's tour manager, into the dressing room had seven strands of hair left at the front of his head. They'd been pulled back into a ponytail and they made the guy instantly memorable.
Charlie peeked over Mitchell's shoulder. "Whoa. That's some bad vibes." He turned to the mousy guy. "That a key lime pie?"
Mousy guy nodded. "My wife made it. She said she read in a magazine that you guys like key lime pies."
From across the room, Eric could hear Mitchell breathing. Hard. He closed his eyes and hoped the guy wasn't about to explode.
"Take it out of here," Mitchell said. It wasn't a request.
"But my wife…"
"Take it!"
"What'll I tell her?" The guy's eyes were darting everywhere, like he was about to panic.
Mitchell picked up the pie and pressed it firmly into the guy's chest. "Tell her you hope it doesn't stain. And tell her she needs to be more careful about what she reads because we fucking hate key lime pie."
He let go. Half the pie fell to the floor. The other half stuck to the guy's shirt.
"Oh," the guy said in such a small voice, it was almost a squeak.
Eric stood up. "Look," he said, "thank your wife for the pie, but explain to her that she read an article written by a reporter who has a problem with us ever since Trevor puked on him after eating a key lime pie that some fan had made."
"But my wife…"
Daniel put a hand on the guy's shoulder, looking with distaste at the custard smeared on his shirt, "Was wrong, and you got off light. We're the band. This pie was a violation of our concert rider and we could pull even more of a prima donna routine and make you very unhappy. You got off light. Hell, Charlie, give the guy a free t-shirt to wear and then call JR. We don't do shows with this joker anymore."
The mousy guy paled. "But…"
Mitchell started to laugh. "You're the promoter and you fucked up this royally? Dude, you're done. Go fucking sell real estate or something." He jerked his head toward the door and Charlie sprang into action, escorting the mousy promoter dude out of the dressing room.
Trevor and Daniel laughed. Even Mitchell relaxed enough to smile.
"The best laid plans…" Eric said and decided that pie or no, he needed to return to the bathroom.
Ahh, yes. Sometimes, it sucks to be in a band. If you're new to ShapeShifter, or if you want to read more, click on the links in each band member's name. That'll take you to that person's bio page. Once you've read the bio and gotten a bit of a background on them, you can follow the links at the bottom to read more of their adventures.
Not sure where to start?
Here are a few of my favorite ShapeShifter adventures on the road:
Backstage Party
Bean Dip #1
Bean Dip #2
Green Hair Week -- The Concert (You may need to read the whole series to really get it, but it's fun.)
If you need me for anything, I'll be back in a few days. The Tour Manager will hold the fort down while I'm gone.
Eric didn't notice it until he was on his way back to sound check. He'd just taken a bathroom break that had been long enough to make his tech feel like part of the band instead of the stand-in for the real guitarist. Stupid touring; it got to him like this every few weeks, it seemed. It got to all of them, but he swore, he got it the worst.
He stopped by the deli tray to grab a slice of turkey. That's when he noticed it, sitting on the end of the table like it didn't need to be kept cold or anything.
Mitchell was not going to be happy about it.
Eric wasn't quite out of the dressing room when the rest of the guys pushed through the door.
"Nice of you to come back," Trevor told him with one of his usual sneers. "I thought you were a member of ShapeShifter."
"I didn't really want the guy puking on stage," Mitchell told the bass player. Eric tried to get a feel for the guy's mood. Sometimes, sound check went well and mellowed Mitchell out. Sometimes, it totally sucked and the guy was a dragon. Right now, he was talkative.
"Remember what happened when that one roadie puked?" Mitchell asked. "How fucking bad it smelled? And it lasted until the end of the tour, too. No, Eric, you did the right thing, ducking out on us. We wrote a new song," the band leader said.
Eric smiled wanly and flopped down on the couch. Mitchell was in a good enough mood. Maybe he wouldn't hurt someone when he noticed it.
… or then again, maybe he would, Eric thought when Mitchell growled, "What the fuck is that?"
Eric sat up to look.
Mitchell stood in front of it, breathing so hard, his nostrils flared. "Get someone in here who can explain this," he said.
Since the four of them were alone at the moment, Daniel jumped to do it.
"Just use it for an ashtray," Trevor said, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and reaching to lead by example.
Mitchell strong-armed him out of the way.
"Well, fuck you, too," Trevor said.
"Not until we get some fucking answers," Mitchell growled. He hadn't taken his eyes off it. Eric wasn't sure he would, even though it was pretty obvious the thing wasn't going to move by itself.
Daniel came back. "They're going to find someone," he said and stood on his toes to peek over Mitchell's shoulder, as if he needed to be shielded from it. "At least this one's not green."
Mitchell growled more loudly. Daniel backed off. Even Trevor took a step back.
A few minutes passed with no one really knowing what to do. All four of them kept throwing glances at it, like they expected it to get up and come after them or something. Maybe melt, Eric decided, picking up a can of Coke from a bus tray full of melting ice. If that ice was melting, there was no way the non-green thing was in good shape.
Not like any of them would be dumb enough to eat it.
"There's a problem?" The mousy man who led Charlie, the band's tour manager, into the dressing room had seven strands of hair left at the front of his head. They'd been pulled back into a ponytail and they made the guy instantly memorable.
Charlie peeked over Mitchell's shoulder. "Whoa. That's some bad vibes." He turned to the mousy guy. "That a key lime pie?"
Mousy guy nodded. "My wife made it. She said she read in a magazine that you guys like key lime pies."
From across the room, Eric could hear Mitchell breathing. Hard. He closed his eyes and hoped the guy wasn't about to explode.
"Take it out of here," Mitchell said. It wasn't a request.
"But my wife…"
"Take it!"
"What'll I tell her?" The guy's eyes were darting everywhere, like he was about to panic.
Mitchell picked up the pie and pressed it firmly into the guy's chest. "Tell her you hope it doesn't stain. And tell her she needs to be more careful about what she reads because we fucking hate key lime pie."
He let go. Half the pie fell to the floor. The other half stuck to the guy's shirt.
"Oh," the guy said in such a small voice, it was almost a squeak.
Eric stood up. "Look," he said, "thank your wife for the pie, but explain to her that she read an article written by a reporter who has a problem with us ever since Trevor puked on him after eating a key lime pie that some fan had made."
"But my wife…"
Daniel put a hand on the guy's shoulder, looking with distaste at the custard smeared on his shirt, "Was wrong, and you got off light. We're the band. This pie was a violation of our concert rider and we could pull even more of a prima donna routine and make you very unhappy. You got off light. Hell, Charlie, give the guy a free t-shirt to wear and then call JR. We don't do shows with this joker anymore."
The mousy guy paled. "But…"
Mitchell started to laugh. "You're the promoter and you fucked up this royally? Dude, you're done. Go fucking sell real estate or something." He jerked his head toward the door and Charlie sprang into action, escorting the mousy promoter dude out of the dressing room.
Trevor and Daniel laughed. Even Mitchell relaxed enough to smile.
"The best laid plans…" Eric said and decided that pie or no, he needed to return to the bathroom.
Ahh, yes. Sometimes, it sucks to be in a band. If you're new to ShapeShifter, or if you want to read more, click on the links in each band member's name. That'll take you to that person's bio page. Once you've read the bio and gotten a bit of a background on them, you can follow the links at the bottom to read more of their adventures.
Not sure where to start?
Here are a few of my favorite ShapeShifter adventures on the road:
Backstage Party
Bean Dip #1
Bean Dip #2
Green Hair Week -- The Concert (You may need to read the whole series to really get it, but it's fun.)
If you need me for anything, I'll be back in a few days. The Tour Manager will hold the fort down while I'm gone.
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, Eric, fiction, fiction outtake, Mitchell, ShapeShifter, touring, Trevor
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Foot Pedals (the Early Days)
It all began the day Mitchell bought the pedals for his guitar.
"You plug it in, right?" he asked Trevor, who looked up from an inspection of the match he'd just used to light a joint.
Trevor shrugged.
Mitchell stuck the plug into the hole on his guitar. The power cord went into
the outlet. "That's all, right?"
Trevor shrugged.
Mitchell tried a note. Nothing. He stepped on the pedals. Nothing.
"What the fuck?"
Trevor took a drag off the joint and gave Mitchell one of those raised-eyebrow looks that meant he was echoing the question. "Ask Gus," the bass player said once he'd exhaled. "He sold you the fucking thing. He shoulda showed you how to make it work."
Mitchell pulled his head into his shoulders. "I told him I'd read the manual if I needed help."
"So why don't you?"
"Gus kept it. He told me to figure it out on my own."
Trevor nodded slowly. It reminded Mitchell of those wise men in those bad movies Trevor always liked to watch. "So go figure and leave me the fuck alone already."
Mitchell shook his head and turned back to the new pedal. Gus was right. The best way to master something like this was to fart around with it until you understood it.
Still… it had to have a power switch or something.
Didn't it?
Ahh, my boys. If you're new to Trevor and Mitchell, click on their names to learn more about them and to maybe even read a few other outtakes they star in. You know you want to.
If you're not new to Trevor and Mitchell, why not poke around some anyway? Refresh your memory, find something new. There's plenty in my archives, you know.
"You plug it in, right?" he asked Trevor, who looked up from an inspection of the match he'd just used to light a joint.
Trevor shrugged.
Mitchell stuck the plug into the hole on his guitar. The power cord went into
the outlet. "That's all, right?"
Trevor shrugged.
Mitchell tried a note. Nothing. He stepped on the pedals. Nothing.
"What the fuck?"
Trevor took a drag off the joint and gave Mitchell one of those raised-eyebrow looks that meant he was echoing the question. "Ask Gus," the bass player said once he'd exhaled. "He sold you the fucking thing. He shoulda showed you how to make it work."
Mitchell pulled his head into his shoulders. "I told him I'd read the manual if I needed help."
"So why don't you?"
"Gus kept it. He told me to figure it out on my own."
Trevor nodded slowly. It reminded Mitchell of those wise men in those bad movies Trevor always liked to watch. "So go figure and leave me the fuck alone already."
Mitchell shook his head and turned back to the new pedal. Gus was right. The best way to master something like this was to fart around with it until you understood it.
Still… it had to have a power switch or something.
Didn't it?
Ahh, my boys. If you're new to Trevor and Mitchell, click on their names to learn more about them and to maybe even read a few other outtakes they star in. You know you want to.
If you're not new to Trevor and Mitchell, why not poke around some anyway? Refresh your memory, find something new. There's plenty in my archives, you know.
Labels: fiction, fiction outtake, Mitchell, Trevor, Writer's Island
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Protection (just before Trevor's Song era)
I found this new prompt site, Velvet Verbosity, which challenges you to be inspired by a one-word prompt, but to make your inspiration fit into 100 words. No more, no less. This week's word: Protection.
Yeah. I thought the same thing.
"It's time," ShapeShifter's manager said. "You need to protect yourselves."
"Sounds like it's the girls who need to be protected from us."
"Either way. You're at the point in your career where you need to be careful. Paternity suits might be only nine months away."
No one smiled. Trevor didn't smirk. It wasn't funny. This was about contracts and rules and following them, three things Trevor particularly hated. This was about growing up, which was one of those things Trevor had vowed to never do.
"If we have to, we have to," Mitchell said. He wasn't happy about it, either.
To learn more about ShapeShifter, Trevor, and Mitchell, follow these links. You'll be taken to their bio pages, and from there, you can read more of their fictional hijinks.
Yeah. I thought the same thing.
"It's time," ShapeShifter's manager said. "You need to protect yourselves."
"Sounds like it's the girls who need to be protected from us."
"Either way. You're at the point in your career where you need to be careful. Paternity suits might be only nine months away."
No one smiled. Trevor didn't smirk. It wasn't funny. This was about contracts and rules and following them, three things Trevor particularly hated. This was about growing up, which was one of those things Trevor had vowed to never do.
"If we have to, we have to," Mitchell said. He wasn't happy about it, either.
To learn more about ShapeShifter, Trevor, and Mitchell, follow these links. You'll be taken to their bio pages, and from there, you can read more of their fictional hijinks.
Labels: fiction outtake, Mitchell, ShapeShifter, Trevor, Velvet Verbosity, Writer's Island
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Thursday Thirteen with Good Intentions
 |
What's the saying? The Road to Hell is paved with good intentions? 1. The time the video director pitched an idea that had the ShapeShifter boys dancing. DANCING. 2. The time Kerri went to pick up a package at the post office, only to find it had come $3.50 postage due because it had been wrapped wrong and she only had $2 on her. She refused the package, which had been one of those nice gestures on the part of someone else -- but not for $3.50. 3. The time the band found a key lime pie in their dressing room. It wasn't on their contracted tour rider; the promoter had thought it was a nice touch and got whiny when the band asked him to remove it. It didn't touch him nearly so nicely when Mitchell made him wear it. 4. The sound engineer in the recording studio who forgot to push PLAY. 5. From time to time, Kerri meets someone who expected Kerry Voss, male artist, and not Kerri Voss, female. 6. The time Eric was offered an endorsement deal for a new guitar -- but only if he'd never play his current ones again. 7. The new employee of the record label who had heard that Mitchell would be mean to her, so instead of asking him for lyrics for the new disc's booklet, she did her best to interpret what she heard. 8. The time Kerri was asked to create the art for an event whose cancellation no one told her about. 9. The time the band opened a box of new t-shirts, only to find that the silver ink was red, the shirt itself was orange, and the whole thing looked like bloody puke. 10. Let's not forget the newspaper reporter who tried to write a flattering article but confused ShapeShifter with … well, they're still trying to figure that one out. But according to this person, who may or may not have ever heard the band, ShapeShifter is Satanic. Glad someone forgot to inform the band of that… 11. A local crew member, coming up to Trevor from behind, thought he was a woman. In that person's defense, his hair was waist-length at the time and, from the back, he could be confused with a woman hippie… who wears biker boots and a chain connecting the wallet in his back pocket to a belt loop. And… well, you get the idea. 12. Someone filling in for Mitchell's tech once strung Mabel upside-down. It may have been a joke, but the joke was on him when Mitchell broke Mabel over the guy's back. 13. Often, at a backstage appearance, a guy will pull a CD (in the old days, a cassette tape -- remember those?) out of a pocket and ask Daniel to listen to his demo. Daniel's always willing -- but once, the guy had given him a ShapeShifter disc, and no contact information so Daniel could make the swap. Hey, groupies! Other than #2, which just happened to me in real life today, would you like to see any of these turned into outtakes? Given time and interest, I just might do it for you. 'cause I love you guys and all. |
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will try to link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, Eric, Kerri, meme, Mitchell, ShapeShifter, Thursday Thirteen, Trevor
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Daniel's Shoulder (part 2)
If you missed the start of this, you'd better go read it, or this will be little more than nonsense for ya. The first part's short, although not as short as this one. It won't take long. And there's a link to bring you back here.
As he left the dressing room, Mitchell held up a hand at the roadie who'd been sent to escort him to the meet-and-greet. "I need to make a call," he said and turned toward the production office.
Lyric answered almost immediately.
"Daniel's shoulder's bothering him," he said, "so have the bills get sent his way. Oh, and Lyric, he's paying you a thirty-buck per diem."
She laughed. "Thanks, but you didn't need to."
"Hey, I take care of my girls. So go make calls; you might be able to get on Kerri's flight out in the morning."
"Does this mean you'll be paying me a per diem, too, the next time you need me out there?"
"Fuck no."
As he left the dressing room, Mitchell held up a hand at the roadie who'd been sent to escort him to the meet-and-greet. "I need to make a call," he said and turned toward the production office.
Lyric answered almost immediately.
"Daniel's shoulder's bothering him," he said, "so have the bills get sent his way. Oh, and Lyric, he's paying you a thirty-buck per diem."
She laughed. "Thanks, but you didn't need to."
"Hey, I take care of my girls. So go make calls; you might be able to get on Kerri's flight out in the morning."
"Does this mean you'll be paying me a per diem, too, the next time you need me out there?"
"Fuck no."
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Lyric, Mitchell, outtake
Friday, May 16, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Daniel's Shoulder (part 1)
The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is sore/soar. I was going to play with Eric, whose guitar is often said to soar above the rhythm line that Mitchell, Daniel, and Trevor lay down, but I've got a massive migraine and this was hanging around, waiting to be shared. Be sure to check back for the second part.
It was the look on Daniel's face that froze Mitchell, mid-stride. He knew that look on his drummer's face, the left eye slitted, the left side of the mouth poured open so that half the guy's teeth were showing. Even though he didn't have first-hand knowledge of the shoulder pulled to the ear or the hand gently rubbing it, Mitchell knew the pain.
"Need me to call Lyric?"
"Yeah, would you?" Daniel tried to relax his shoulder. And his face. The shoulder went back into place more easily.
Mitchell paused, finally grabbing a chair and turning it backwards so he could lean into it when he sat.
"Can we talk later and you call her now?" Daniel asked. He grimaced and rubbed his shoulder again.
"I'm not the one paying her."
"Oh." The drummer thought a minute. "What's her usual rate?"
"Airfare, hotel room, and a thirty-buck per diem."
"Thirty bucks!"
Mitchell shrugged. "She's gotta eat."
Daniel winced again and dug harder at that sore left shoulder. "Okay, fine. Whatever."
With a nod, Mitchell stood up and went to place the call.
Okay, so you've got to read the next part, which reveals the punchline. Go here for it. You can leave comments here or there. Or both. I love comments.
It was the look on Daniel's face that froze Mitchell, mid-stride. He knew that look on his drummer's face, the left eye slitted, the left side of the mouth poured open so that half the guy's teeth were showing. Even though he didn't have first-hand knowledge of the shoulder pulled to the ear or the hand gently rubbing it, Mitchell knew the pain.
"Need me to call Lyric?"
"Yeah, would you?" Daniel tried to relax his shoulder. And his face. The shoulder went back into place more easily.
Mitchell paused, finally grabbing a chair and turning it backwards so he could lean into it when he sat.
"Can we talk later and you call her now?" Daniel asked. He grimaced and rubbed his shoulder again.
"I'm not the one paying her."
"Oh." The drummer thought a minute. "What's her usual rate?"
"Airfare, hotel room, and a thirty-buck per diem."
"Thirty bucks!"
Mitchell shrugged. "She's gotta eat."
Daniel winced again and dug harder at that sore left shoulder. "Okay, fine. Whatever."
With a nod, Mitchell stood up and went to place the call.
Okay, so you've got to read the next part, which reveals the punchline. Go here for it. You can leave comments here or there. Or both. I love comments.
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, fiction, Lyric, Mitchell, outtake, Sunday Scribblings
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Mother's Day (Post Trevor's Song Era)
Mitchell handed his guitar to Bobby and grabbed the nearest roadie by the shirt collar. "Phone! I need a fucking phone right fucking now!"
The roadie's eyes got huge and he shook a little bit. Might even have peed on himself until Charlie, ShapeShifter's tour manager, came to the rescue. "Just push SEND," he yelled over Eric's guitar solo.
Mitchell let go of the roadie and took the phone from Charlie. It was huge and weighed a ton; one of those new cellular phones. They'd only gotten it for Charlie after things with Trevor had gone so haywire. Mitchell hated it.
But he had to admit it had its uses.
He had no idea what time it was at home. Frankly, he didn't care. He only had another minute or two before he had to go support Eric and lead the band into their next song. There was shit to do after the show, and then it was off travelling to the next town. It was now or never.
"Ma?" he said when she picked up. "Happy Mother's Day."
A little bit of Mother's Day fun for all my fellow moms out there. Hope your day is full of pizza, bicycles and Penguin victories!
The roadie's eyes got huge and he shook a little bit. Might even have peed on himself until Charlie, ShapeShifter's tour manager, came to the rescue. "Just push SEND," he yelled over Eric's guitar solo.
Mitchell let go of the roadie and took the phone from Charlie. It was huge and weighed a ton; one of those new cellular phones. They'd only gotten it for Charlie after things with Trevor had gone so haywire. Mitchell hated it.
But he had to admit it had its uses.
He had no idea what time it was at home. Frankly, he didn't care. He only had another minute or two before he had to go support Eric and lead the band into their next song. There was shit to do after the show, and then it was off travelling to the next town. It was now or never.
"Ma?" he said when she picked up. "Happy Mother's Day."
A little bit of Mother's Day fun for all my fellow moms out there. Hope your day is full of pizza, bicycles and Penguin victories!
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, telephones, touring
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Mitchell fiction: Interview
From an excerpt of an interview with ShapeShifter's Mitchell Voss…
Voss leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Exactly," he said. "Our music is ferocious. It's supposed to be. Otherwise, it wouldn't be the release it is."
Music as a release. It's a concept that has lost steam over the years, replaced by the phenomenon of self-mutilation. But it's a concept Voss holds to.
"We all need that release. We all need something that takes us outside ourself and, in a way, soothes us. Something that when we come back to ourselves, things are okay again and the problems are manageable."
What sort of problems can someone like Voss have? After all, the man's an international superstar. He's got security to keep overeager fans away. He's got people to take out the kitchen trash at the mere snap of his fingers.
"That'd be nice," he says. "I f----- hate taking the trash out. My parents used to make me do it just because they knew how much I hated it. They'd tell me to suck it up and remember that every beautiful thing has its hidden, ugly side. And then they'd launch into this lecture about being lazy and the importance of doing chores around the house and how if I hate it that much, I'll understand how wonderful it is to have kids of my own and blah blah blah… Suddenly, the idea of taking out the trash becomes appealing!"
Still, Voss doesn't smile. The famous frown deepens. "It doesn't matter who you are or how you earn your way in the world. We all have those times when we need to break free of being polite and let it all hang out. Our fans get that. That's part of what makes the bond they have with us so strong. We're leading the way, almost. Showing them how to cut loose and let it all out. Come along with us and get the s--- out of your system for the length of a song, a CD, a show. You'll feel better afterward."
Yep, it's fiction. But it's fun to show off my journalistically trained chops every now and then!
Voss leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Exactly," he said. "Our music is ferocious. It's supposed to be. Otherwise, it wouldn't be the release it is."
Music as a release. It's a concept that has lost steam over the years, replaced by the phenomenon of self-mutilation. But it's a concept Voss holds to.
"We all need that release. We all need something that takes us outside ourself and, in a way, soothes us. Something that when we come back to ourselves, things are okay again and the problems are manageable."
What sort of problems can someone like Voss have? After all, the man's an international superstar. He's got security to keep overeager fans away. He's got people to take out the kitchen trash at the mere snap of his fingers.
"That'd be nice," he says. "I f----- hate taking the trash out. My parents used to make me do it just because they knew how much I hated it. They'd tell me to suck it up and remember that every beautiful thing has its hidden, ugly side. And then they'd launch into this lecture about being lazy and the importance of doing chores around the house and how if I hate it that much, I'll understand how wonderful it is to have kids of my own and blah blah blah… Suddenly, the idea of taking out the trash becomes appealing!"
Still, Voss doesn't smile. The famous frown deepens. "It doesn't matter who you are or how you earn your way in the world. We all have those times when we need to break free of being polite and let it all hang out. Our fans get that. That's part of what makes the bond they have with us so strong. We're leading the way, almost. Showing them how to cut loose and let it all out. Come along with us and get the s--- out of your system for the length of a song, a CD, a show. You'll feel better afterward."
Yep, it's fiction. But it's fun to show off my journalistically trained chops every now and then!
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, Poetry Train, Writer's Island
Monday, April 28, 2008
Fiction Outtake: A Body for Practice
A while back, I brought you some of the Lyric/Mitchell agreement. Here's how it all got started.
Mitchell was collecting cords, thinking he looked pretty cool, the way he knew to coil them by using his palm and his elbow as posts. Roadies did it this way; nevermind that he was band, roadies had the look down. Besides, if the band tanked… Dad always was telling him to have something to fall back on.
Eric was there on the stage with him, yawning and grumbling to himself.
"We headed to Roach's after this?" Mitchell asked.
"Think so," Eric said. "At least, I am."
Mitchell nodded, like it was all decided. Going to Roach's after shows was becoming a ritual -- and the growing number of fans were figuring it out. Daniel didn't think they'd be able to do this much longer. Mitchell didn't care. It was all about right now, and right now was pretty damn fun.
"Hey," someone said behind him.
He looked over his shoulder at a girl with brown hair that looked like it had been braided when wet, then let loose when it was dry. She wore jeans and cowboy boots, and a tight t-shirt that was some faded out orange color. He couldn't call her hot, but she had something about her…
"Need something?"
"Yeah," she said and lifted her chin, like she was expecting a fight. Mitchell fidgeted; this might be good.
"I need a body."
Eric and Mitchell exchanged looks, trying to figure out who was willing to volunteer. After all, there were bound to be plenty of other, hotter girls at Roach's… Hopefully.
"I'm training to be a massage therapist," she said into the silence. "I need someone to practice on and I thought that someone who thrashes around as much as you guys do would want some free massages."
Mitchell stretched his arms over his head, then put his hands on his waist and twisted. "Yeah, that could work." He looked harder at the girl. She looked familiar… "Hey, you're Melody's girl!"
Eric turned to look at her at last. His jaw dropped, as though Lyric was Melody herself.
"I'm Lyric, yes, and if you think this is some invite to be in one of Mom's movies or something, forget the whole deal. This is real massage, not massage-your-peter. Got it?"
"Whoa," Eric said and, grabbing the cables from Mitchell, hurried off the stage.
"Let me get this straight," Mitchell said, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down from the stage at Lyric. "You're Melody's girl, but you're not offering sex."
"That's right."
"For free."
"No."
He arched an eyebrow at her and waited. She'd figure out soon enough what he was waiting for.
She did. "I want a ShapeShifter t-shirt and my name on the permanent guest list."
"Is that all?"
"I could charge cash. Everyone else in my class does."
Mitchell didn't bother to hide a smile. Everyone in town knew you didn't fuck around with Melody and her girls. "But you won't."
"Does that mean you're in?"
He glanced around, not sure why the guys weren't around. There was more gear to pack up and he'd be damned if he was doing it all himself. "Yeah," he said. "I'm in."
He half-expected her to squeal and throw her arms around his neck. But all she did was nod like she'd known he'd go for it.
"Let's go," she said.
"Now?"
"Got a date?"
"Yeah," he said, wondering if hanging at Roach's with the guys counted. "Tomorrow. Noon. You tell me where," he added, hoping she wouldn't pick some public place and humiliate him.
"I'll call you in the morning."
"You have my number?"
"Melody's kid knows who Patterson's kid is. Don't worry about it. I'll call you."
Mitchell stared, speechless, as she turned on one of those cowboy boot heels of hers and walked out of the club like she owned it. If she didn't now, Mitchell didn't doubt that with an attitude like that, one day, she just might.
In the meantime, he'd be getting himself some free massages. Damn, but the guys were going to be jealous when they heard that. Assuming they got their asses back inside and packed their shit up, anyway. If they left it all for him, Lyric was going to be his own little secret for as long as he could swing it.
He grinned and picked up the last of the stuff he was responsible for. Fuck 'em. Fuck all three of 'em. They snoozed. They loozed.
Why haven't you joined the Poetry Train yet?
And stay tuned; I'm going to try to make time to start giving you some of the fun stuff I picked up at RT.
Mitchell was collecting cords, thinking he looked pretty cool, the way he knew to coil them by using his palm and his elbow as posts. Roadies did it this way; nevermind that he was band, roadies had the look down. Besides, if the band tanked… Dad always was telling him to have something to fall back on.
Eric was there on the stage with him, yawning and grumbling to himself.
"We headed to Roach's after this?" Mitchell asked.
"Think so," Eric said. "At least, I am."
Mitchell nodded, like it was all decided. Going to Roach's after shows was becoming a ritual -- and the growing number of fans were figuring it out. Daniel didn't think they'd be able to do this much longer. Mitchell didn't care. It was all about right now, and right now was pretty damn fun.
"Hey," someone said behind him.
He looked over his shoulder at a girl with brown hair that looked like it had been braided when wet, then let loose when it was dry. She wore jeans and cowboy boots, and a tight t-shirt that was some faded out orange color. He couldn't call her hot, but she had something about her…
"Need something?"
"Yeah," she said and lifted her chin, like she was expecting a fight. Mitchell fidgeted; this might be good.
"I need a body."
Eric and Mitchell exchanged looks, trying to figure out who was willing to volunteer. After all, there were bound to be plenty of other, hotter girls at Roach's… Hopefully.
"I'm training to be a massage therapist," she said into the silence. "I need someone to practice on and I thought that someone who thrashes around as much as you guys do would want some free massages."
Mitchell stretched his arms over his head, then put his hands on his waist and twisted. "Yeah, that could work." He looked harder at the girl. She looked familiar… "Hey, you're Melody's girl!"
Eric turned to look at her at last. His jaw dropped, as though Lyric was Melody herself.
"I'm Lyric, yes, and if you think this is some invite to be in one of Mom's movies or something, forget the whole deal. This is real massage, not massage-your-peter. Got it?"
"Whoa," Eric said and, grabbing the cables from Mitchell, hurried off the stage.
"Let me get this straight," Mitchell said, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down from the stage at Lyric. "You're Melody's girl, but you're not offering sex."
"That's right."
"For free."
"No."
He arched an eyebrow at her and waited. She'd figure out soon enough what he was waiting for.
She did. "I want a ShapeShifter t-shirt and my name on the permanent guest list."
"Is that all?"
"I could charge cash. Everyone else in my class does."
Mitchell didn't bother to hide a smile. Everyone in town knew you didn't fuck around with Melody and her girls. "But you won't."
"Does that mean you're in?"
He glanced around, not sure why the guys weren't around. There was more gear to pack up and he'd be damned if he was doing it all himself. "Yeah," he said. "I'm in."
He half-expected her to squeal and throw her arms around his neck. But all she did was nod like she'd known he'd go for it.
"Let's go," she said.
"Now?"
"Got a date?"
"Yeah," he said, wondering if hanging at Roach's with the guys counted. "Tomorrow. Noon. You tell me where," he added, hoping she wouldn't pick some public place and humiliate him.
"I'll call you in the morning."
"You have my number?"
"Melody's kid knows who Patterson's kid is. Don't worry about it. I'll call you."
Mitchell stared, speechless, as she turned on one of those cowboy boot heels of hers and walked out of the club like she owned it. If she didn't now, Mitchell didn't doubt that with an attitude like that, one day, she just might.
In the meantime, he'd be getting himself some free massages. Damn, but the guys were going to be jealous when they heard that. Assuming they got their asses back inside and packed their shit up, anyway. If they left it all for him, Lyric was going to be his own little secret for as long as he could swing it.
He grinned and picked up the last of the stuff he was responsible for. Fuck 'em. Fuck all three of 'em. They snoozed. They loozed.
Why haven't you joined the Poetry Train yet?
And stay tuned; I'm going to try to make time to start giving you some of the fun stuff I picked up at RT.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, fiction outtake, Lyric, Mitchell, Poetry Train
Friday, April 11, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Turbulence (The Trevor's Song Era)
It was the bumps that woke Mitchell. That really sucked; he was exhausted, they were headed home, and he just couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. Except he couldn't sleep while being tossed around like this. He was stuck in this awful state, unable to do a fucking thing.
Across the aisle, Trevor had made a pillow of his denim jacket. He still slept, but then again, when Trevor wasn't acting weird lately, he was sleeping. Having him sleep went over better than trying to deal with his latest round of weird shit. If someone had to sleep, no one minded that it was Trevor doing it.
Daniel gave Mitchell a thin-lipped sort-of smile. "I was wondering when it'd get to you."
"How long's it been going on?"
"Too damn long," he said and shifted in his seat, like his legs were stiff. Mitchell doubted that was the problem; the guy probably wanted off the stupid plane. "The pilot's been on a few times. He's been trying all sorts of different altitudes, but none of them are any good. He made a few noises about turning around, but I guess they wouldn't let him."
Mitchell didn't know how to respond to that. Flying wasn't his thing. At most, it was the way to get from the US to Europe, or maybe from Riverview to New York or wherever the tour was starting. Anything more than that and he was lost.
"I just hope we get there soon," Eric said from Mitchell's other side. He'd pulled down the shade over the little window, which Mitchell didn't understand. Why ask for the window seat if you weren't going to look through the window? At least the views were cool. When you could see more than a cloud, anyway.
"Can you see anything out there?" Mitchell asked.
Just as Eric got his hand on the window shade, the plane bucked.
Eric's hand moved from the shade to the arms of his seat so fast, it was a blur. He grabbed hold -- even though Mitchell already had a good grip on the one they shared -- and turned pale. "Not really, no," he said softly.
Trevor didn't stir.
The plane calmed. Daniel gave Mitchell a weak smile. "Are we there yet?"
"Fuck, I hope so."
How perfect was this? I wrote this last weekend for the Flash Fiction Carnival, but it applies to the Writer's Island and Sunday Scribblings prompts this week, too. Really. Amazing. Smell those changing winds... Ahhh....
If you're new around here, clicking on the links in the fiction will take you back to that person's bio page. From there, you can access a bunch of other fictional posts about that particular character.
And while you're there, check out the free download!
Across the aisle, Trevor had made a pillow of his denim jacket. He still slept, but then again, when Trevor wasn't acting weird lately, he was sleeping. Having him sleep went over better than trying to deal with his latest round of weird shit. If someone had to sleep, no one minded that it was Trevor doing it.
Daniel gave Mitchell a thin-lipped sort-of smile. "I was wondering when it'd get to you."
"How long's it been going on?"
"Too damn long," he said and shifted in his seat, like his legs were stiff. Mitchell doubted that was the problem; the guy probably wanted off the stupid plane. "The pilot's been on a few times. He's been trying all sorts of different altitudes, but none of them are any good. He made a few noises about turning around, but I guess they wouldn't let him."
Mitchell didn't know how to respond to that. Flying wasn't his thing. At most, it was the way to get from the US to Europe, or maybe from Riverview to New York or wherever the tour was starting. Anything more than that and he was lost.
"I just hope we get there soon," Eric said from Mitchell's other side. He'd pulled down the shade over the little window, which Mitchell didn't understand. Why ask for the window seat if you weren't going to look through the window? At least the views were cool. When you could see more than a cloud, anyway.
"Can you see anything out there?" Mitchell asked.
Just as Eric got his hand on the window shade, the plane bucked.
Eric's hand moved from the shade to the arms of his seat so fast, it was a blur. He grabbed hold -- even though Mitchell already had a good grip on the one they shared -- and turned pale. "Not really, no," he said softly.
Trevor didn't stir.
The plane calmed. Daniel gave Mitchell a weak smile. "Are we there yet?"
"Fuck, I hope so."
How perfect was this? I wrote this last weekend for the Flash Fiction Carnival, but it applies to the Writer's Island and Sunday Scribblings prompts this week, too. Really. Amazing. Smell those changing winds... Ahhh....
If you're new around here, clicking on the links in the fiction will take you back to that person's bio page. From there, you can access a bunch of other fictional posts about that particular character.
And while you're there, check out the free download!
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, Eric, fiction, fiction outtake, Mitchell, ShapeShifter, Sunday Scribblings, touring, Trevor, Writer's Island
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Fiction Outtake: The First Two Drawings (Trevor's Song era)
Most guys, Mitchell figured, would freak out the first time they woke up in their new girl's place. It wasn't familiar, the bed felt a bit weird, nothing was where it should be.
Enter the touring musician, he thought as he stretched his arms over his head, kind of digging the lack of a head board. He'd woken up in so many strange places -- including, once, curled up around one of those outdoor chiminea things with a hangover that made his mouth feel like the inside of the filthy, ash-filled thing -- that he only freaked out the first few days he got to spend in his own bed.
Now, though, it was all about the fact that there was supposed to be a woman beside him in her bed. His woman. He was finally ready to say that.
He lifted his head and tried to squint through the Chinese panel things that separated her futon-thing from the rest of the loft. It was a heavy panel thing, the kind that girls slipped behind while they changed their clothes. He couldn't see Kerri, but a little bit of light slithered around the edges of the screen. Her loft had been fully dark when they'd finally gotten too tired to do something as simple as kiss, hard as that still was to imagine. Fuck, he wanted her.
Emerging from behind the screens, he saw her, seated in front of a small pool of light that was focused on the paper on her drafting desk. She was busy drawing, her head bowed. She'd thrown clothes on, too: a paint-spattered button-down shirt and grey sweatpants that had become a piece of art on their own. She couldn't have looked hotter if she was still naked.
Quietly, so he didn't startle her and make her mess up the picture, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed against her back.
She rested her head against him; he felt her spine elongate as she straightened. "Hi," she said, pursing her lips to give him one of those sideways kisses that was more intention than contact.
"I thought I was the one who liked to work all night."
"Mmmm," she said. "I love to work like this. Here, tell me what you think."
He thought he hated that she sat forward. His belly and chest immediately felt cold.
Just as fast, he was distracted by the picture she held up. The first was of him, probably meant to be from the awards show the other night. It was just him; there was no background. Him and his guitar -- and his middle finger raised as he chorded. So she'd noticed that he did that. He could usually get it by the TV censors. Clearly, she was savvier than they were.
"Did I get the guitar right? I'm new at them," she said.
"Damn close," he said, afraid to touch it and wrinkle the paper or something. She was amazing; that was all there was to it. Before the awards, they'd been on, what? Two dates -- if you could call them that. Maybe he'd grabbed his guitar and played when they'd gotten smashed on that second … uhh, whatever, but for the most part, all she knew of him and his guitars was what she'd seen two nights ago now, at the awards.
She slid her hands down his legs, then turned to look at him. "You're not wearing anything."
"Yeah. So?"
She pointed to the windows. "Neighbors can see in."
"Neighbors can sell tickets once it lightens up outside. They'll make a fucking million or two. You might, too, if you keep drawing like that."
"You may not say that when you see this one…" she said, sliding it out from underneath a clean sheet of paper. "I've never done anything like it. I mean nothing. So if you hate it, I'm trashing it. I can't even believe I'm showing it to you; I barely know you!"
This one, he did take from her, but only because he couldn't stop himself. There was no doubt it was a drawing of them, even though all you could see was two naked torsos. It was one of those perspective things, where you felt like you were falling into the crevice their bodies made, their shoulders apart and their bodies slowly coming closer together until they joined.
"Holy fuck," he breathed and took a step backwards. He needed that distance.
She reached for it. "It sucks."
He held it out of her reach. "If that's your idea of suck… This… This…" He shook his head, as if that would help clear the image from his brain. He was ready to swear it was seared there, forever. "It's amazing."
"You think?"
He looked over at her; if she wasn't ready to bolt and run, no one on the face of the Earth ever had been. "Yeah," he said, wondering if she'd make good on that look if he talked about how he wanted to hang it on a wall in their bedroom, in the house they would buy. For fuck's sake, they'd been together how long now? It was still in the range of hours. And here he was, like a lunatic, thinking about forever.
Trevor, he knew, would laugh in his face and call him a loser.
But that picture. If Trev saw it, he'd shut the fuck up. And then be jealous as hell.
Enter the touring musician, he thought as he stretched his arms over his head, kind of digging the lack of a head board. He'd woken up in so many strange places -- including, once, curled up around one of those outdoor chiminea things with a hangover that made his mouth feel like the inside of the filthy, ash-filled thing -- that he only freaked out the first few days he got to spend in his own bed.
Now, though, it was all about the fact that there was supposed to be a woman beside him in her bed. His woman. He was finally ready to say that.
He lifted his head and tried to squint through the Chinese panel things that separated her futon-thing from the rest of the loft. It was a heavy panel thing, the kind that girls slipped behind while they changed their clothes. He couldn't see Kerri, but a little bit of light slithered around the edges of the screen. Her loft had been fully dark when they'd finally gotten too tired to do something as simple as kiss, hard as that still was to imagine. Fuck, he wanted her.
Emerging from behind the screens, he saw her, seated in front of a small pool of light that was focused on the paper on her drafting desk. She was busy drawing, her head bowed. She'd thrown clothes on, too: a paint-spattered button-down shirt and grey sweatpants that had become a piece of art on their own. She couldn't have looked hotter if she was still naked.
Quietly, so he didn't startle her and make her mess up the picture, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed against her back.
She rested her head against him; he felt her spine elongate as she straightened. "Hi," she said, pursing her lips to give him one of those sideways kisses that was more intention than contact.
"I thought I was the one who liked to work all night."
"Mmmm," she said. "I love to work like this. Here, tell me what you think."
He thought he hated that she sat forward. His belly and chest immediately felt cold.
Just as fast, he was distracted by the picture she held up. The first was of him, probably meant to be from the awards show the other night. It was just him; there was no background. Him and his guitar -- and his middle finger raised as he chorded. So she'd noticed that he did that. He could usually get it by the TV censors. Clearly, she was savvier than they were.
"Did I get the guitar right? I'm new at them," she said.
"Damn close," he said, afraid to touch it and wrinkle the paper or something. She was amazing; that was all there was to it. Before the awards, they'd been on, what? Two dates -- if you could call them that. Maybe he'd grabbed his guitar and played when they'd gotten smashed on that second … uhh, whatever, but for the most part, all she knew of him and his guitars was what she'd seen two nights ago now, at the awards.
She slid her hands down his legs, then turned to look at him. "You're not wearing anything."
"Yeah. So?"
She pointed to the windows. "Neighbors can see in."
"Neighbors can sell tickets once it lightens up outside. They'll make a fucking million or two. You might, too, if you keep drawing like that."
"You may not say that when you see this one…" she said, sliding it out from underneath a clean sheet of paper. "I've never done anything like it. I mean nothing. So if you hate it, I'm trashing it. I can't even believe I'm showing it to you; I barely know you!"
This one, he did take from her, but only because he couldn't stop himself. There was no doubt it was a drawing of them, even though all you could see was two naked torsos. It was one of those perspective things, where you felt like you were falling into the crevice their bodies made, their shoulders apart and their bodies slowly coming closer together until they joined.
"Holy fuck," he breathed and took a step backwards. He needed that distance.
She reached for it. "It sucks."
He held it out of her reach. "If that's your idea of suck… This… This…" He shook his head, as if that would help clear the image from his brain. He was ready to swear it was seared there, forever. "It's amazing."
"You think?"
He looked over at her; if she wasn't ready to bolt and run, no one on the face of the Earth ever had been. "Yeah," he said, wondering if she'd make good on that look if he talked about how he wanted to hang it on a wall in their bedroom, in the house they would buy. For fuck's sake, they'd been together how long now? It was still in the range of hours. And here he was, like a lunatic, thinking about forever.
Trevor, he knew, would laugh in his face and call him a loser.
But that picture. If Trev saw it, he'd shut the fuck up. And then be jealous as hell.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, fiction outtake, Kerri, Mitchell, Writer's Island
Friday, March 21, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Easter Eggs (Trevor's Song era)
"I just don't get it," Eric said. "I've done this for years. Why's it a problem now?"
"Because we're ShapeShifter," Mitchell said with a small shrug, like it was no big deal. But it was.
"We were ShapeShifter before yesterday! What changed?"
Now Mitchell sighed. "The number of records we've sold, the number of people who come to see us every night, the security staff, the type of hotel we stay in… do I really need to keep going?"
"It's called success, wanker," Trevor said, leaning around Mitchell so Eric could see his face.
Eric was privately glad when Mitchell gave the bass player a shove back into place. He understood it, and Mitchell knew that. Lord knew, they'd had these talks often enough. They were starting to be routine -- until the reason for today's talk. There was nothing routine about this, about what had happened.
Worst of all, their manager said if they didn't start being more careful, there would be more of them. They were lucky this was the first time.
He shook his head again. "I just don't get it."
Trevor sighed loudly. "What you don't get," he said, standing up so he could pose and vogue, "is why the band's in trouble over something you did. You're the good one, the one who never creates waves. So now that some chick's pissed that you threw candy into the crowd when she was busy begging her boyfriend to suck her face or something so she wasn't watching you and took one of your stupid candied eggs to the face and now she's making noise about suing us, you're pretending it doesn't make sense. What doesn't make sense is why no one's bothered to see how bad the girl's hurt--"
"JR told us not to try to contact her," Daniel said quickly. "Because she's got her lawyer involved."
"We still ought to know," Trevor insisted. "Did a corner of the wrapper put her eye out? Does she have a bruise she could have gotten when some crowd surfer dropped his foot? Did the stupid chocolate egg make her swallow her own tooth?"
"I don't throw that hard!"
"Maybe you should have," Trevor spit at him.
Mitchell growled. Trevor sat down.
Eric tried to understand what that had been about. It made about as much sense as this girl, who was having a tantrum about being hit in the eye by one of the chocolate Easter eggs he'd thrown into the crowd. He'd been throwing Easter candy for years. He'd done interviews about it. Every single ShapeShifter fan out there knew that for a few shows before Easter, Eric threw chocolate eggs. That was just one of the things ShapeShifter did.
And now this girl, who had been there only to make her boyfriend happy, was having a hissy fit. Trevor was right: she hadn't been watching the band.
"Hey," he said suddenly, "what about that bit about 'Enter at your own risk' that's on the back of every ticket? Is that still there?"
He was met by three dumb looks.
"I'll call JR and ask," Mitchell said after a painfully long minute of silence. "You might be onto something."
"A ticket," Daniel said. "Shit, I'd forgotten all about those things, it's been so long since we've needed them."
"That's because we're ShapeShifter," Trevor said. He tapped a cigarette on its box. "I told you idiots I'd make this band big."
"Yep," Mitchell said, standing up and heading for the hotel phone. "It's all because of you, Trev."
"I hope this doesn't mean the end of my eggs," Eric said.
"It does," Mitchell said. He paused and put the phone down. "Look, it sucks, but is it such a shitty thing to have to give up? Think about it, Eric. Can you give up the eggs if we're getting all this other stuff in return?"
This conversation, too, was starting to have hints of déjà vu to it. They were having to give up going in the front doors of hotels, of being able to move around without a bodyguard shadowing them. Every time someone complained, that was the answer: all this other stuff in return. Our dreams, they're coming true. It's worth it.
They were only chocolate eggs. But that didn't mean he was ready to give them up.
Have you seen the free download yet?
"Because we're ShapeShifter," Mitchell said with a small shrug, like it was no big deal. But it was.
"We were ShapeShifter before yesterday! What changed?"
Now Mitchell sighed. "The number of records we've sold, the number of people who come to see us every night, the security staff, the type of hotel we stay in… do I really need to keep going?"
"It's called success, wanker," Trevor said, leaning around Mitchell so Eric could see his face.
Eric was privately glad when Mitchell gave the bass player a shove back into place. He understood it, and Mitchell knew that. Lord knew, they'd had these talks often enough. They were starting to be routine -- until the reason for today's talk. There was nothing routine about this, about what had happened.
Worst of all, their manager said if they didn't start being more careful, there would be more of them. They were lucky this was the first time.
He shook his head again. "I just don't get it."
Trevor sighed loudly. "What you don't get," he said, standing up so he could pose and vogue, "is why the band's in trouble over something you did. You're the good one, the one who never creates waves. So now that some chick's pissed that you threw candy into the crowd when she was busy begging her boyfriend to suck her face or something so she wasn't watching you and took one of your stupid candied eggs to the face and now she's making noise about suing us, you're pretending it doesn't make sense. What doesn't make sense is why no one's bothered to see how bad the girl's hurt--"
"JR told us not to try to contact her," Daniel said quickly. "Because she's got her lawyer involved."
"We still ought to know," Trevor insisted. "Did a corner of the wrapper put her eye out? Does she have a bruise she could have gotten when some crowd surfer dropped his foot? Did the stupid chocolate egg make her swallow her own tooth?"
"I don't throw that hard!"
"Maybe you should have," Trevor spit at him.
Mitchell growled. Trevor sat down.
Eric tried to understand what that had been about. It made about as much sense as this girl, who was having a tantrum about being hit in the eye by one of the chocolate Easter eggs he'd thrown into the crowd. He'd been throwing Easter candy for years. He'd done interviews about it. Every single ShapeShifter fan out there knew that for a few shows before Easter, Eric threw chocolate eggs. That was just one of the things ShapeShifter did.
And now this girl, who had been there only to make her boyfriend happy, was having a hissy fit. Trevor was right: she hadn't been watching the band.
"Hey," he said suddenly, "what about that bit about 'Enter at your own risk' that's on the back of every ticket? Is that still there?"
He was met by three dumb looks.
"I'll call JR and ask," Mitchell said after a painfully long minute of silence. "You might be onto something."
"A ticket," Daniel said. "Shit, I'd forgotten all about those things, it's been so long since we've needed them."
"That's because we're ShapeShifter," Trevor said. He tapped a cigarette on its box. "I told you idiots I'd make this band big."
"Yep," Mitchell said, standing up and heading for the hotel phone. "It's all because of you, Trev."
"I hope this doesn't mean the end of my eggs," Eric said.
"It does," Mitchell said. He paused and put the phone down. "Look, it sucks, but is it such a shitty thing to have to give up? Think about it, Eric. Can you give up the eggs if we're getting all this other stuff in return?"
This conversation, too, was starting to have hints of déjà vu to it. They were having to give up going in the front doors of hotels, of being able to move around without a bodyguard shadowing them. Every time someone complained, that was the answer: all this other stuff in return. Our dreams, they're coming true. It's worth it.
They were only chocolate eggs. But that didn't mean he was ready to give them up.
Have you seen the free download yet?
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, Eric, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, ShapeShifter, touring, Trevor
