Monday, July 28, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Trevor's Bike (The Early Days)
Dreams generally weren't welcome in Trevor Wolff's world. Why bother, when they so rarely came true?
Okay, the dream about the band had, but that was mostly due to Mitchell's refusal to give up. It had nothing to do with the magic of dreams, how you wake up and suddenly, one day, there it is. Whatever you'd wanted, waiting for you like on a silver platter. Nope, Mitchell had refused to rely on luck and dreams and all that other fairy shit. He'd buckled down and spent hours on the band's logo, the band's music, his own guitar, and even bass lessons for Trevor.
Not that Trevor was any closer to being good than he'd been on that first day when Mitchell had first put a bass in his hands. But whatever. He was in a band and who cared if he sucked? He looked good up there.
That was how dreams come true -- when you let yourself dream them.
The dream about the Vincent wasn't likely to come true through hard work. Vincents were rare. They cost a lot of money if they were in great shape. Sometimes, the falling apart ones cost a lot of money, too. ShapeShifter might have started to bring in the bucks, but Trevor still wasn't flush enough to pay those prices. Getting his hands on a Vincent wasn't a dream worth letting himself dream about.
Until the phone rang. "Hey, uhh, yeah. This is Ray, over at Hammer, Wrench, and Torque. This Trevor?"
He almost didn't answer; he was too busy grabbing at the cigarette that had fallen off his lip when he'd heard Wrench's voice. "Yeah," he finally said, trying to sound cool while he brushed ashes off his jeans and immediately began playing with the newly burned fibers.
"We wanted to let you know that someone dropped off the frame of a Vincent today. Looks like a D-series Shadow. You interested?"
Trevor's heart leaped out of his chest. He knew that feeling, all right -- but he'd never known it to feel so good.
"You might want to take a look before you say yes or no," Hammer said.
"I'll be there as soon as I can be," Trevor said. He'd have to call Mitchell and convince him to put down the guitar long enough to play chauffeur. It shouldn't be hard; Amy was home for a visit and that probably meant she was torturing the big idiot to no end. Not that he didn't deserve it, but Trevor needed a ride more than Mitchell needed what he deserved.
"Think hard, man," Hammer warned. "It may not be what you want, but if you've got the patience, it can be."
That alone was enough for Trevor. Even if it was a piece of steel that had been hammered flat, he wanted the bike.
No one knew better than Trevor Wolff what it was like to need some work. Or what the payoff was once someone who cared showed some patience.
Ahh. Trevor's back; I know you guys have missed him. I have, too.
Not sure what the fuss is about? Click on Trevor's name and it'll take you to his bio page. At the bottom are all sorts of links that will take you back to other posts here at the Meet and Greet that Trevor's starred in. There are a lot, so get a fresh cup of coffee and have fun!
Okay, the dream about the band had, but that was mostly due to Mitchell's refusal to give up. It had nothing to do with the magic of dreams, how you wake up and suddenly, one day, there it is. Whatever you'd wanted, waiting for you like on a silver platter. Nope, Mitchell had refused to rely on luck and dreams and all that other fairy shit. He'd buckled down and spent hours on the band's logo, the band's music, his own guitar, and even bass lessons for Trevor.
Not that Trevor was any closer to being good than he'd been on that first day when Mitchell had first put a bass in his hands. But whatever. He was in a band and who cared if he sucked? He looked good up there.
That was how dreams come true -- when you let yourself dream them.
The dream about the Vincent wasn't likely to come true through hard work. Vincents were rare. They cost a lot of money if they were in great shape. Sometimes, the falling apart ones cost a lot of money, too. ShapeShifter might have started to bring in the bucks, but Trevor still wasn't flush enough to pay those prices. Getting his hands on a Vincent wasn't a dream worth letting himself dream about.
Until the phone rang. "Hey, uhh, yeah. This is Ray, over at Hammer, Wrench, and Torque. This Trevor?"
He almost didn't answer; he was too busy grabbing at the cigarette that had fallen off his lip when he'd heard Wrench's voice. "Yeah," he finally said, trying to sound cool while he brushed ashes off his jeans and immediately began playing with the newly burned fibers.
"We wanted to let you know that someone dropped off the frame of a Vincent today. Looks like a D-series Shadow. You interested?"
Trevor's heart leaped out of his chest. He knew that feeling, all right -- but he'd never known it to feel so good.
"You might want to take a look before you say yes or no," Hammer said.
"I'll be there as soon as I can be," Trevor said. He'd have to call Mitchell and convince him to put down the guitar long enough to play chauffeur. It shouldn't be hard; Amy was home for a visit and that probably meant she was torturing the big idiot to no end. Not that he didn't deserve it, but Trevor needed a ride more than Mitchell needed what he deserved.
"Think hard, man," Hammer warned. "It may not be what you want, but if you've got the patience, it can be."
That alone was enough for Trevor. Even if it was a piece of steel that had been hammered flat, he wanted the bike.
No one knew better than Trevor Wolff what it was like to need some work. Or what the payoff was once someone who cared showed some patience.
Ahh. Trevor's back; I know you guys have missed him. I have, too.
Not sure what the fuss is about? Click on Trevor's name and it'll take you to his bio page. At the bottom are all sorts of links that will take you back to other posts here at the Meet and Greet that Trevor's starred in. There are a lot, so get a fresh cup of coffee and have fun!
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Poetry Train, Trevor
Monday, June 09, 2008
Deadly Metal Hatchet Fiction: Fozzy's Skateboard
So you came here, expecting to read about this fictional ShapeShifter band. Nope. Not today. I've been playing with this idea for the other band that's starting to test the waters here, and finally had the time/energy to get it down. If you're new to Deadly Metal Hatchet, they are a baby band -- as compared to ShapeShifter's world domination -- who are more about the Deadly Metal Hatchet, their gimmick, then they are about music. In a word, they suck. But they aren't letting that stop them.
Lido could only stare when Fozzy pulled it out of his road case. If it had been Scott or Gecko, he wouldn't have blinked or thought twice or anything like that. But this was Fozzy. He who hated having his picture taken, even when he was wearing jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Not that he had scars on his arm, but that was Fozzy for you. He'd almost died in a motorcycle accident; he was allowed to be weird about certain things.
"You for real?" Scott asked as Fozzy set it on the floor and put a foot on the deck, testing its stability.
"Yeah."
"But… Fozz…" Lido paused, not sure how to word this. Fozzy could be sensitive -- too freaking sensitive, as Scott would say -- about anything that might make any one of them bring up the motorcycle accident.
And, of course, Fozzy was glaring at him. Daring him to go there.
Lido could hear the Hatchet panting.
He held up his hands. "It's just not you, man. That's all."
Fozzy laughed that bitter, harsh laugh that made Lido cringe. It was the sound of the Hatchet and as much as Lido loved the band's gimmick, he hated when Fozzy tried to bring it into their lives like this.
"It's not me," Fozzy said and laughed again. "Like you'd fucking know."
Scott eased over so he was standing beside Lido, like he was getting ready in case Fozzy charged. Scott was really the only one who could defuse Fozzy when he got like this, but Lido wasn't so ready to hand the control over.
Without ideas of what to say next, Lido started to rethink that idea of control.
Fozzy moved his leg back and forth. The wheels made a cool sound.
"Do that again," Lido said, tilting his head to listen. When Fozzy did, he sang a few nonsense syllables along.
Scott patted Lido on the shoulder as Fozzy nodded and stepped up onto the skateboard. He wobbled immediately and jumped off -- and glared at Scott and Lido, as if he was expecting them to laugh at him.
Lido just shrugged. "Guess it takes practice."
"We've got plenty of time for that," Scott said, glancing at his watch as if it meant something. It didn't. Not really. Their tour manager would round them up when they needed to get ready to go on stage. All they had to do was find a way to kill the time between now and then.
"I know," Fozzy said. "That's why I did this." He tried the skateboard again and managed to stay on a hair longer.
Scott touched Lido's shoulder, telling him to stop staring and come along. In typical Fozzy fashion, the guy didn't want an audience.
It was enough to make you wonder why the guy had picked up the guitar in the first place. But then again, with Fozzy, most things made you wonder.
Like what you see? Want to know more about Deadly Metal Hatchet? There's not a lot yet, but if you follow this link (or the one above, the first time their name appears), it'll take you to their bio page, which links to more fiction about them. Happy reading and be sure to leave comments, even on the old posts!
Lido could only stare when Fozzy pulled it out of his road case. If it had been Scott or Gecko, he wouldn't have blinked or thought twice or anything like that. But this was Fozzy. He who hated having his picture taken, even when he was wearing jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Not that he had scars on his arm, but that was Fozzy for you. He'd almost died in a motorcycle accident; he was allowed to be weird about certain things.
"You for real?" Scott asked as Fozzy set it on the floor and put a foot on the deck, testing its stability.
"Yeah."
"But… Fozz…" Lido paused, not sure how to word this. Fozzy could be sensitive -- too freaking sensitive, as Scott would say -- about anything that might make any one of them bring up the motorcycle accident.
And, of course, Fozzy was glaring at him. Daring him to go there.
Lido could hear the Hatchet panting.
He held up his hands. "It's just not you, man. That's all."
Fozzy laughed that bitter, harsh laugh that made Lido cringe. It was the sound of the Hatchet and as much as Lido loved the band's gimmick, he hated when Fozzy tried to bring it into their lives like this.
"It's not me," Fozzy said and laughed again. "Like you'd fucking know."
Scott eased over so he was standing beside Lido, like he was getting ready in case Fozzy charged. Scott was really the only one who could defuse Fozzy when he got like this, but Lido wasn't so ready to hand the control over.
Without ideas of what to say next, Lido started to rethink that idea of control.
Fozzy moved his leg back and forth. The wheels made a cool sound.
"Do that again," Lido said, tilting his head to listen. When Fozzy did, he sang a few nonsense syllables along.
Scott patted Lido on the shoulder as Fozzy nodded and stepped up onto the skateboard. He wobbled immediately and jumped off -- and glared at Scott and Lido, as if he was expecting them to laugh at him.
Lido just shrugged. "Guess it takes practice."
"We've got plenty of time for that," Scott said, glancing at his watch as if it meant something. It didn't. Not really. Their tour manager would round them up when they needed to get ready to go on stage. All they had to do was find a way to kill the time between now and then.
"I know," Fozzy said. "That's why I did this." He tried the skateboard again and managed to stay on a hair longer.
Scott touched Lido's shoulder, telling him to stop staring and come along. In typical Fozzy fashion, the guy didn't want an audience.
It was enough to make you wonder why the guy had picked up the guitar in the first place. But then again, with Fozzy, most things made you wonder.
Like what you see? Want to know more about Deadly Metal Hatchet? There's not a lot yet, but if you follow this link (or the one above, the first time their name appears), it'll take you to their bio page, which links to more fiction about them. Happy reading and be sure to leave comments, even on the old posts!
Labels: Deadly Metal Hatchet, Poetry Train, touring, Writer's Island
Monday, May 26, 2008
Roadie Poet: Returns
Don't realize it until we get inside.
Been here before.
Recognize the loading dock,
The room the crew showers in,
The way things look from the stage.
Out into darkness --
For now.
It'll get lit up later.
Hambone remembers this place, too.
We talk at dinner.
Bands we've been here with
Tours we've done
Crew we went with.
More sits and listens.
Tells me later
She can't wait until she's got these lists to make
When she's been around more.
I gotta tell her
Coming back to a familiar place
It feels good
But not as good
As home.
I'm not sure about this ending. Might be too cliched, so let me know what you think.
If you're new to Roadie Poet, welcome! If you've missed him, or want to revisit old poetry from our favorite crew member, click here. That'll take you to his profile page. All his poems are listed at the bottom of the page. Happy catching up!
Been here before.
Recognize the loading dock,
The room the crew showers in,
The way things look from the stage.
Out into darkness --
For now.
It'll get lit up later.
Hambone remembers this place, too.
We talk at dinner.
Bands we've been here with
Tours we've done
Crew we went with.
More sits and listens.
Tells me later
She can't wait until she's got these lists to make
When she's been around more.
I gotta tell her
Coming back to a familiar place
It feels good
But not as good
As home.
I'm not sure about this ending. Might be too cliched, so let me know what you think.
If you're new to Roadie Poet, welcome! If you've missed him, or want to revisit old poetry from our favorite crew member, click here. That'll take you to his profile page. All his poems are listed at the bottom of the page. Happy catching up!
Labels: poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, Writer's Island
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
Monday, April 14, 2008
Roadie Poet: Pyro
New tour.
Big one.
Stadiums.
Shows this big,
They're spectacles,
Not simple shows.
Vid screens,
Extra sound,
Pyro.
Band's gotta rehearse extra
So they don't step in a flashpot.
Burned to a crisp
By their own show.
Spectacle.
Whatever.
Extra rehearsal for them means
Hotel rooms for us.
A little bit easier
Before the grind begins.
Time to bum around.
Have some fun.
But watch
For those flashpots.
So we don't step in 'em.
And get
Burned
To
A
Crisp.
Big one.
Stadiums.
Shows this big,
They're spectacles,
Not simple shows.
Vid screens,
Extra sound,
Pyro.
Band's gotta rehearse extra
So they don't step in a flashpot.
Burned to a crisp
By their own show.
Spectacle.
Whatever.
Extra rehearsal for them means
Hotel rooms for us.
A little bit easier
Before the grind begins.
Time to bum around.
Have some fun.
But watch
For those flashpots.
So we don't step in 'em.
And get
Burned
To
A
Crisp.
Labels: poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, touring
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Byline: Chelle LaFleur -- Tuning Down
Now, I don't get what all the howlin' and cryin's about. Seems legendary singer Sammy Spencer is reuiniting with the last two living original members of Scarred Heart. That ought to be good news and we all oughta be celebrating this. Scarred Heart was, for you too young to know your roots as proper as you should, one of the bands that brought the words Heavy Metal into our world. They took Johnny B. Good and taught him how to bang his head.
Scarred Heart's die-hard fans been yowlin' for a reunion for years now. Chelle here been one of 'em 'cause she never got to see them live the first time out, and that's one of those things that's gotta get fixed so Chelle can die a happy woman. News of the reunion was met with a big cheer here at the Trumpet's office, and around the world, too. It was a heck of a sound; I'm surprised you missed it. Cows in heat don't often walk around New Orleans, you know what Chelle's sayin' here?
Now comes word that fans are threatening to boycott. Seems that Sammy Spencer can't reach those high notes that make Chelle's kinky hair stand on end. Seems that in thirty years, Sammy Spencer had the good fortune to grow himself up. For men, that means their voices get lower and they can't get up to those high notes no more.
Oh, sure there are a few who can. But Chelle wants to know if they can do it outside of a recording studio and with the taped voice track turned off. If so, she wants to see what they got in their pants. It's either nothing 'cause they've been snipped so their voices stay high, or else there've got something making them mighty uncomfortable…
None of those options fit the Scarred Heart style. Remember, boys and girls, this was the band that was all about keepin' it real back before keeping it real was a trendy thing. This was the band who made us all sit up and realize that not everyone kept it real.
That means there won't be vocal tracks piped in over Sammy's real voice. That Sammy's not going to hurt himself to bring us his famous high notes.
What it means is that the band's changing the tuning of their songs, so that Sammy can sing 'em the best way he can. 'Cause we all know: Scarred Heart's gotta keep it real.
Keepin' it real is what you so-called fans are now having hissy fits over. Seems you'd rather have fake music in the name of it bein' like the albums you probably never replaced once vinyl went out of fashion. You don't want to know that your hero's gettin' old and can't hit those high notes. You want it fake.
You peeps are spoiled. Let Scarred Heart tune it down. Let 'em show us that they can still rock with the best of them. And quit your bitchin'. Save it for the next time ShapeShifter's resident hottie Mitchell Voss refuses to take his shirt off during a show. Now that, that is a thing to whine about.
You heard it first, and you heard it here: Let Sammy sing it the best he can. He'll still rock your socks off.
Why aren't you riding the Poetry Train?
Scarred Heart's die-hard fans been yowlin' for a reunion for years now. Chelle here been one of 'em 'cause she never got to see them live the first time out, and that's one of those things that's gotta get fixed so Chelle can die a happy woman. News of the reunion was met with a big cheer here at the Trumpet's office, and around the world, too. It was a heck of a sound; I'm surprised you missed it. Cows in heat don't often walk around New Orleans, you know what Chelle's sayin' here?
Now comes word that fans are threatening to boycott. Seems that Sammy Spencer can't reach those high notes that make Chelle's kinky hair stand on end. Seems that in thirty years, Sammy Spencer had the good fortune to grow himself up. For men, that means their voices get lower and they can't get up to those high notes no more.
Oh, sure there are a few who can. But Chelle wants to know if they can do it outside of a recording studio and with the taped voice track turned off. If so, she wants to see what they got in their pants. It's either nothing 'cause they've been snipped so their voices stay high, or else there've got something making them mighty uncomfortable…
None of those options fit the Scarred Heart style. Remember, boys and girls, this was the band that was all about keepin' it real back before keeping it real was a trendy thing. This was the band who made us all sit up and realize that not everyone kept it real.
That means there won't be vocal tracks piped in over Sammy's real voice. That Sammy's not going to hurt himself to bring us his famous high notes.
What it means is that the band's changing the tuning of their songs, so that Sammy can sing 'em the best way he can. 'Cause we all know: Scarred Heart's gotta keep it real.
Keepin' it real is what you so-called fans are now having hissy fits over. Seems you'd rather have fake music in the name of it bein' like the albums you probably never replaced once vinyl went out of fashion. You don't want to know that your hero's gettin' old and can't hit those high notes. You want it fake.
You peeps are spoiled. Let Scarred Heart tune it down. Let 'em show us that they can still rock with the best of them. And quit your bitchin'. Save it for the next time ShapeShifter's resident hottie Mitchell Voss refuses to take his shirt off during a show. Now that, that is a thing to whine about.
You heard it first, and you heard it here: Let Sammy sing it the best he can. He'll still rock your socks off.
Why aren't you riding the Poetry Train?
Labels: Chelle LaFleur, creative writing, fiction, Poetry Train
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Walter Fiction: The Approach of Spring
"Walter," Lila said, "the equinox is next week."
"I know, love." He looked up from the crossword puzzle in the morning paper. "We're set for it."
"Are you? You haven't left the house in a month. How can the band be ready for next week if you don't practice?"
"We're pros." Of course it would be fine. It always was. He'd been playing with this group of guys for years now. The Vernal Equinox Celebration always went well.
Lila knew better than to push it. Just as spring came slowly every year, so did Walter and his music. Spring meant the beginning of his touring season. Come August, when they'd all had enough, he'd take another month off, join everyone at the Autumnal Equinox Celebration, and then spend the winter holed up in his basement studio, creating a new album.
And then, just like the way the Earth turned, Walter's musical cycle would begin again.
If the Earth didn't need to practice for all this, why did he?
Springtime, awakening... how aware of the changing seasons is an aging rocker, anyway? That's what inspired this. For more Walter, visit here, here, and here. And stay tuned; in my file of saved stuff I need to post one day, I've got at least one more piece that features him.
"I know, love." He looked up from the crossword puzzle in the morning paper. "We're set for it."
"Are you? You haven't left the house in a month. How can the band be ready for next week if you don't practice?"
"We're pros." Of course it would be fine. It always was. He'd been playing with this group of guys for years now. The Vernal Equinox Celebration always went well.
Lila knew better than to push it. Just as spring came slowly every year, so did Walter and his music. Spring meant the beginning of his touring season. Come August, when they'd all had enough, he'd take another month off, join everyone at the Autumnal Equinox Celebration, and then spend the winter holed up in his basement studio, creating a new album.
And then, just like the way the Earth turned, Walter's musical cycle would begin again.
If the Earth didn't need to practice for all this, why did he?
Springtime, awakening... how aware of the changing seasons is an aging rocker, anyway? That's what inspired this. For more Walter, visit here, here, and here. And stay tuned; in my file of saved stuff I need to post one day, I've got at least one more piece that features him.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Poetry Train, Walter, Writer's Island
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Val's Cake (Trevor's Song era... or beyond)
"Okay, Val! Let's see it!" Daniel called when he got home from practice, not that he'd had far to go, since the practice space was in their back yard.
She tried not to panic. "Are you alone?"
"I promised you I would be," he said. As if that meant anything; Trevor and Mitchell would ignore promises Daniel made her. They didn't care. Worst of all, they'd look at this disaster she'd made and laugh. This was one of those things they'd never let her live down.
Val looked out the window, just to be safe. Both Mitchell's Bronco and Trevor's ugly-assed motorcycle were gone. Not that letting Daniel near it would be any easier.
"Let's see it," Daniel said again as he entered the kitchen.
Val burst into tears.
The cake had been supposed to look like a Southern Plantation -- the sort of place that Val wanted to marry Daniel in, if getting married was ever something that seemed the right thing to do. But the end result hardly looked like the idyllic setting for a romantic wedding between two people who'd been together for so long, they didn't know what it was like to be apart.
"Well," Daniel said, folding his arms across his chest and cupping his elbows with his fingers. "We could always throw it in a bowl, pour some rum over it, throw in some whipped cream, and … what else do we do to your other cakes?"
"I wanted this one to be great!" she wailed.
Daniel turned his back on the cake just as the front porch finished sagging. It fell lazily to the side, right on top of what was supposed to have been some sort of shrub. He held Val by the waist, not pulling her too close.
"What's great," he said, "is that you tried." Very slowly and deliberately, he kissed the tip of her nose. "We both know that dessert is the one area you may never master. But you tried it anyway, and it'll taste just fine." He pulled back a bit and eyed her. "Won't it?"
She shrugged.
With another kiss, this time on her lips, Daniel sent her off so he could turn the mess into something edible. Val knew that once he had, he'd proclaim it a shame to not share, and while Val was working up menus, he'd call Mitchell and Kerri and invite them over for dinner.
Best of all, there'd be nothing for anyone to make fun of. Maybe the whole thing could be forgotten. Maybe she'd learn and not bother with any dessert more ambitious than chocolate chip cookies.
But most probably, she'd try again.
This was inspired by this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: Experimenting. For more Val, check out Soy Sauce, Beached Whales, and Val's Tantrum. Oh, and Smoke Break. How could I forget Smoke Break?
Don't forget to ride the Poetry Train!
She tried not to panic. "Are you alone?"
"I promised you I would be," he said. As if that meant anything; Trevor and Mitchell would ignore promises Daniel made her. They didn't care. Worst of all, they'd look at this disaster she'd made and laugh. This was one of those things they'd never let her live down.
Val looked out the window, just to be safe. Both Mitchell's Bronco and Trevor's ugly-assed motorcycle were gone. Not that letting Daniel near it would be any easier.
"Let's see it," Daniel said again as he entered the kitchen.
Val burst into tears.
The cake had been supposed to look like a Southern Plantation -- the sort of place that Val wanted to marry Daniel in, if getting married was ever something that seemed the right thing to do. But the end result hardly looked like the idyllic setting for a romantic wedding between two people who'd been together for so long, they didn't know what it was like to be apart.
"Well," Daniel said, folding his arms across his chest and cupping his elbows with his fingers. "We could always throw it in a bowl, pour some rum over it, throw in some whipped cream, and … what else do we do to your other cakes?"
"I wanted this one to be great!" she wailed.
Daniel turned his back on the cake just as the front porch finished sagging. It fell lazily to the side, right on top of what was supposed to have been some sort of shrub. He held Val by the waist, not pulling her too close.
"What's great," he said, "is that you tried." Very slowly and deliberately, he kissed the tip of her nose. "We both know that dessert is the one area you may never master. But you tried it anyway, and it'll taste just fine." He pulled back a bit and eyed her. "Won't it?"
She shrugged.
With another kiss, this time on her lips, Daniel sent her off so he could turn the mess into something edible. Val knew that once he had, he'd proclaim it a shame to not share, and while Val was working up menus, he'd call Mitchell and Kerri and invite them over for dinner.
Best of all, there'd be nothing for anyone to make fun of. Maybe the whole thing could be forgotten. Maybe she'd learn and not bother with any dessert more ambitious than chocolate chip cookies.
But most probably, she'd try again.
This was inspired by this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: Experimenting. For more Val, check out Soy Sauce, Beached Whales, and Val's Tantrum. Oh, and Smoke Break. How could I forget Smoke Break?
Don't forget to ride the Poetry Train!
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, fiction, food, outtake, Poetry Train, Val
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Leaving (Pre-Trevor's Song Era)
"The problem," Kerri said, pausing to catch her breath and glare at her brother, "is that she wants me to be Cinderella. But I'm nobody's servant!"
"Maybe there's a way…"
"No, Stevie. Do you hear me? No." She pulled her favorite Steelers sweatshirt off the hanger and folded it carefully, hugging it to her chest. Maybe when she returned, she'd have the upper hand. She'd have some sort of power over that woman, and she wouldn't have to spend all her time and energy fucking around, the way things had always been, up to this point.
Maybe she'd even be spoken to in a civil manner, just like that woman always insisted on. "What goes around comes around," Kerri thought as she stuffed the sweatshirt into her bag, refusing to care when it came unfolded. Everything else had come undone. That's why she was packing.
It was hard to believe she was thinking so clearly. She hadn't been when she and Jason had been interrupted, down in his basement. Then again, it was hard to think clearly when your clothes were off and your legs were wrapped around someone's waist and all your thoughts were about how you wished the rubber would stop finding all the dry spots -- and then suddenly, there she was, face blank, mouth open like fresh roadkill. As if Kerri could have possibly gotten that lucky. That woman would never be roadkill. She was too fucking mean to die.
Amazing what an hour could do. Kerri had the bus schedule to Riverview, had her duffle bag already full of the things she couldn't leave behind, and was ready to start in on the things she'd want Stevie to send her later on. The rest…
It would probably get thrown out. Kerri knew that, but owning up to that fact wasn't so easy.
Yet that was how it was with her. Really, Cinderella wasn't a stretch, except there was no step to this mother. There weren't step-sisters, either, who were her rivals. Nope, this was all about Mom and daughter. Not even adopted daughter. Born of the woman who hated her.
Getting out of town would be a relief.
Kerri fantasized about it for a minute. Her own place. All the art she wanted, and classes to make her better. A job, sure, but jobs weren't so bad. It sort of sucked that she had to leave the garden center now instead of at the end of summer like she'd planned, but these things happened. Maybe she'd even find someone better than Jason, which wouldn't be too hard since she was pretty much only with Jason for the sex.
"What time do we have to leave?"
Kerri glanced at the door to her bedroom. "The sooner, the better. You know Dad'll start in soon."
"Yeah, but …"
Kerri arched an eyebrow at him and reached for her alarm clock.
"He's not as mean," Stevie said, ducking his chin to his chest and mumbling. Like this was something he had to be ashamed of.
Well, Kerri thought, not anymore. She was eighteen, she had a partial scholarship to the art school of her choice, and she had enough cash to take a bus to Riverview and find a place to live. A place where she'd be left alone.
A place where she'd finally be able to do something right, for the first time in her life.
****
This is our first look at Kerri before she moved to Riverview and before she met Mitchell, which happened years after the move. Already, she's very much the woman she becomes.
Once again, this is my Poetry Train and Weekend Wordsmith rolled into one. Good thing the Poetry Train has no rules; I'd go nuts.
At any rate, this was partially inspired by the Wordsmith prompt, but also partially by the discussion we've been having in the comment trail in my BTT: Heroine post, about strong women. I'm still working on ideas of how we can band together, girls. If you've got any, drop me a line.
"Maybe there's a way…"
"No, Stevie. Do you hear me? No." She pulled her favorite Steelers sweatshirt off the hanger and folded it carefully, hugging it to her chest. Maybe when she returned, she'd have the upper hand. She'd have some sort of power over that woman, and she wouldn't have to spend all her time and energy fucking around, the way things had always been, up to this point.
Maybe she'd even be spoken to in a civil manner, just like that woman always insisted on. "What goes around comes around," Kerri thought as she stuffed the sweatshirt into her bag, refusing to care when it came unfolded. Everything else had come undone. That's why she was packing.
It was hard to believe she was thinking so clearly. She hadn't been when she and Jason had been interrupted, down in his basement. Then again, it was hard to think clearly when your clothes were off and your legs were wrapped around someone's waist and all your thoughts were about how you wished the rubber would stop finding all the dry spots -- and then suddenly, there she was, face blank, mouth open like fresh roadkill. As if Kerri could have possibly gotten that lucky. That woman would never be roadkill. She was too fucking mean to die.
Amazing what an hour could do. Kerri had the bus schedule to Riverview, had her duffle bag already full of the things she couldn't leave behind, and was ready to start in on the things she'd want Stevie to send her later on. The rest…
It would probably get thrown out. Kerri knew that, but owning up to that fact wasn't so easy.
Yet that was how it was with her. Really, Cinderella wasn't a stretch, except there was no step to this mother. There weren't step-sisters, either, who were her rivals. Nope, this was all about Mom and daughter. Not even adopted daughter. Born of the woman who hated her.
Getting out of town would be a relief.
Kerri fantasized about it for a minute. Her own place. All the art she wanted, and classes to make her better. A job, sure, but jobs weren't so bad. It sort of sucked that she had to leave the garden center now instead of at the end of summer like she'd planned, but these things happened. Maybe she'd even find someone better than Jason, which wouldn't be too hard since she was pretty much only with Jason for the sex.
"What time do we have to leave?"
Kerri glanced at the door to her bedroom. "The sooner, the better. You know Dad'll start in soon."
"Yeah, but …"
Kerri arched an eyebrow at him and reached for her alarm clock.
"He's not as mean," Stevie said, ducking his chin to his chest and mumbling. Like this was something he had to be ashamed of.
Well, Kerri thought, not anymore. She was eighteen, she had a partial scholarship to the art school of her choice, and she had enough cash to take a bus to Riverview and find a place to live. A place where she'd be left alone.
A place where she'd finally be able to do something right, for the first time in her life.
****
This is our first look at Kerri before she moved to Riverview and before she met Mitchell, which happened years after the move. Already, she's very much the woman she becomes.
Once again, this is my Poetry Train and Weekend Wordsmith rolled into one. Good thing the Poetry Train has no rules; I'd go nuts.
At any rate, this was partially inspired by the Wordsmith prompt, but also partially by the discussion we've been having in the comment trail in my BTT: Heroine post, about strong women. I'm still working on ideas of how we can band together, girls. If you've got any, drop me a line.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Kerri, outtake, Poetry Train, Weekend Wordsmith
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Pam's Perfume
This post is R-rated!! Come back later if you're under 18, please!
So we're there in my bed, me and Trevor Wolff, and he sniffs the back of my knee. I die; it's like being touched with that feather he likes so much.
"What the fuck is this?" he asks, sitting back on his heels and giving me this look like I've totally let him down or something. It's almost enough to ruin the whole moment or something.
I prop myself up on my elbows and stare at him. I have no idea what's wrong.
"You girls are supposed to go all weak at the knees," he says. He's pouting and it's cute.
"Oh, I am," I tell him. I can barely get the words out, in fact.
"Yeah, well, you smell like flowers back there. What the fuck's that about?"
I shrug. Come on. The guy's got to know about perfumes and body sprays. It's not like I'm the first girl he's ever met.
"You really think it's a turn-on?" he asks.
"It turns me on," I tell him, shimmying a bit so the girls shake. My leg, still propped up on his shoulder, does too. It rubs against his ear and he shakes his head like it's annoyed him.
He gets annoyed way too easy.
"And what turns you on should turn me on?" he asks and turns away, holding my leg as he lets it down. I'm bummed; this probably means the end of it, but he lights up and turns back. "I hate to break it to you girls, but us guys like you girls to smell like you. Yeah, that natural smell you're always trying to cover up. Now that, that is a turn-on." He nods like it's all settled and I've learned my lesson and won't ever put perfume behind my knees again.
"It's a horrid smell," I tell him, and he grins.
And I'm not going to tell you what happened next, but it was proof that he didn't mind the perfume so much.
As for wearing it next time… well, catching up with him tonight wasn't exactly planned, and I'm not dumb enough to change the way I live my life for him.
For Mitchell, maybe I would, yeah. But not for Trevor.
This weekend's Weekend Wordsmith prompt was the unneeded puzzle piece. This seemed to fit -- at least in my little brain.
Want more of Pam? Forgotten who she is? Click on this link and it'll take you to her bio page and links to other, older posts.
No Sunday Best this week. Sorry for that; I was too busy with the family. And the agent hunting. And the writing. And the...
So we're there in my bed, me and Trevor Wolff, and he sniffs the back of my knee. I die; it's like being touched with that feather he likes so much.
"What the fuck is this?" he asks, sitting back on his heels and giving me this look like I've totally let him down or something. It's almost enough to ruin the whole moment or something.
I prop myself up on my elbows and stare at him. I have no idea what's wrong.
"You girls are supposed to go all weak at the knees," he says. He's pouting and it's cute.
"Oh, I am," I tell him. I can barely get the words out, in fact.
"Yeah, well, you smell like flowers back there. What the fuck's that about?"
I shrug. Come on. The guy's got to know about perfumes and body sprays. It's not like I'm the first girl he's ever met.
"You really think it's a turn-on?" he asks.
"It turns me on," I tell him, shimmying a bit so the girls shake. My leg, still propped up on his shoulder, does too. It rubs against his ear and he shakes his head like it's annoyed him.
He gets annoyed way too easy.
"And what turns you on should turn me on?" he asks and turns away, holding my leg as he lets it down. I'm bummed; this probably means the end of it, but he lights up and turns back. "I hate to break it to you girls, but us guys like you girls to smell like you. Yeah, that natural smell you're always trying to cover up. Now that, that is a turn-on." He nods like it's all settled and I've learned my lesson and won't ever put perfume behind my knees again.
"It's a horrid smell," I tell him, and he grins.
And I'm not going to tell you what happened next, but it was proof that he didn't mind the perfume so much.
As for wearing it next time… well, catching up with him tonight wasn't exactly planned, and I'm not dumb enough to change the way I live my life for him.
For Mitchell, maybe I would, yeah. But not for Trevor.
This weekend's Weekend Wordsmith prompt was the unneeded puzzle piece. This seemed to fit -- at least in my little brain.
Want more of Pam? Forgotten who she is? Click on this link and it'll take you to her bio page and links to other, older posts.
No Sunday Best this week. Sorry for that; I was too busy with the family. And the agent hunting. And the writing. And the...
Labels: creative writing, fiction, outtake, Pam, Poetry Train, Trevor, Weekend Wordsmith
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Time Travel? (The Trevor's Song Era)
The movie ended. The band and Kerri sat, unmoving, staring at the tiny screen as the credits rolled into black.
"Wow," Daniel said at last.
"No shit." Mitchell dropped the handful of Kerri's hair he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "That was … some intense shit."
"So," Eric said from his spot down by Mitchell and Kerri's feet, "if you could travel through time, where would you go?" He stood up and fiddled with the TV suspended over Trevor.
"I'd go be the famous Daniel. Daniel in the Lion's Den."
Mitchell tipped his head backwards, trying to see the drummer. The only thing in view was the roof of the bus. "Didn't he die or something?"
"Eventually, yeah, but who cares? The story's immortal," Daniel said before Eric could jump in and correct things. Or, worse, preach.
"So's ShapeShifter."
Eric cocked his head like he had to consider that. "But Daniel's story was worthy of immortality because he was pious. Why are we worthy of immortality?"
"Because we're ShapeShifter," Mitchell said. Like they needed to ask?
"Time travel, M," Kerri said. "Where would you go?"
He didn't need to think about it. "I'd go work with Les Paul in the early days. I'd be a guitar master."
"Some say you already are," she said.
"Yeah, but I'd be more of one. I'd be more than just a player."
She looked at him and rolled her eyes.
"Me, I'd go back and meet Jesus," Eric said.
Mitchell hoped no one would ask the guitarist to elaborate. Every now and then, the guy went on these religious tears; clearly, the movie had awoken a new one in him. He'd have to make sure their copy of the flick disappeared somewhere. Maybe some fan would want it.
"What about you, Rusty?" the supposedly-sleeping Trevor asked. "Want to go back and be the hot, passionate woman who made Van Gogh cut his ear off? Want to inspire someone to do something even dumber?"
"Do you have any idea," Kerri started, vibrating with a sudden passion that Mitchell hadn't expected, "how women artists were treated back then? If -- and that's a huge if -- they were allowed to paint, they were outcasts. Usually, they were told to forget about any ambitions they had for themselves. Go be a wife, they were told. Have babies. Run a house. Be invisible."
Mitchell grabbed at her as she stood. He wasn't sure which was worse, a religious sermon from Eric or a rant from his wife.
"So what the fuck do you think I'd gain from going back in time?" Kerri shrugged off Mitchell's hands and stepped away, closer to Trevor. Who still hadn't opened his eyes or moved. "Do you really think I'm dumb enough to think that this isn't the best time in world history to be a woman? Do you really think I'd trade in everything I've got for that?"
"For a day?" Eric said. "Just one day, Kerri, and then you could come back."
"I'm not going to work with Les Paul for just one day!"
"Mitchell, please. And no, Eric, I wouldn't, and don't start in on that bit about how I'll better appreciate the here and now. I appreciate it plenty, believe me."
"Funny," Trevor said. "I thought you only appreciated Mitchell."
Kerri left the front lounge at about the same instant that Mitchell lunged for Trevor. There'd be no sleeping for the bass player for awhile yet. Which was, of course, why Trevor had put on the whole sleep show in the first place.
But it didn't change the outcome.
How many prompts can one piece of fiction cover? We've got Sunday Scribblings, Writer's Island and, of course, Rhian's Poetry Train. No Weekend Wordsmith this week; the prompt wasn't for me.
"Wow," Daniel said at last.
"No shit." Mitchell dropped the handful of Kerri's hair he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "That was … some intense shit."
"So," Eric said from his spot down by Mitchell and Kerri's feet, "if you could travel through time, where would you go?" He stood up and fiddled with the TV suspended over Trevor.
"I'd go be the famous Daniel. Daniel in the Lion's Den."
Mitchell tipped his head backwards, trying to see the drummer. The only thing in view was the roof of the bus. "Didn't he die or something?"
"Eventually, yeah, but who cares? The story's immortal," Daniel said before Eric could jump in and correct things. Or, worse, preach.
"So's ShapeShifter."
Eric cocked his head like he had to consider that. "But Daniel's story was worthy of immortality because he was pious. Why are we worthy of immortality?"
"Because we're ShapeShifter," Mitchell said. Like they needed to ask?
"Time travel, M," Kerri said. "Where would you go?"
He didn't need to think about it. "I'd go work with Les Paul in the early days. I'd be a guitar master."
"Some say you already are," she said.
"Yeah, but I'd be more of one. I'd be more than just a player."
She looked at him and rolled her eyes.
"Me, I'd go back and meet Jesus," Eric said.
Mitchell hoped no one would ask the guitarist to elaborate. Every now and then, the guy went on these religious tears; clearly, the movie had awoken a new one in him. He'd have to make sure their copy of the flick disappeared somewhere. Maybe some fan would want it.
"What about you, Rusty?" the supposedly-sleeping Trevor asked. "Want to go back and be the hot, passionate woman who made Van Gogh cut his ear off? Want to inspire someone to do something even dumber?"
"Do you have any idea," Kerri started, vibrating with a sudden passion that Mitchell hadn't expected, "how women artists were treated back then? If -- and that's a huge if -- they were allowed to paint, they were outcasts. Usually, they were told to forget about any ambitions they had for themselves. Go be a wife, they were told. Have babies. Run a house. Be invisible."
Mitchell grabbed at her as she stood. He wasn't sure which was worse, a religious sermon from Eric or a rant from his wife.
"So what the fuck do you think I'd gain from going back in time?" Kerri shrugged off Mitchell's hands and stepped away, closer to Trevor. Who still hadn't opened his eyes or moved. "Do you really think I'm dumb enough to think that this isn't the best time in world history to be a woman? Do you really think I'd trade in everything I've got for that?"
"For a day?" Eric said. "Just one day, Kerri, and then you could come back."
"I'm not going to work with Les Paul for just one day!"
"Mitchell, please. And no, Eric, I wouldn't, and don't start in on that bit about how I'll better appreciate the here and now. I appreciate it plenty, believe me."
"Funny," Trevor said. "I thought you only appreciated Mitchell."
Kerri left the front lounge at about the same instant that Mitchell lunged for Trevor. There'd be no sleeping for the bass player for awhile yet. Which was, of course, why Trevor had put on the whole sleep show in the first place.
But it didn't change the outcome.
How many prompts can one piece of fiction cover? We've got Sunday Scribblings, Writer's Island and, of course, Rhian's Poetry Train. No Weekend Wordsmith this week; the prompt wasn't for me.
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, Eric, fiction, Kerri, Mitchell, outtake, Poetry Train, ShapeShifter, touring, Trevor
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Byline: Chelle LaFleur -- ShapeShifter fans
Now, you may not have heard this here first, but you're hearing the truth here first. That counts for a lot in Chelle's book.
I just got off the phone with my favorite rocker, Mitchell Voss, and this is what he had to say:
For some reason, we couldn't take the bus from the hotel to the arena, so the promoter sent a limo for us. It should have been a twenty-minute drive. An hour later, our tour manager gets out of the limo and walks up the side of the road to see what's going on.
Turns out, a car broke down. They can't even move it off to the shoulder, it's the middle of rush hour. Traffic's a disaster. Our tour manager comes back to the limo and says the car's driven by three girls on their way to … you guessed it. Our show.
Trevor, Daniel, and Eric aren't stupid. They're also lonely. Or, they were.
That's right, girls and boys. Those ShapeShifter boys smelled opportunity and they didn't let anything stop them. Those girls with that broken-down car got the star treatment on their way to the show. They got to watch the show from the special VIP section with Mitchel's wife, the most amazing Kerri Voss, and they got to be the after-show party, as well.
Chelle here knows how many of us dream of this happenin' to us, even you guys out there. Like any good music reporter, I tried to find those girls and get their take on the night, but that handsome Voss man wasn't coughing up any names.
So girls, if you're out there and reading this, drop me a line, will ya? You just went and lived yourselves a dream and the rest of us, we want to know all about it.
You heard it first, and you heard it here. ShapeShifter loves their fans.
I just got off the phone with my favorite rocker, Mitchell Voss, and this is what he had to say:
For some reason, we couldn't take the bus from the hotel to the arena, so the promoter sent a limo for us. It should have been a twenty-minute drive. An hour later, our tour manager gets out of the limo and walks up the side of the road to see what's going on.
Turns out, a car broke down. They can't even move it off to the shoulder, it's the middle of rush hour. Traffic's a disaster. Our tour manager comes back to the limo and says the car's driven by three girls on their way to … you guessed it. Our show.
Trevor, Daniel, and Eric aren't stupid. They're also lonely. Or, they were.
That's right, girls and boys. Those ShapeShifter boys smelled opportunity and they didn't let anything stop them. Those girls with that broken-down car got the star treatment on their way to the show. They got to watch the show from the special VIP section with Mitchel's wife, the most amazing Kerri Voss, and they got to be the after-show party, as well.
Chelle here knows how many of us dream of this happenin' to us, even you guys out there. Like any good music reporter, I tried to find those girls and get their take on the night, but that handsome Voss man wasn't coughing up any names.
So girls, if you're out there and reading this, drop me a line, will ya? You just went and lived yourselves a dream and the rest of us, we want to know all about it.
You heard it first, and you heard it here. ShapeShifter loves their fans.
Labels: Chelle LaFleur, fiction, Mitchell, Poetry Train, ShapeShifter, touring
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Chicken Scratch (the Early Years)
Another one inspired by the Weekend Wordsmith prompt, and posted in time for the Poetry Train. As always, if you're new here and need some background about who is who, click on the names the first time they appear and you'll be magically transported to a bio page. Just don't forget to come back!
Mitchell was whistling when he got home after his guitar lesson; whistling was better than dancing, even though that's more what he felt like. Since he'd graduated from lessons with Randy, things had been a million times better. Now when he and Trevor hung out down by the river and dreamed of making it big, he believed they'd get there, all right.
He stopped in the kitchen, snagged the bag of potato chips sitting on the kitchen table, kissed Ma on the cheek, and headed upstairs.
Ma called after him, "Get your homework done!"
"That's where I'm going!" He put his back to the door, tenderly put the bag of potato chips under his arm, and shoved against the broken latch.
He turned around, stopped whistling, and dropped both his guitar and the potato chips.
Trevor was sitting at Mitchell's desk. Well, it was supposed to be their desk now that they shared the room, but Trevor refused to use it. Something about being too cool for desks and homework and if the jackasses at school didn't agree, they could throw him out already and save them all the daily hassle of chasing him out of the john when he needed a smoke.
"What'd Ma bribe you with?" Mitchell asked, lunging for his guitar. It didn't matter that he had it in a hard case, it still might have been damaged.
"Nothing," Trevor said and held up Mitchell's civics notebook. The page was covered in what looked like chicken scratch.
Mitchell set the guitar gently down on his bed and went for a closer look at Trevor's masterpiece. It looked even more like chicken scratch. He told Trevor so.
"Good."
"Good?" Mitchell handed the notebook back and turned to his guitar, determined he'd actually look it over this time. No more distractions.
"Yes, good," Trevor said with that sniff Mitchell knew all too well. "Have you seen one single rock star with an autograph you can make out?"
Mitchell didn't bother to answer. No more distractions, he reminded himself.
"Of course you haven't," Trevor half-yelled, jumping to his feet and tipping the chair over backwards. "There aren't any! And I'll be damned if I'll be the first."
"Why not? After all," Mitchell added with a sniff that mocked the ones Trevor handed out so freely, "you're Trevor Fucking Wolff. You can't be like everyone else."
"Well, this time, I can be." Trevor hugged the notebook to his chest. "Do you know how long it took me to write this messy? Fucking hours."
Mitchell looked up from the guitar. "Shoulda spent that on your bass. You might actually get good."
Trevor sneered and fixed the chair. "Here, golden boy," he said. "Maybe I'll go work on that." He stalked out of the room, trying to slam it shut as he went. Between the broken latch and the fix Mitchell's dad had put on it, the door just bounced back open.
In the hallway, Trevor kicked the wall. Ma yelled at him for it.
Whatever, Mitchell figured, so long as he had the desk back so he could get his homework done -- once he was sure the guitar was okay. Trevor might not get any better on bass, so it was up to him to carry them both.
Maybe later, Trevor would show him ways to change his own autograph. Make it cooler. Which meant harder to read.
Chicken scratch, the handwriting of the rock star.
Mitchell grinned. That had a good ring to it.
Eeek. This is major rough draft. But it's an outtake and that's the idea. One day, I'll clean these puppies up and let you take them home and sleep with them. Just don't call them George.
Mitchell was whistling when he got home after his guitar lesson; whistling was better than dancing, even though that's more what he felt like. Since he'd graduated from lessons with Randy, things had been a million times better. Now when he and Trevor hung out down by the river and dreamed of making it big, he believed they'd get there, all right.
He stopped in the kitchen, snagged the bag of potato chips sitting on the kitchen table, kissed Ma on the cheek, and headed upstairs.
Ma called after him, "Get your homework done!"
"That's where I'm going!" He put his back to the door, tenderly put the bag of potato chips under his arm, and shoved against the broken latch.
He turned around, stopped whistling, and dropped both his guitar and the potato chips.
Trevor was sitting at Mitchell's desk. Well, it was supposed to be their desk now that they shared the room, but Trevor refused to use it. Something about being too cool for desks and homework and if the jackasses at school didn't agree, they could throw him out already and save them all the daily hassle of chasing him out of the john when he needed a smoke.
"What'd Ma bribe you with?" Mitchell asked, lunging for his guitar. It didn't matter that he had it in a hard case, it still might have been damaged.
"Nothing," Trevor said and held up Mitchell's civics notebook. The page was covered in what looked like chicken scratch.
Mitchell set the guitar gently down on his bed and went for a closer look at Trevor's masterpiece. It looked even more like chicken scratch. He told Trevor so.
"Good."
"Good?" Mitchell handed the notebook back and turned to his guitar, determined he'd actually look it over this time. No more distractions.
"Yes, good," Trevor said with that sniff Mitchell knew all too well. "Have you seen one single rock star with an autograph you can make out?"
Mitchell didn't bother to answer. No more distractions, he reminded himself.
"Of course you haven't," Trevor half-yelled, jumping to his feet and tipping the chair over backwards. "There aren't any! And I'll be damned if I'll be the first."
"Why not? After all," Mitchell added with a sniff that mocked the ones Trevor handed out so freely, "you're Trevor Fucking Wolff. You can't be like everyone else."
"Well, this time, I can be." Trevor hugged the notebook to his chest. "Do you know how long it took me to write this messy? Fucking hours."
Mitchell looked up from the guitar. "Shoulda spent that on your bass. You might actually get good."
Trevor sneered and fixed the chair. "Here, golden boy," he said. "Maybe I'll go work on that." He stalked out of the room, trying to slam it shut as he went. Between the broken latch and the fix Mitchell's dad had put on it, the door just bounced back open.
In the hallway, Trevor kicked the wall. Ma yelled at him for it.
Whatever, Mitchell figured, so long as he had the desk back so he could get his homework done -- once he was sure the guitar was okay. Trevor might not get any better on bass, so it was up to him to carry them both.
Maybe later, Trevor would show him ways to change his own autograph. Make it cooler. Which meant harder to read.
Chicken scratch, the handwriting of the rock star.
Mitchell grinned. That had a good ring to it.
Eeek. This is major rough draft. But it's an outtake and that's the idea. One day, I'll clean these puppies up and let you take them home and sleep with them. Just don't call them George.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, Poetry Train, Trevor
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Roadie Poet: Rhythm of the Road
Tour's in full swing.
No clue where we are.
One city, another
All look the same.
Inside.
Days pick up a rhythm
Bus moves with one
Rhythm drives you up the ladder
Takes you back down
Across the stage.
No clue what the sun looks like
Or if there's snow on the ground.
Who cares?
Days move with a rhythm.
Set up
Show
Tear down
Hit the road.
This is when a roadie learns
What's in his blood.
If the road is there or not.
If his blood moves
With
The rhythm of the road.
Don't forget to take a ride on the Poetry Train! Grab yourself a car while you're at it, too. The only rule is that there are no rules, so join in, why don'tcha?
No clue where we are.
One city, another
All look the same.
Inside.
Days pick up a rhythm
Bus moves with one
Rhythm drives you up the ladder
Takes you back down
Across the stage.
No clue what the sun looks like
Or if there's snow on the ground.
Who cares?
Days move with a rhythm.
Set up
Show
Tear down
Hit the road.
This is when a roadie learns
What's in his blood.
If the road is there or not.
If his blood moves
With
The rhythm of the road.
Don't forget to take a ride on the Poetry Train! Grab yourself a car while you're at it, too. The only rule is that there are no rules, so join in, why don'tcha?
Labels: Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, touring
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Byline: Chelle LaFleur -- Tech Support
So while ShapeShifter's busy takin' some time to themselves, not that they should or anything, it seems their techs went and got all antsy on us. Just like a lot of us ShapeShifter fans do when there's nothing new to report.
Instead of sitting around and moaning about how they can't wait until the band is active again, Bobby, Cookie, Creek, and Chuck decided to make some noise of their own.
That's right. These four brave souls who put up with my ShapeShifter boys night in and night out have decided to form their own band. They called themselves Tech Support, which is a clever enough name if you don't know what they do and the ways in which techs really do support the men they work for. The women, too.
So this new Tech Support band's busy playin' all the spots around Riverview. Never more than a day's drive away, just in case their bosses need 'em for something. You know: fix a string, tune something, tighten a drum head. Doesn't sound hard. But yours truly guesses that once you get used to the prima donna treatment, there's no going back.
Not that Chelle's calling those ShapeShifter boys prima donnas.
Well, okay, she is.
She'd love to do it in person, too. Face-to-face and all that. After all, how's a rock writer supposed to write about rock if she don't get a chance to listen to it?
That means that any of you who're thinkin' of takin' your pretty little selves out to Riverview to check out Tech Support live and in person, check with me before you jump in your rental car. Chelle here don't drive. She needs a lift to the gigs. And you can be there to watch what happens when she calls the ShapeShifter boys prima donnas to their faces.
I bet those Tech Support boys will laugh the whole time they're agreein' with me.
What? You STILL haven't joined the Monday Poetry Train? No rules, people, no rules! (or is that the problem?? Hmmm? Also, scroll down a post for a new thing I'd love to see the world join me in: Sunday Best. You decide what's best and talk about it on Sundays. How easy is that?
Instead of sitting around and moaning about how they can't wait until the band is active again, Bobby, Cookie, Creek, and Chuck decided to make some noise of their own.
That's right. These four brave souls who put up with my ShapeShifter boys night in and night out have decided to form their own band. They called themselves Tech Support, which is a clever enough name if you don't know what they do and the ways in which techs really do support the men they work for. The women, too.
So this new Tech Support band's busy playin' all the spots around Riverview. Never more than a day's drive away, just in case their bosses need 'em for something. You know: fix a string, tune something, tighten a drum head. Doesn't sound hard. But yours truly guesses that once you get used to the prima donna treatment, there's no going back.
Not that Chelle's calling those ShapeShifter boys prima donnas.
Well, okay, she is.
She'd love to do it in person, too. Face-to-face and all that. After all, how's a rock writer supposed to write about rock if she don't get a chance to listen to it?
That means that any of you who're thinkin' of takin' your pretty little selves out to Riverview to check out Tech Support live and in person, check with me before you jump in your rental car. Chelle here don't drive. She needs a lift to the gigs. And you can be there to watch what happens when she calls the ShapeShifter boys prima donnas to their faces.
I bet those Tech Support boys will laugh the whole time they're agreein' with me.
What? You STILL haven't joined the Monday Poetry Train? No rules, people, no rules! (or is that the problem?? Hmmm? Also, scroll down a post for a new thing I'd love to see the world join me in: Sunday Best. You decide what's best and talk about it on Sundays. How easy is that?
Labels: Chelle LaFleur, musicians, Poetry Train, Riverview USA
Sunday, January 06, 2008
DMH Fiction: Chapeau
You probably want to go take a peek at this week's Weekend Wordsmith prompt in order to fully understand the ending of this. I stared at that thing for a good hour or so before this bubbled forth, sort of like a mud pot in Yellowstone (yes, pictures to follow). And for those of you who are confused, DMH means... Deadly Metal Hatchet. You got it.
Scott stared at the girls. "You for fricken real?"
"Well, yeah," the skinnier of the two said. Skinny wasn't the right word; skeletal was more like it. It was all he could do to keep from staring at her collarbones and the way they stuck out. This girl had problems.
Scott figured he had to have problems, too, because he was seriously considering her offer. Hang at her place, she'd said. She had a pool.
It was a hot August night. A pool would feel a hell of a lot better than the Winnebago.
Gecko came up right then, a beer in one hand, his index and middle finger of the beer hand holding a cigarette. He clapped Scott on the far shoulder and left his arm draped there as he leered at the girl. "Who's this?"
"My friends call me Chapeau," she said, thrusting her chest out. Like she had tits, Scott thought. There was the barest bump under her tank top, and it was a close-fitting tank top.
"Chapeau?" Gecko said, lifting both the beer and the cigarette to his mouth. He blew smoke at her. "That means hat or something, dunnit?"
"Think about it," she said and winked at Scott. "We leave in ten."
Scott didn't have much to explain to Gecko. "She has a pool."
It took him exactly four minutes to round up Lido and Fozzy. Chapeau was ready to go.
They should have stayed home, Scott thought as soon as they got there. There was no food in the fridge, and Chapeau got all nervous when they talked about ordering a pizza. And the pool?
The pool was one of those plastic wader things, barely big enough for one of them to sit down in, let alone the four of them plus Chapeau.
Fozzy said it felt good to just be able to stick his feet in. Then again, it was probably the first time in a month that Fozzy's feet had gotten near water other than his own sweat. Lido muttered something about the Hatchet being needed here. This was a joke, he mumbled, something that the Hatchet needed to fix for them.
They stayed like that, not talking once Lido was done, sitting in folding chairs that made a circle around the stupid blue wading pool, drinking the beer they'd brought and staring stupidly at each other, until Chapeau showed them how she'd got her name, one at a time, in a not-so-private viewing that went around the circle to each Hatchet member in turn.
Hats, it seemed, covered heads. Pretty well, for someone as skinny and gross as this girl looked.
After Scott's turn, he looked over his shoulder. Even though no one had moved, a set of wet footprints led away from the stupid blue wading pool.
It seemed the Hatchet had realized it wasn't needed on this girl after all. And that the Hatchet walked on human feet.
Scott stared at the girls. "You for fricken real?"
"Well, yeah," the skinnier of the two said. Skinny wasn't the right word; skeletal was more like it. It was all he could do to keep from staring at her collarbones and the way they stuck out. This girl had problems.
Scott figured he had to have problems, too, because he was seriously considering her offer. Hang at her place, she'd said. She had a pool.
It was a hot August night. A pool would feel a hell of a lot better than the Winnebago.
Gecko came up right then, a beer in one hand, his index and middle finger of the beer hand holding a cigarette. He clapped Scott on the far shoulder and left his arm draped there as he leered at the girl. "Who's this?"
"My friends call me Chapeau," she said, thrusting her chest out. Like she had tits, Scott thought. There was the barest bump under her tank top, and it was a close-fitting tank top.
"Chapeau?" Gecko said, lifting both the beer and the cigarette to his mouth. He blew smoke at her. "That means hat or something, dunnit?"
"Think about it," she said and winked at Scott. "We leave in ten."
Scott didn't have much to explain to Gecko. "She has a pool."
It took him exactly four minutes to round up Lido and Fozzy. Chapeau was ready to go.
They should have stayed home, Scott thought as soon as they got there. There was no food in the fridge, and Chapeau got all nervous when they talked about ordering a pizza. And the pool?
The pool was one of those plastic wader things, barely big enough for one of them to sit down in, let alone the four of them plus Chapeau.
Fozzy said it felt good to just be able to stick his feet in. Then again, it was probably the first time in a month that Fozzy's feet had gotten near water other than his own sweat. Lido muttered something about the Hatchet being needed here. This was a joke, he mumbled, something that the Hatchet needed to fix for them.
They stayed like that, not talking once Lido was done, sitting in folding chairs that made a circle around the stupid blue wading pool, drinking the beer they'd brought and staring stupidly at each other, until Chapeau showed them how she'd got her name, one at a time, in a not-so-private viewing that went around the circle to each Hatchet member in turn.
Hats, it seemed, covered heads. Pretty well, for someone as skinny and gross as this girl looked.
After Scott's turn, he looked over his shoulder. Even though no one had moved, a set of wet footprints led away from the stupid blue wading pool.
It seemed the Hatchet had realized it wasn't needed on this girl after all. And that the Hatchet walked on human feet.
Labels: Deadly Metal Hatchet, Poetry Train, Weekend Wordsmith
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Roadie Poet: Musketeers of the Road
Christmas break.
Two days in a hotel.
Little box of a room.
It's a room.
Hambone and me, we don't complain.
We know better.
More's staying with us, too.
Tour's happy about that.
Saves 'em the cost of her room.
Hambone pretends to sleep.
We turn the TV on for noise.
Try to be quiet.
None of it works.
Tour rented out a room
For a crew Christmas dinner.
A bigger box of a room
But at least we're not on our own
Since we can't be home.
Me and Hambone and More, we're glad of that rented box of a room.
We're a team now,
Musketeers of the road.
It'll be hard to find tours like this
Until word gets out about us.
But so what.
Right now's what matters.
Best Christmas present we could hope for.
Me, Hambone, and More.
Musketeers of the Road.
Two days in a hotel.
Little box of a room.
It's a room.
Hambone and me, we don't complain.
We know better.
More's staying with us, too.
Tour's happy about that.
Saves 'em the cost of her room.
Hambone pretends to sleep.
We turn the TV on for noise.
Try to be quiet.
None of it works.
Tour rented out a room
For a crew Christmas dinner.
A bigger box of a room
But at least we're not on our own
Since we can't be home.
Me and Hambone and More, we're glad of that rented box of a room.
We're a team now,
Musketeers of the road.
It'll be hard to find tours like this
Until word gets out about us.
But so what.
Right now's what matters.
Best Christmas present we could hope for.
Me, Hambone, and More.
Musketeers of the Road.
Labels: poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, touring
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Fiction Outtake: The Day After (The Springer Saga)
Before we launch into the fiction, I want to point you guys to my bud Bunnygirl. Yeah, click on her name. She's going to hold a flash fiction carnival and you KNOW you want to be part of it.
And now, the end of the Springer Saga. Sort of.
Springer stretched out in the hammock in the back yard, chewing on a piece of grass and fingering his pipe, wondering if he wanted a smoke. Who needed to smoke when they'd been on stage with the best band on the planet? The day was cloudy, and it seemed that every single cloud he saw reminded him of something from the night before.
That cloud over Springer's head was his guitar. He'd changed the strings before the show. He'd polished the body, checked the pickups, made sure the knobs and dials were all working. It was a guess how to tune it, since ShapeShifter played in a bunch of different keys, but the roadies backstage had given everyone's guitars a super quick tuning when they'd been assigned their songs.
Even though he hadn't been able to pick out the sound of his specific guitar over the other two lottery winners on stage with him, not to mention Eric and that Walter dude everyone but him seemed to dig, he'd been there, onstage with ShapeShifter. The only time he'd been able to hear himself was when he'd hit that wrong note, but no one else seemed to notice. They probably figured it was that bass player who must've picked up a bass after he'd won the lottery for a spot onstage with the band.
That big, fluffy, high one was how he felt. He'd never been on stage before and being up there, with the lights shining down on his head until it felt like his hair would catch on fire and looking out at the crowd who was screaming, yelling, and singing along… He understood a lot more now, that was for sure. He understood why guys in bands put up with so much shit and what they meant when they said it was in their blood.
Problem was, Springer wasn't sure it was in his blood. He'd watched Eric's fingers and realized how much better the guy was. That the parts Springer was playing were dumbed down and basic. You had to be good to get as big as ShapeShifter. Better than Springer had realized. It was that simple.
That wispy cloud, the one that was hard to see, that was how he'd felt after the song ended, when the roadies or whoever they were came and herded him and the other two off the stage. There weren't even handshakes to say thanks; the band kept playing and the next two were already coming out for their chance to jam. The roadies had helped him unplug, had given him his commemorative picks, and showed him to the safe place for storing his guitar so he could go back around front and watch the rest of the show. It had run smooth and all, but was it all it'd been supposed to be?
He didn't want to say no. But saying yes wasn't right, either.
That didn't mean he wasn't saving up for next year already. Maybe it'd be different. Maybe Eric would remember him. Maybe he'd find a better job and be able to afford some guitar lessons. There had to be a way.
Maybe there was the stage in his blood after all.
Yep, it's Sunday night and Monday, so take a ride on Rhian's Poetry Train! The only rules are that there are no rules, so come take part in the fun.
And now, the end of the Springer Saga. Sort of.
Springer stretched out in the hammock in the back yard, chewing on a piece of grass and fingering his pipe, wondering if he wanted a smoke. Who needed to smoke when they'd been on stage with the best band on the planet? The day was cloudy, and it seemed that every single cloud he saw reminded him of something from the night before.
That cloud over Springer's head was his guitar. He'd changed the strings before the show. He'd polished the body, checked the pickups, made sure the knobs and dials were all working. It was a guess how to tune it, since ShapeShifter played in a bunch of different keys, but the roadies backstage had given everyone's guitars a super quick tuning when they'd been assigned their songs.
Even though he hadn't been able to pick out the sound of his specific guitar over the other two lottery winners on stage with him, not to mention Eric and that Walter dude everyone but him seemed to dig, he'd been there, onstage with ShapeShifter. The only time he'd been able to hear himself was when he'd hit that wrong note, but no one else seemed to notice. They probably figured it was that bass player who must've picked up a bass after he'd won the lottery for a spot onstage with the band.
That big, fluffy, high one was how he felt. He'd never been on stage before and being up there, with the lights shining down on his head until it felt like his hair would catch on fire and looking out at the crowd who was screaming, yelling, and singing along… He understood a lot more now, that was for sure. He understood why guys in bands put up with so much shit and what they meant when they said it was in their blood.
Problem was, Springer wasn't sure it was in his blood. He'd watched Eric's fingers and realized how much better the guy was. That the parts Springer was playing were dumbed down and basic. You had to be good to get as big as ShapeShifter. Better than Springer had realized. It was that simple.
That wispy cloud, the one that was hard to see, that was how he'd felt after the song ended, when the roadies or whoever they were came and herded him and the other two off the stage. There weren't even handshakes to say thanks; the band kept playing and the next two were already coming out for their chance to jam. The roadies had helped him unplug, had given him his commemorative picks, and showed him to the safe place for storing his guitar so he could go back around front and watch the rest of the show. It had run smooth and all, but was it all it'd been supposed to be?
He didn't want to say no. But saying yes wasn't right, either.
That didn't mean he wasn't saving up for next year already. Maybe it'd be different. Maybe Eric would remember him. Maybe he'd find a better job and be able to afford some guitar lessons. There had to be a way.
Maybe there was the stage in his blood after all.
Yep, it's Sunday night and Monday, so take a ride on Rhian's Poetry Train! The only rules are that there are no rules, so come take part in the fun.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Musical Hanukkah Celebration, Poetry Train, Springer
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Show Day
Been following the saga of Springer? Why not?
Since it's the Monday of Hanukkah, that means it's the day of the now annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration, a fund-raiser thrown by our friends in the fictional band ShapeShifter. Read on; links to catch up will be at the bottom.
Mitchell rolled over and stretched, unsurpised that Kerri was already gone. She liked to get up at what she called normal hours. He, of course, kept a rock star's hours.
That meant it was noon, or near enough to it to count. Five hours until he had to be at the venue, and tonight was a doozy of a show. The second annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration. Fifty wanna-bes up on stage with the band, tripping on everything, fucking with his and Eric's foot pedals, trying to steal their picks.
Amazing that last year, it had been a shitload of fun.
Most of the credit for that had to go to the stage crew who'd stepped up and worked without pay -- like they'd be doing this year, too. The band had found some nice ways to say thanks, even going so far for a few of the thicker skulls as to make calls directly to get them some extra work. Mitchell had heard that one had found his calling and was sticking around as a cotton tech. Not bad for someone who hadn't seemed able to tell a size three-x from a small.
Mitchell finished stretching and got up. No need to shower on a show day. No need to do much, really, on a show day. Just press, and that had all been done already. There'd be no more until things wrapped up early tomorrow morning. Then it'd be three solid days of talking about how it had gone.
Kerri wasn't in the kitchen. When he finished two toasted bagels with cream cheese and strawberry jelly, an orange, and a handful of potato chips, Mitchell poked his head in the garage, but both Kerri's Jeep and bike were there. That meant she was probably up in her studio; Mitchell wondered if she'd want some company.
He grabbed his new guitar by the neck and carried it up to the third floor. "Hey."
She looked up from her artist table thingie. "Hey, yourself. Getting pysched?"
He shrugged. "Too early for that." It would be a great night; too many people had too much to prove for it to be any other way. The wanna-bes who'd be jamming with the band were all trying to be good enough to get the band's attention. The crew and club staff would all be tying to earn jobs with the band. The fans had to prove they were the band's best fans. Everyone would be at their best, and that alone would make it a great night.
He reminded himself it was too early to think about it. Thinking would only get him up for what was to come, too, and there was no way he could maintain that level of adrenaline for five hours. Better to be mellow now and let it kick in when they got to the club.
"Are you going to stand there all day?"
He shrugged. What else did he have to do with himself? He sure as shit wasn't going to go down into his little room and focus on band shit.
Kerri sighed, and he knew that was a signal to sit down in his usual chair by the window and make some music for her to work by. Quietly, so he didn't break her concentration, but after this many years with her, he knew what the rules were. Besides, fun things often happened when he distracted her.
Still, though, five couldn't arrive fast enough, and then things would get rolling. Because it was a benefit, it'd be crazy and chaotic and barely in control, and it'd make these five hours seem like paradise.
The whole idea for the Musical Hanukkah Celebration began here. Springer's story began here and continues here. And here are more facts about the event.
Since it's the Monday of Hanukkah, that means it's the day of the now annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration, a fund-raiser thrown by our friends in the fictional band ShapeShifter. Read on; links to catch up will be at the bottom.
Mitchell rolled over and stretched, unsurpised that Kerri was already gone. She liked to get up at what she called normal hours. He, of course, kept a rock star's hours.
That meant it was noon, or near enough to it to count. Five hours until he had to be at the venue, and tonight was a doozy of a show. The second annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration. Fifty wanna-bes up on stage with the band, tripping on everything, fucking with his and Eric's foot pedals, trying to steal their picks.
Amazing that last year, it had been a shitload of fun.
Most of the credit for that had to go to the stage crew who'd stepped up and worked without pay -- like they'd be doing this year, too. The band had found some nice ways to say thanks, even going so far for a few of the thicker skulls as to make calls directly to get them some extra work. Mitchell had heard that one had found his calling and was sticking around as a cotton tech. Not bad for someone who hadn't seemed able to tell a size three-x from a small.
Mitchell finished stretching and got up. No need to shower on a show day. No need to do much, really, on a show day. Just press, and that had all been done already. There'd be no more until things wrapped up early tomorrow morning. Then it'd be three solid days of talking about how it had gone.
Kerri wasn't in the kitchen. When he finished two toasted bagels with cream cheese and strawberry jelly, an orange, and a handful of potato chips, Mitchell poked his head in the garage, but both Kerri's Jeep and bike were there. That meant she was probably up in her studio; Mitchell wondered if she'd want some company.
He grabbed his new guitar by the neck and carried it up to the third floor. "Hey."
She looked up from her artist table thingie. "Hey, yourself. Getting pysched?"
He shrugged. "Too early for that." It would be a great night; too many people had too much to prove for it to be any other way. The wanna-bes who'd be jamming with the band were all trying to be good enough to get the band's attention. The crew and club staff would all be tying to earn jobs with the band. The fans had to prove they were the band's best fans. Everyone would be at their best, and that alone would make it a great night.
He reminded himself it was too early to think about it. Thinking would only get him up for what was to come, too, and there was no way he could maintain that level of adrenaline for five hours. Better to be mellow now and let it kick in when they got to the club.
"Are you going to stand there all day?"
He shrugged. What else did he have to do with himself? He sure as shit wasn't going to go down into his little room and focus on band shit.
Kerri sighed, and he knew that was a signal to sit down in his usual chair by the window and make some music for her to work by. Quietly, so he didn't break her concentration, but after this many years with her, he knew what the rules were. Besides, fun things often happened when he distracted her.
Still, though, five couldn't arrive fast enough, and then things would get rolling. Because it was a benefit, it'd be crazy and chaotic and barely in control, and it'd make these five hours seem like paradise.
The whole idea for the Musical Hanukkah Celebration began here. Springer's story began here and continues here. And here are more facts about the event.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Kerri, Mitchell, Musical Hanukkah Celebration, outtake, Poetry Train
