Sunday, November 23, 2008
Byline: Chelle LaFleur -- Gearing up for Musical Hanukkah Celebration Year 3
It only took ole Chelle here two years to figure it out, but when there's a message taped to her phone, waitin' for her in the morning, and when that message don't say nothin' but "Be at your phone at seven, your time, Wednesday," it means one thing and one thing only.
Time to talk up this year's Musical Hanukkah Celebration over in Riverview.
Yeah, yeah. I know. We don't live nowhere near Riverview. We be two time zones over and at least a thousand miles away. So what's Chelle doin' talkin' this thing up?
You boys and girls who're regulars know the answer to that. The Musical Hanukkah Celebration is the baby of the one and only ShapeShifter. And that means fat ole Chelle gets the skinny from the luscious Mitchell Voss himself. He's probably the only man who could tell Chelle when to get herself by a telephone. He's worth it every time.
Except, luscious Mitchell Voss… he ain't the best with the hellos. Know what Chelle hears when she answers the phone? "We've got our best charity yet for this thing."
No Hello? Where's the How Ya Doing, Chelle?
"It's the Mr. Holland's Opus Foundation. Stable. Been around awhile. Famous 'cause of some movie I never saw. And we're moving into the Rocket Theater this time, too," Mr. Luscious said. "It's bigger. The stage is bigger and it holds more people. The backstage area's nicer, too, so we can have a few more guest stars. We're pulling out the stops this year. And wait until you see the t-shirt. We're making more of those, too. People want to buy 'em online and help support the cause. Since it's such a good cause, we're all for that."
There you go, boys and girls. We get t-shirts this year if we ain't gonna make the trek to Riverview. And why would we? We got us some great weather this time of year. Gettin' on an airplane might cost so much, you gotta sell your favorite band t-shirt on eBay, and that's before you get to the airport and they call for a cavity search. No, boys and girls. Let's stay put. There's a great local scene here y'all should be explorin'. Chelle's got a rundown of who to go see later on this week.
That don't mean you shouldn't buy those t-shirts when word gets out that you can. Any donation's sure to make those little kids happy and grateful. It's all about bringin' music to the kids, remember that. A kid who plays the flute now might turn out to be tomorrow's Mitchell Voss. We ain't gonna know until that kid gets the chance to make some precious music.
For now, you heard it here and you heard it first: ShapeShifter's Musical Hanukkah Celebration. Gettin' bigger, getting' better and with t-shirts for all, not just the folk who make it inside. Gotta love that. Chelle sure does.
If you're new around here, this whole Musical Hanukkah Celebration thing has got to seem as though it's from left field. Click here to read the beginnings.
While the characters in this piece aren't real, the Mr. Holland's Opus Foundation is. Profits on the upcoming t-shirts and The Demo Tapes will go toward this great effort to keep our kids musical. There will be more details and hoopla to come, I promise. And a lot more fiction, too, building up to this fun event.
You may ask why I'm blurring the line between real life and fiction like this. The answer's easy: Today's clarinet player might be tomorrow's million-selling lead singer. Every child all deserves that dream.
Time to talk up this year's Musical Hanukkah Celebration over in Riverview.
Yeah, yeah. I know. We don't live nowhere near Riverview. We be two time zones over and at least a thousand miles away. So what's Chelle doin' talkin' this thing up?
You boys and girls who're regulars know the answer to that. The Musical Hanukkah Celebration is the baby of the one and only ShapeShifter. And that means fat ole Chelle gets the skinny from the luscious Mitchell Voss himself. He's probably the only man who could tell Chelle when to get herself by a telephone. He's worth it every time.
Except, luscious Mitchell Voss… he ain't the best with the hellos. Know what Chelle hears when she answers the phone? "We've got our best charity yet for this thing."
No Hello? Where's the How Ya Doing, Chelle?
"It's the Mr. Holland's Opus Foundation. Stable. Been around awhile. Famous 'cause of some movie I never saw. And we're moving into the Rocket Theater this time, too," Mr. Luscious said. "It's bigger. The stage is bigger and it holds more people. The backstage area's nicer, too, so we can have a few more guest stars. We're pulling out the stops this year. And wait until you see the t-shirt. We're making more of those, too. People want to buy 'em online and help support the cause. Since it's such a good cause, we're all for that."
There you go, boys and girls. We get t-shirts this year if we ain't gonna make the trek to Riverview. And why would we? We got us some great weather this time of year. Gettin' on an airplane might cost so much, you gotta sell your favorite band t-shirt on eBay, and that's before you get to the airport and they call for a cavity search. No, boys and girls. Let's stay put. There's a great local scene here y'all should be explorin'. Chelle's got a rundown of who to go see later on this week.
That don't mean you shouldn't buy those t-shirts when word gets out that you can. Any donation's sure to make those little kids happy and grateful. It's all about bringin' music to the kids, remember that. A kid who plays the flute now might turn out to be tomorrow's Mitchell Voss. We ain't gonna know until that kid gets the chance to make some precious music.
For now, you heard it here and you heard it first: ShapeShifter's Musical Hanukkah Celebration. Gettin' bigger, getting' better and with t-shirts for all, not just the folk who make it inside. Gotta love that. Chelle sure does.
If you're new around here, this whole Musical Hanukkah Celebration thing has got to seem as though it's from left field. Click here to read the beginnings.
While the characters in this piece aren't real, the Mr. Holland's Opus Foundation is. Profits on the upcoming t-shirts and The Demo Tapes will go toward this great effort to keep our kids musical. There will be more details and hoopla to come, I promise. And a lot more fiction, too, building up to this fun event.
You may ask why I'm blurring the line between real life and fiction like this. The answer's easy: Today's clarinet player might be tomorrow's million-selling lead singer. Every child all deserves that dream.
Labels: charity, Chelle LaFleur, creative writing, fiction, Mitchell Voss, Mr. Holland's Opus Foundation, Musical Hanukkah Celebration, Sunday Scribblings
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Roadie Poet: Stranger
Got home just now.
The start of a month off the road.
I need sleep
Clean clothes
Good food.
In that order.
My key fits in the lock.
Everything inside looks the same:
Shelf for mail
The dent in the bannister from when I kicked it with a steel-toed boot.
Don't ask.
In the living room
In front of the TV
In the recliner I bought Mom with my first tour's pay
Isn't Mom.
It's some guy.
In blue plaid flannel pants.
Black socks.
Brown slippers with no backs.
Not a lot of hair.
Glasses.
I look into the kitchen.
There's Mom's cookbooks
Mom's pots
Mom's teapot.
No Mom.
Just this guy.
"Hey," he says to me.
"You must be RP."
"Who're you?" I say to him.
"Does Mom know you're here?"
He laughs.
Stands up.
Shoves his hand at me.
I stare at it.
Mom shows up then.
Dressed in a flimsy robe.
Surprised to see me.
Her second kid.
Like I'm forgettable.
She gives me food.
Takes my laundry.
Sends me to bed.
In that order.
I don't complain.
I needed all three.
Especially sleep.
I'm awake.
Never thought I'd need earplugs at home.
Maybe
I can find
A tour
That'll keep me busy
For a month.
I don't really need
Sleep
Food
Or clothes.
In any order.
Aww, man! Poor RP; his mom's got a boyfriend! There's more to this saga, so stay tuned. In the meantime, why not check out other friends who've done some Sunday Scribblings?
The start of a month off the road.
I need sleep
Clean clothes
Good food.
In that order.
My key fits in the lock.
Everything inside looks the same:
Shelf for mail
The dent in the bannister from when I kicked it with a steel-toed boot.
Don't ask.
In the living room
In front of the TV
In the recliner I bought Mom with my first tour's pay
Isn't Mom.
It's some guy.
In blue plaid flannel pants.
Black socks.
Brown slippers with no backs.
Not a lot of hair.
Glasses.
I look into the kitchen.
There's Mom's cookbooks
Mom's pots
Mom's teapot.
No Mom.
Just this guy.
"Hey," he says to me.
"You must be RP."
"Who're you?" I say to him.
"Does Mom know you're here?"
He laughs.
Stands up.
Shoves his hand at me.
I stare at it.
Mom shows up then.
Dressed in a flimsy robe.
Surprised to see me.
Her second kid.
Like I'm forgettable.
She gives me food.
Takes my laundry.
Sends me to bed.
In that order.
I don't complain.
I needed all three.
Especially sleep.
I'm awake.
Never thought I'd need earplugs at home.
Maybe
I can find
A tour
That'll keep me busy
For a month.
I don't really need
Sleep
Food
Or clothes.
In any order.
Aww, man! Poor RP; his mom's got a boyfriend! There's more to this saga, so stay tuned. In the meantime, why not check out other friends who've done some Sunday Scribblings?
Labels: poem, Roadie Poet, Sunday Scribblings
Saturday, November 08, 2008
The Origin of Mabel
Many of you regulars may remember Mabel. Here's how the legend began:
It wasn't supposed to be a big deal. Just a cheap guitar that could take some abuse, something up to life on the road. Take abuse, it did. It got knocked, bumped, dropped. But in the end, not even the inflatable ones could handle being stepped on.
Just like that, Mabel's life came to an end.
Mitchell couldn't believe how much he missed the stupid thing. He moped. He whined. He made the band threaten to leave him at a rest stop.
It was Daniel and Eric who came to the rescue, of course.
And Mabel the second was born.
The idea for this began with this week's 100-word challenge: Resurrection. It continued with this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: change.
To read more about Mabel, check out this link. She's appeared in other spots, too. If you'd like to read them, search the blog by using her name. They'll pop right up. Have fun and remember to leave comments so I know where you've been!
It wasn't supposed to be a big deal. Just a cheap guitar that could take some abuse, something up to life on the road. Take abuse, it did. It got knocked, bumped, dropped. But in the end, not even the inflatable ones could handle being stepped on.
Just like that, Mabel's life came to an end.
Mitchell couldn't believe how much he missed the stupid thing. He moped. He whined. He made the band threaten to leave him at a rest stop.
It was Daniel and Eric who came to the rescue, of course.
And Mabel the second was born.
The idea for this began with this week's 100-word challenge: Resurrection. It continued with this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: change.
To read more about Mabel, check out this link. She's appeared in other spots, too. If you'd like to read them, search the blog by using her name. They'll pop right up. Have fun and remember to leave comments so I know where you've been!
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, Sunday Scribblings, Velvet Verbosity
Friday, October 31, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Needing Candy (The Early Days)
Warning: This outtake contains lots of foul language and men in women's clothing. Happy Halloween!
"Trevor, you may not go trick-or-treating!"
"Aww, Mom, why not?"
Mitchell dove for the safety of his room. If Ma wasn't going to let Trevor out of the house in spandex pants and a vest, she sure as shit wasn't going to let him out. Not with his hair spray painted orange and while he was wearing one of Amy's old bras. Aim would kill him when she saw him in her only long skirt, too. Hopefully she'd stay up at school tonight and hit up those stupid frat house parties she'd been raving about. As if he'd go to college, let alone join a fucking fraternity.
Trevor showed up a minute later, looking glum. "Mom threatened to barricade the door."
"Did you ask if we can hand out the candy?"
Trev shook his head. "She's on to that trick, dude."
"So let's fuck with her and really hand out the candy."
"What are you going to do about your hair?"
Mitchell shrugged. "We've got a gig tonight, right?"
"And no candy to throw during it." Trevor sat down on the bed and dropped his chin into his hand.
"Eric'll cover for us."
Trevor sat up and snapped his head around. He narrowed his eyes at Mitchell, who raised his eyebrows in surprise at the extreme reaction and waited. "What happened to pulling our own weight?" the bass player demanded. He jumped up and started waving his arms around, occasionally pointing at Mitchell. "We're a band and we rely on each other but that doesn't mean we slack off. It means we all work our asses off to be the best fucking band we can be. That doesn't mean you sit on your pampered ass and wait for Eric to show up with the fucking candy. That means you use my escape route out that window of yours and we go fucking trick-or-treat so we have something to give our fans, dumbfuck!"
"Not in a skirt," Mitchell said calmly, picking at a fold. Really, he thought, these things weren't so bad, once you got used to them. It was sort of free inside there, not all caught up inside a denim casing like a sausage or something.
Trevor jumped up and down, his eyes screwed shut, his motorcycle boots thunking on the floor. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Nothing. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Fuck off. I'm the one giving a fuck around here."
"No," Mitchell said, sitting up and adjusting the bra. They'd stuffed it with socks, of course, although Trevor had sniggered and suggested using underwear. It didn't matter what was in there; Mitchell now had a much better idea of why they called them knockers. "It's not about whether or not I give a fuck. It's about how long we have to wait to pull off my plan."
"Oh, a plan," Trevor said with an exaggerated sniff and wag of his head.
Mitchell stared at the ceiling and asked whoever was hanging out up there
for some patience. "Yes, a plan, you dumbass," he said. "It's simple. We hand out candy. One to the kids, one to us. By the time we need to split, we're set."
"And how are you planning on getting that past Mom? You know she won't go for it."
"It's simple. Either we take it, or we eat it. Remember what happened last time you hit a sugar high?"
"Fuckhead."
Mitchell laughed. He stood up and held his arms out. "So tell me. Do my boots go with the skirt?"
For more Scandalous happenings, check out this week's Sunday Scribblings. And, as always, I invite you back to my website where you can learn more about Trevor and Mitchell and where you can gain easy access to see more of them in action.
"Trevor, you may not go trick-or-treating!"
"Aww, Mom, why not?"
Mitchell dove for the safety of his room. If Ma wasn't going to let Trevor out of the house in spandex pants and a vest, she sure as shit wasn't going to let him out. Not with his hair spray painted orange and while he was wearing one of Amy's old bras. Aim would kill him when she saw him in her only long skirt, too. Hopefully she'd stay up at school tonight and hit up those stupid frat house parties she'd been raving about. As if he'd go to college, let alone join a fucking fraternity.
Trevor showed up a minute later, looking glum. "Mom threatened to barricade the door."
"Did you ask if we can hand out the candy?"
Trev shook his head. "She's on to that trick, dude."
"So let's fuck with her and really hand out the candy."
"What are you going to do about your hair?"
Mitchell shrugged. "We've got a gig tonight, right?"
"And no candy to throw during it." Trevor sat down on the bed and dropped his chin into his hand.
"Eric'll cover for us."
Trevor sat up and snapped his head around. He narrowed his eyes at Mitchell, who raised his eyebrows in surprise at the extreme reaction and waited. "What happened to pulling our own weight?" the bass player demanded. He jumped up and started waving his arms around, occasionally pointing at Mitchell. "We're a band and we rely on each other but that doesn't mean we slack off. It means we all work our asses off to be the best fucking band we can be. That doesn't mean you sit on your pampered ass and wait for Eric to show up with the fucking candy. That means you use my escape route out that window of yours and we go fucking trick-or-treat so we have something to give our fans, dumbfuck!"
"Not in a skirt," Mitchell said calmly, picking at a fold. Really, he thought, these things weren't so bad, once you got used to them. It was sort of free inside there, not all caught up inside a denim casing like a sausage or something.
Trevor jumped up and down, his eyes screwed shut, his motorcycle boots thunking on the floor. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Nothing. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Fuck off. I'm the one giving a fuck around here."
"No," Mitchell said, sitting up and adjusting the bra. They'd stuffed it with socks, of course, although Trevor had sniggered and suggested using underwear. It didn't matter what was in there; Mitchell now had a much better idea of why they called them knockers. "It's not about whether or not I give a fuck. It's about how long we have to wait to pull off my plan."
"Oh, a plan," Trevor said with an exaggerated sniff and wag of his head.
Mitchell stared at the ceiling and asked whoever was hanging out up there
for some patience. "Yes, a plan, you dumbass," he said. "It's simple. We hand out candy. One to the kids, one to us. By the time we need to split, we're set."
"And how are you planning on getting that past Mom? You know she won't go for it."
"It's simple. Either we take it, or we eat it. Remember what happened last time you hit a sugar high?"
"Fuckhead."
Mitchell laughed. He stood up and held his arms out. "So tell me. Do my boots go with the skirt?"
For more Scandalous happenings, check out this week's Sunday Scribblings. And, as always, I invite you back to my website where you can learn more about Trevor and Mitchell and where you can gain easy access to see more of them in action.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, holidays, Mitchell, Sunday Scribblings, Trevor
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Seven Braggy Things
My new bud, Beaded Tail, tagged me for that seven things meme. The last time I did it, Trevor took over. (Read it here.) Okay, he does a lot of my memes for me. He did this one, too.
Given that the Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is all about bragging, it seems natural to let Trevor do this one, too. No one loves to brag like Trevor Fucking Wolff.
But... I like being as unpredictable as my Trevor. And I got lots to brag about.
So I'm stuffing Trevor back into the tour bus and taking a rare spin at this blogging about myself stuff. (Although I suspect I do it more than I'm willing to admit! Do I?)
Know why?
Because I'm about to give you guys something many of you have asked for. Nope, not the novel you've been longing for. Not quite yet.
I've been playing with this idea for a year and a half now. I was advised to hold off doing it by a literary agent who offered representation ... and then disappeared.
Sometimes, things happen for the best. 'Cause there's not a person involved in the big business of books who'd tell you that what I'm doing has ANY commercial value. Let's prove them wrong.
What I've done is taken ALL the ShapeShifter fiction (minus anything Chelle wrote) from my blog's first year. I've organized it into chronological order, like you've asked for. I've edited each piece, more than once.
And I've uploaded it to Lulu.com.
Nope, you can't buy it YET. Know why?
The first copy I made had some odd layout issues. And the font was too small. And it needed another edit.
The second copy I made had two Tables of Contents.
And you know what? I have a whole new, healthy appreciation for people who do this stuff for a living. Sheesh, we've learned a lot, the Tour Manager and me.
It'll be soon, though. As soon as I let the Tour Manager have the laptop back so he can finish whatever tech stuff it is he's got to do. Believe me, I'll let you know.
Now, because I'm doing this myself, that means I don't get any free copies that'll show up on my doorstep for people to promo and review, like most authors get. And while most of you groupies deserve your own free copy, you might change your mind when I spring this fact on you:
Most of my expenses after profits will go to various charities, hopefully a different one every three months.
I say "most" simply so I have some wiggle room. If I say "I'm giving ALL my profits to charity," I won't feel right about holding back money for expenses I know are upcoming. I'm not doing this to make a profit. I'm doing this for these reasons:
1. I have something you guys have said you want.
2. No one else seems overly willing to help me get it to you ("No one else" meaning any of the people in publishing I've approached over the years, except for the one agent who went poof.)
3. I can.
4. I've always wanted to be a great philanthropist. Growing up in the shadow of Andrew Carnegie will do that to you, I suppose. Or all those lessons from the rabbis about the importance of tzedakah -- charity -- sunk in. You pick.
5. I'm curious to know how many copies of this little book I'll sell.
6. It's not always easy to search a blog's archives. This way, you'll have at least a third (or so) of the ShapeShifter fiction that'll be easier to refer back to.
7. I have lots more outtakes we can do this with... Year 2 wrapped up last April, and we're in the middle of year 3 now.
So... there you go. Much better than listening to me rave about how actor Shemar Moore was featured in this month's Bicycling Magazine, right?
(btw, this is only the beginning... look for some fun stuff to wear and a few other surprises in the next few months, given the speed at which the Tour Manager and I move lately. If you have an idea for a t-shirt, give a holler! I'm sure we can work something out...)
Given that the Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is all about bragging, it seems natural to let Trevor do this one, too. No one loves to brag like Trevor Fucking Wolff.
But... I like being as unpredictable as my Trevor. And I got lots to brag about.
So I'm stuffing Trevor back into the tour bus and taking a rare spin at this blogging about myself stuff. (Although I suspect I do it more than I'm willing to admit! Do I?)
Know why?
Because I'm about to give you guys something many of you have asked for. Nope, not the novel you've been longing for. Not quite yet.
I've been playing with this idea for a year and a half now. I was advised to hold off doing it by a literary agent who offered representation ... and then disappeared.
Sometimes, things happen for the best. 'Cause there's not a person involved in the big business of books who'd tell you that what I'm doing has ANY commercial value. Let's prove them wrong.
What I've done is taken ALL the ShapeShifter fiction (minus anything Chelle wrote) from my blog's first year. I've organized it into chronological order, like you've asked for. I've edited each piece, more than once.
And I've uploaded it to Lulu.com.
Nope, you can't buy it YET. Know why?
The first copy I made had some odd layout issues. And the font was too small. And it needed another edit.
The second copy I made had two Tables of Contents.
And you know what? I have a whole new, healthy appreciation for people who do this stuff for a living. Sheesh, we've learned a lot, the Tour Manager and me.
It'll be soon, though. As soon as I let the Tour Manager have the laptop back so he can finish whatever tech stuff it is he's got to do. Believe me, I'll let you know.
Now, because I'm doing this myself, that means I don't get any free copies that'll show up on my doorstep for people to promo and review, like most authors get. And while most of you groupies deserve your own free copy, you might change your mind when I spring this fact on you:
Most of my expenses after profits will go to various charities, hopefully a different one every three months.
I say "most" simply so I have some wiggle room. If I say "I'm giving ALL my profits to charity," I won't feel right about holding back money for expenses I know are upcoming. I'm not doing this to make a profit. I'm doing this for these reasons:
1. I have something you guys have said you want.
2. No one else seems overly willing to help me get it to you ("No one else" meaning any of the people in publishing I've approached over the years, except for the one agent who went poof.)
3. I can.
4. I've always wanted to be a great philanthropist. Growing up in the shadow of Andrew Carnegie will do that to you, I suppose. Or all those lessons from the rabbis about the importance of tzedakah -- charity -- sunk in. You pick.
5. I'm curious to know how many copies of this little book I'll sell.
6. It's not always easy to search a blog's archives. This way, you'll have at least a third (or so) of the ShapeShifter fiction that'll be easier to refer back to.
7. I have lots more outtakes we can do this with... Year 2 wrapped up last April, and we're in the middle of year 3 now.
So... there you go. Much better than listening to me rave about how actor Shemar Moore was featured in this month's Bicycling Magazine, right?
(btw, this is only the beginning... look for some fun stuff to wear and a few other surprises in the next few months, given the speed at which the Tour Manager and I move lately. If you have an idea for a t-shirt, give a holler! I'm sure we can work something out...)
Labels: Beaded Tail, meme, publishing, Sunday Scribblings
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Rusty's Place (Trevor's Song Era)
So this was it, Trevor thought as he followed Mitchell off the elevator and down the narrow, dark hallway. This was the other love shack, the one Mitchell bonked Rusty in when he wasn't doing her in his own place. Trevor wasn't so sure he wanted to go in. Hell, he wasn't sure why Mitchell wanted in Rusty, but the big idiot had never been the smartest thing around when it came to girls.
At least the door to Rusty's place was cool: floor to ceiling and on these rollers that made a great noise when Mitchell pulled it open. It looked old and industrial and was almost as interesting as his place.
The first thing Trevor noticed was the space. Huge. Empty. A few ugly couches, a few lights set around them like he'd seen at photo shoots the band had been on. And a drafting desk, white, facing the couches.
A couple of mismatched throw rugs on the floor. Rusty's bike by the door, and hooks for keys and shit. Not hooks, he realized as he looked closer. Carabiners. They made stealing her keys pretty fucking hard, the way they were rigged, there. It was almost a good idea.
Behind the drafting desk, he saw a couple of stools, one of which held Her Rustiness. Her shadow fell behind her on one of those screens for privacy that had some soothing nature scene painted on it. That must be her living space back there, but damn if Trevor could see any of it. Damn if Trevor wanted to see it.
He hated to admit it, but the whole place added up to some sort of artsy style. A little too serious to be a student's digs but at the same time it was obvious she wasn't on easy street. If this wasn't Rusty's place, he might even have been able to respect the person who lived here.
"Hey, you're here," she said from behind that drafting desk. She lifted her head and pierced him with those damn eyes of hers. Trevor still didn't understand how Mitchell had found a girl who had the famous Voss eyes.
"Yep," Mitchell said, crossing the couch area and going over to Rusty. He put his hands on her waist and kissed her like he was trying to crawl down her throat. All of him, not just his tongue.
Trevor looked around, wondering where the bathroom was. Just in case bad judgment got the better of him and he decided not to yak on her floor. Watching her clean up that mess would be sublime -- assuming Mitchell didn't make him do it himself, which the idiot would probably do. After all, Rusty might get her precious self dirty or something.
He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It hadn't hit him; it couldn't be Mitchell. That meant…
He jumped again, away from Rusty this time. He gave her a quick once-over: paint-covered sweatpants that used to be grey and a sorta snug but not tight t-shirt. He couldn't deny she had a good shape. Even worse, the paint streaks brought that out.
That she was barefoot didn't surprise him. Mitchell would have to fall for someone who hated clothes as much as he did. It was that simple, until you got to the eyes. That was just fucking freaky.
"Hi, Trev," she said like he hadn't just handed out this insult by getting away from her touch. Sometimes, he thought she was clueless, but then he looked in those eyes and knew better. The Queen of Polite, that's what he ought to call her. Maybe he would -- except Rusty fit so much better. And it pissed her off.
Trevor realized he had no cranky comeback for her. Nothing about the lack of walls helping make sure she didn't get lost. Nothing about the high ceilings or those couches. Nothing.
Mitchell growled and stuck an elbow in his ribs. Trevor glared at him and reached for his cigarettes.
"Let's get rolling," Mitchell said.
"I need to change," Rusty said. She vanished behind the stupid screen.
"You can't change enough," Trevor told her and placed an unlit cigarette in its usual place at the corner of his mouth.
"How did I know you'd say that?" she asked. It was weird, talking to her like this. He couldn't see her but nothing was muffling her voice. It was like talking to someone who was invisible. Then again, life would be better if she wasn't there at all.
"Maybe you're a fucking clairvoyant or something."
"Maybe I'm just smart," she said, coming around the screen all dressed in jeans and another t-shirt, this one without paint on it. "We ready?" She held her arm out. Mitchell grabbed it and wound it around his waist.
Trevor tried not to gag. "I'm readier than you'll ever know," he said.
"Good thing," she said as Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor's head. It wasn't hard; just enough to remind him to watch himself. Like he'd do anything else here in Rusty's lair. If she'd used it to snag Mitchell, there was no telling what she'd do to him.
So you've met Trevor, Mitchell, and Kerri over the past week. Now you get to see them in action, as part of the Sunday Scribblings prompt.
I don't know about this one. For those of you who're regulars, I'm going to drive you NUTS when I say this: it feels like it belongs right inside of Trevor's Song. Sorry, but it's true.
Stay tuned for news on how to help get that book into your hands. There's a lot brewing behind the scenes here. And yes, you'll like it all.
At least the door to Rusty's place was cool: floor to ceiling and on these rollers that made a great noise when Mitchell pulled it open. It looked old and industrial and was almost as interesting as his place.
The first thing Trevor noticed was the space. Huge. Empty. A few ugly couches, a few lights set around them like he'd seen at photo shoots the band had been on. And a drafting desk, white, facing the couches.
A couple of mismatched throw rugs on the floor. Rusty's bike by the door, and hooks for keys and shit. Not hooks, he realized as he looked closer. Carabiners. They made stealing her keys pretty fucking hard, the way they were rigged, there. It was almost a good idea.
Behind the drafting desk, he saw a couple of stools, one of which held Her Rustiness. Her shadow fell behind her on one of those screens for privacy that had some soothing nature scene painted on it. That must be her living space back there, but damn if Trevor could see any of it. Damn if Trevor wanted to see it.
He hated to admit it, but the whole place added up to some sort of artsy style. A little too serious to be a student's digs but at the same time it was obvious she wasn't on easy street. If this wasn't Rusty's place, he might even have been able to respect the person who lived here.
"Hey, you're here," she said from behind that drafting desk. She lifted her head and pierced him with those damn eyes of hers. Trevor still didn't understand how Mitchell had found a girl who had the famous Voss eyes.
"Yep," Mitchell said, crossing the couch area and going over to Rusty. He put his hands on her waist and kissed her like he was trying to crawl down her throat. All of him, not just his tongue.
Trevor looked around, wondering where the bathroom was. Just in case bad judgment got the better of him and he decided not to yak on her floor. Watching her clean up that mess would be sublime -- assuming Mitchell didn't make him do it himself, which the idiot would probably do. After all, Rusty might get her precious self dirty or something.
He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It hadn't hit him; it couldn't be Mitchell. That meant…
He jumped again, away from Rusty this time. He gave her a quick once-over: paint-covered sweatpants that used to be grey and a sorta snug but not tight t-shirt. He couldn't deny she had a good shape. Even worse, the paint streaks brought that out.
That she was barefoot didn't surprise him. Mitchell would have to fall for someone who hated clothes as much as he did. It was that simple, until you got to the eyes. That was just fucking freaky.
"Hi, Trev," she said like he hadn't just handed out this insult by getting away from her touch. Sometimes, he thought she was clueless, but then he looked in those eyes and knew better. The Queen of Polite, that's what he ought to call her. Maybe he would -- except Rusty fit so much better. And it pissed her off.
Trevor realized he had no cranky comeback for her. Nothing about the lack of walls helping make sure she didn't get lost. Nothing about the high ceilings or those couches. Nothing.
Mitchell growled and stuck an elbow in his ribs. Trevor glared at him and reached for his cigarettes.
"Let's get rolling," Mitchell said.
"I need to change," Rusty said. She vanished behind the stupid screen.
"You can't change enough," Trevor told her and placed an unlit cigarette in its usual place at the corner of his mouth.
"How did I know you'd say that?" she asked. It was weird, talking to her like this. He couldn't see her but nothing was muffling her voice. It was like talking to someone who was invisible. Then again, life would be better if she wasn't there at all.
"Maybe you're a fucking clairvoyant or something."
"Maybe I'm just smart," she said, coming around the screen all dressed in jeans and another t-shirt, this one without paint on it. "We ready?" She held her arm out. Mitchell grabbed it and wound it around his waist.
Trevor tried not to gag. "I'm readier than you'll ever know," he said.
"Good thing," she said as Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor's head. It wasn't hard; just enough to remind him to watch himself. Like he'd do anything else here in Rusty's lair. If she'd used it to snag Mitchell, there was no telling what she'd do to him.
So you've met Trevor, Mitchell, and Kerri over the past week. Now you get to see them in action, as part of the Sunday Scribblings prompt.
I don't know about this one. For those of you who're regulars, I'm going to drive you NUTS when I say this: it feels like it belongs right inside of Trevor's Song. Sorry, but it's true.
Stay tuned for news on how to help get that book into your hands. There's a lot brewing behind the scenes here. And yes, you'll like it all.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Kerri, Mitchell, Sunday Scribblings, Trevor
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Banned Books (The Early Years)
Trevor stifled his smile and handed the list to Mr. Bautista. The English teacher gave it a quick glance and handed it back. "I know you hate me, but trying to get me fired is pushing it. Even for you."
"No one's gonna fire your ass. These are just books."
"Books which I'm forbidden to teach to my students."
"You said the whole point of this was for us to teach you something. So I'm gonna teach you why it's stupid to want to ban all these books."
Mr. Bautista stood up, looking down at his desk. He pursed his lips.
Trevor waited, curious. He'd either wind up in detention again or else he'd be doing a book report on Huck Finn. Either option was fine with him.
"I hate it when you put me in these positions," the English teacher said heavily. He looked up, and for a second there, Trevor identified with the look on the guy's face. "But I have to uphold the school's ban. Why not Tom Sawyer? It and Huck go together like best friends."
"Tom Sawyer doesn't put people's panties in a bunch."
Mr. Bautista held up a hand. "Language, Trevor. Restate that, please."
"It doesn't piss people off?"
He got one of those looks that told him he was trying to kid a kidder and it wasn't welcome.
"People don't object to it," he said in his most dramatic, sullen way. He even scuffed at the floor. No one seemed to care. Times like this, he really hated the English teacher. The guy almost never played along the way he was supposed to.
"Look, I know what you're trying to do," Mr. Bautista said. "You want to stir your classmates up and try to rally them to make a stand. You're right to want to do so. In some parts of the country, you'd be brave to be trying this because some parents would call to have you expelled for even showing me this list."
"This isn't some parts of the country," Trevor said. "This is Riverview, the city that tolerates everything and everyone. So what's so wrong with a stupid book?"
"Some people feel that books give students the wrong ideas."
"I'm not some people," Trevor said.
"Then you need to stand up and be heard. All of you," Mr. Bautista said, leaning to the side so he could see the class lined up behind Trevor. "Why are you letting nameless, faceless people dictate what you can and can't read? Who said those people are the morality police? Why are you willing to let them define which ideas are right and which are wrong?"
Trevor's classmates squirmed uncomfortably. It was up to Trevor, of course, to answer.
"You know, we all show up for the Gay Parade and love it. But we can't read a book with a guy named Nigger Jim in it? That's his name. What's the big deal?"
"I don't make the rules, Trevor. In this case, I don't even agree with them, but if I want to pay off my car, I've got to follow them."
"Don't you ever get tired of being a sheep?"
"Of course I do. When I was your age," Mr. Bautista gestured again at the class, "I wanted to read every banned book, too. So I did -- outside of the classroom, where no one could stop me. And you're right, Trevor. Once I read them, I realized they were no big deal. Except for one thing."
He held up a finger and every kid in the classroom, including Trevor, leaned forward to hear what their teacher had to say. "Those books were what made me fall in love with literature. They're what made me want to be a teacher. If you want to read these books outside of school and put together a discussion group at someone's house, please do! Expand your worlds, your brains. Read the books that were banned and the ones that weren't. Learn all you can about literature and then come back and tell me if you've learned to agree about the pointlessness of banning books. All it does is make every single last one of you want to read them!"
Trevor squirmed. No wonder he didn't like this guy; he got to all Trevor's great rants before he could do it himself.
"Look," Mr. Bautista said, "I'll make you a deal, Trevor. You do the report on Tom Sawyer. Focus on Tom and Becky and their relationship--"
"I'm not reading some sappy love story!"
"Read the book and see for yourself what I'm talking about." Mr. Bautista leaned forward and dropped his voice so no one else in line behind Trevor could hear. "If you do that, I'll share a book of my own with you. It's one I could get fired for even telling you the title of, the school board is that uptight about it."
Trevor's eyes sparkled. If it was that forbidden, it was for him, all right.
"Deal?" Mr. Bautista said, leaning back and nodding at the next few kids in line.
"Deal," Trevor said, nodding firmly.
Mr. Bautista pointed at the door. Trevor gave him a wild look. "What'd I do now?"
"It's not what you did, Trevor. It's what you're about to do. Go down to the library and get yourself a copy of Tom Sawyer while I okay everyone else's picks."
He hoped the nerdy kids all wanted Tom Sawyer. He couldn't wait to see their faces when he got up and made his report. That meant he had to put them to shame.
Those losers? It shouldn't be hard, he decided and headed off to the library, letting short little Carolyn take that final step up to Mr. Bautista's desk, her list trembling.
Trevor wondered if that was because she wanted to read Lady Chatterly's Lover. The quiet girls like Carolyn, they liked that racy stuff. She'd probably get to do it, too. That one hadn't been banned.
Trevor knew that. Trevor knew every last book that had been banned; he'd memorized the lists.
He could hardly wait to see which one Mr. Bautista was going to slip him. It better be good.
I know you want to know more about the mystery book. While I don't answer the question directly, here's a response that ought to satisfy anyway.
"No one's gonna fire your ass. These are just books."
"Books which I'm forbidden to teach to my students."
"You said the whole point of this was for us to teach you something. So I'm gonna teach you why it's stupid to want to ban all these books."
Mr. Bautista stood up, looking down at his desk. He pursed his lips.
Trevor waited, curious. He'd either wind up in detention again or else he'd be doing a book report on Huck Finn. Either option was fine with him.
"I hate it when you put me in these positions," the English teacher said heavily. He looked up, and for a second there, Trevor identified with the look on the guy's face. "But I have to uphold the school's ban. Why not Tom Sawyer? It and Huck go together like best friends."
"Tom Sawyer doesn't put people's panties in a bunch."
Mr. Bautista held up a hand. "Language, Trevor. Restate that, please."
"It doesn't piss people off?"
He got one of those looks that told him he was trying to kid a kidder and it wasn't welcome.
"People don't object to it," he said in his most dramatic, sullen way. He even scuffed at the floor. No one seemed to care. Times like this, he really hated the English teacher. The guy almost never played along the way he was supposed to.
"Look, I know what you're trying to do," Mr. Bautista said. "You want to stir your classmates up and try to rally them to make a stand. You're right to want to do so. In some parts of the country, you'd be brave to be trying this because some parents would call to have you expelled for even showing me this list."
"This isn't some parts of the country," Trevor said. "This is Riverview, the city that tolerates everything and everyone. So what's so wrong with a stupid book?"
"Some people feel that books give students the wrong ideas."
"I'm not some people," Trevor said.
"Then you need to stand up and be heard. All of you," Mr. Bautista said, leaning to the side so he could see the class lined up behind Trevor. "Why are you letting nameless, faceless people dictate what you can and can't read? Who said those people are the morality police? Why are you willing to let them define which ideas are right and which are wrong?"
Trevor's classmates squirmed uncomfortably. It was up to Trevor, of course, to answer.
"You know, we all show up for the Gay Parade and love it. But we can't read a book with a guy named Nigger Jim in it? That's his name. What's the big deal?"
"I don't make the rules, Trevor. In this case, I don't even agree with them, but if I want to pay off my car, I've got to follow them."
"Don't you ever get tired of being a sheep?"
"Of course I do. When I was your age," Mr. Bautista gestured again at the class, "I wanted to read every banned book, too. So I did -- outside of the classroom, where no one could stop me. And you're right, Trevor. Once I read them, I realized they were no big deal. Except for one thing."
He held up a finger and every kid in the classroom, including Trevor, leaned forward to hear what their teacher had to say. "Those books were what made me fall in love with literature. They're what made me want to be a teacher. If you want to read these books outside of school and put together a discussion group at someone's house, please do! Expand your worlds, your brains. Read the books that were banned and the ones that weren't. Learn all you can about literature and then come back and tell me if you've learned to agree about the pointlessness of banning books. All it does is make every single last one of you want to read them!"
Trevor squirmed. No wonder he didn't like this guy; he got to all Trevor's great rants before he could do it himself.
"Look," Mr. Bautista said, "I'll make you a deal, Trevor. You do the report on Tom Sawyer. Focus on Tom and Becky and their relationship--"
"I'm not reading some sappy love story!"
"Read the book and see for yourself what I'm talking about." Mr. Bautista leaned forward and dropped his voice so no one else in line behind Trevor could hear. "If you do that, I'll share a book of my own with you. It's one I could get fired for even telling you the title of, the school board is that uptight about it."
Trevor's eyes sparkled. If it was that forbidden, it was for him, all right.
"Deal?" Mr. Bautista said, leaning back and nodding at the next few kids in line.
"Deal," Trevor said, nodding firmly.
Mr. Bautista pointed at the door. Trevor gave him a wild look. "What'd I do now?"
"It's not what you did, Trevor. It's what you're about to do. Go down to the library and get yourself a copy of Tom Sawyer while I okay everyone else's picks."
He hoped the nerdy kids all wanted Tom Sawyer. He couldn't wait to see their faces when he got up and made his report. That meant he had to put them to shame.
Those losers? It shouldn't be hard, he decided and headed off to the library, letting short little Carolyn take that final step up to Mr. Bautista's desk, her list trembling.
Trevor wondered if that was because she wanted to read Lady Chatterly's Lover. The quiet girls like Carolyn, they liked that racy stuff. She'd probably get to do it, too. That one hadn't been banned.
Trevor knew that. Trevor knew every last book that had been banned; he'd memorized the lists.
He could hardly wait to see which one Mr. Bautista was going to slip him. It better be good.
I know you want to know more about the mystery book. While I don't answer the question directly, here's a response that ought to satisfy anyway.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Sunday Scribblings, Trevor
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Byline: Chelle LaFleur -- Behold Me
Now, if you know Chelle LaFleur like you supposed to know Chelle LaFleur, you know all too well what sort of ShapeShifter fan I am. I am sayin' right here and now that I could go head to head with any other ShapeShifter fan out there and beat 'em when it comes to trivia. And that any other fan bit? It includes their own Mommas and Poppas. Maybe even the boys, themselves.
So I don't know what local townie Bradley thinks he's doin'. Oh, no, not the gettin' married part. That's the part that makes sense. So do all the wedding plans, with the flowers and the cake and fire hall and the decorations and all that.
Where it all falls apart is where he looks at me and says, "Hey, Chelle, what do you think about us using Behold Me as our first dance song?"
Okay, now. No one's exactly lining up to marry ol' Chelle's fat self here, so maybe I'm a little bit out of touch with what's hot in the world of weddin's these days. Maybe I am. I'll say that up front. But last time I checked, you was supposed to pick a slow song, something that gives a man and a woman reason to snuggle up in each others' arms while everyone watches and coos about how cute you are. Behold Me is no slow song. So Bradley, what's your plan, boy? You and your beautiful bride gonna hold hands and lead the head banging? You really think Great-Grandma's gonna get what you two be doin'? Won't she fall out of her wheelchair if she tries to follow along?
Now, Chelle here sees another problem entirely with this plan of Bradley's. And that problem's the meanin' of the song. Behold Me isn't some sappy plea from the outcast high school girl who wants to get herself noticed by the quarterback. Oh, no, sir-ree. Behold Me's about more substantial stuff.
Just to make sure Chelle was hearin' things right, I went right to the source. My main man, Mitchell Voss.
Now, you all know about Mitchell Voss. They call him a dragon, and for good reason. So Chelle here wasn't exactly expectin' to hear laughter when she told Voss what was up.
"They want to what?" he asked and nope, there weren't no laughin' going on. At least, I don't think that noise was laughin'. Count me in that group who thinks that boy don't know how to laugh.
I told that handsome man I was callin' him to see if the song's about what I'm thinkin' it's about. And like I said, ol' Chelle may be fat and slow, but no one knows ShapeShifter better.
"Behold Me is a song about a homeless guy who wants to be noticed and seen. Maybe helped," Voss said. "There's nothing romantic about it. I mean, s---, this is ShapeShifter we're talking about. We don't do romance.
"On the other hand," he said, "more power to this couple if the song holds that much meaning for them. Maybe one of them was homeless. Who knows? It's not the song I'd pick and no, Chelle, don't ask. I'm not telling you a damn thing about my life."
Boys and girls, lemme tell you somethin'. When Mitchell Voss married that pretty little artist of his, do you know who the first media person he called was? Do you know how many dreams of Chelle LaFleur's got trashed with that phone call to that first rock reporter? And that boy thinks he ain't gonna tell me a "damn thing" about his life?
Seems that Bradley's pulling a Mitchell Voss on me, too. Chelle picked up the phone and tracked that boy down, but if he knows why he and his lady picked Behold Me for their first dance, he ain't sayin'. Whatever.
You heard it first and you heard it here, right outta the horse's lips. Behold Me's a song about homeless people, not the adorin' gaze of lust.
Once again this week, I had a million ideas when I saw this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: wedding. I thought of letting Pam dream about her wedding to Mitchell. Lyric was going to put together special wedding baskets in the store. I even played with ideas for Roadie Poet and Deadly Metal Hatchet.
In the end this won. Hope you like.
For more Chelle, use this link.
For more Mitchell, use this link.
For more ShapeShifter, use this link.
So I don't know what local townie Bradley thinks he's doin'. Oh, no, not the gettin' married part. That's the part that makes sense. So do all the wedding plans, with the flowers and the cake and fire hall and the decorations and all that.
Where it all falls apart is where he looks at me and says, "Hey, Chelle, what do you think about us using Behold Me as our first dance song?"
Okay, now. No one's exactly lining up to marry ol' Chelle's fat self here, so maybe I'm a little bit out of touch with what's hot in the world of weddin's these days. Maybe I am. I'll say that up front. But last time I checked, you was supposed to pick a slow song, something that gives a man and a woman reason to snuggle up in each others' arms while everyone watches and coos about how cute you are. Behold Me is no slow song. So Bradley, what's your plan, boy? You and your beautiful bride gonna hold hands and lead the head banging? You really think Great-Grandma's gonna get what you two be doin'? Won't she fall out of her wheelchair if she tries to follow along?
Now, Chelle here sees another problem entirely with this plan of Bradley's. And that problem's the meanin' of the song. Behold Me isn't some sappy plea from the outcast high school girl who wants to get herself noticed by the quarterback. Oh, no, sir-ree. Behold Me's about more substantial stuff.
Just to make sure Chelle was hearin' things right, I went right to the source. My main man, Mitchell Voss.
Now, you all know about Mitchell Voss. They call him a dragon, and for good reason. So Chelle here wasn't exactly expectin' to hear laughter when she told Voss what was up.
"They want to what?" he asked and nope, there weren't no laughin' going on. At least, I don't think that noise was laughin'. Count me in that group who thinks that boy don't know how to laugh.
I told that handsome man I was callin' him to see if the song's about what I'm thinkin' it's about. And like I said, ol' Chelle may be fat and slow, but no one knows ShapeShifter better.
"Behold Me is a song about a homeless guy who wants to be noticed and seen. Maybe helped," Voss said. "There's nothing romantic about it. I mean, s---, this is ShapeShifter we're talking about. We don't do romance.
"On the other hand," he said, "more power to this couple if the song holds that much meaning for them. Maybe one of them was homeless. Who knows? It's not the song I'd pick and no, Chelle, don't ask. I'm not telling you a damn thing about my life."
Boys and girls, lemme tell you somethin'. When Mitchell Voss married that pretty little artist of his, do you know who the first media person he called was? Do you know how many dreams of Chelle LaFleur's got trashed with that phone call to that first rock reporter? And that boy thinks he ain't gonna tell me a "damn thing" about his life?
Seems that Bradley's pulling a Mitchell Voss on me, too. Chelle picked up the phone and tracked that boy down, but if he knows why he and his lady picked Behold Me for their first dance, he ain't sayin'. Whatever.
You heard it first and you heard it here, right outta the horse's lips. Behold Me's a song about homeless people, not the adorin' gaze of lust.
Once again this week, I had a million ideas when I saw this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: wedding. I thought of letting Pam dream about her wedding to Mitchell. Lyric was going to put together special wedding baskets in the store. I even played with ideas for Roadie Poet and Deadly Metal Hatchet.
In the end this won. Hope you like.
For more Chelle, use this link.
For more Mitchell, use this link.
For more ShapeShifter, use this link.
Labels: Chelle LaFleur, creative writing, fiction, Sunday Scribblings
Friday, September 19, 2008
Lyric Fiction: The Invitation
The envelope was the opposite of engraved. The letters were raised, and they were shiny. And dark blue. The whole thing was totally out of her league. It was nothing like Lyric had ever seen, and Lyric considered herself pretty worldly at thirteen.
"Is there one for me, too?" Allegra asked, reaching for the rest of the mail.
"No," Lyric said, staring glassy-eyed at the envelope. It was addressed to Miss Lyric Maker. It looked fancy, classy. And someone had sent it to her.
"Do you think it's a joke?"
Lyric turned the envelope over. It was heavy in her hand, like the paper was really expensive. Melody had shown them fancy paper like this once. Lyric couldn't remember why they were in a store that sold it, but they had been, and Melody had picked it up and let the girls touch it. The saleslady had frowned at them like they weren't good enough to be touching such expensive stuff. Lyric had thrown her a defiant look and really felt the paper. Even under her fingertips, it had been weighty. And smooth, like ice.
The return address on the back was also blue and shiny and raised. It had a name Lyric recognized. Schwartz.
"It's from Slippy."
"Oh," Allegra said. "No wonder I didn't get one." She turned away and flipped through the rest of the mail.
Lyric shrugged and tried to slide her finger under the flap, wanting to open it as gracefully and carefully as paper this rich deserved.
"I don't know why you like her," Allegra said. "She's strange."
"She's just quiet. Once you get her talking, she's really funny." Lyric slid the pages out. There was a reply envelope, in the same lush cream color and with the same raised blue letters. It even had a stamp already on it. Tucked under the envelope's flap was the reply card. It matched the envelopes, and it invited her to a special dinner dance. There were lines where she could pick if she wanted steak, chicken, or a special vegetarian meal.
"What is this?" Lyric asked, handing the reply card to Allegra. Her twin looked at it and shrugged.
There was a bigger piece of paper, too. One with a piece of tissue paper covering it. Lyric took away the tissue paper and looked at the paper underneath. A silver piece of paper had been glued between two pieces of the cream: one bigger and one smaller. The smaller one had writing on it, inviting Lyric to the Bat Mitzvah of Tziporah Hadassah Schwartz.
"Ooh," Allegra said. "Religion. Think Mom'll let you go?"
"Go where, girls?" Melody said, walking through the door. Her purse swung on her wrist and she wore oversized Jackie Kennedy sunglasses. And a plastic rain bonnet over her bottle blonde hair even though it wasn't raining. It completed the look, so it was necessary.
Allegra snatched the invitation and ran over to Melody with it. "A Bat Mitzvah?" Melody asked, her eyebrows shooting upwards. "They invited someone from our family to a religious event? Are they aware of who we are?"
"Slippy's been telling me about it," Lyric said. "She's been studying for almost a year and she gets to read from this sacred book. She says it's a big deal. I'm glad she wants me to see it."
And then it came. The question neither twin had wanted to face. "Why you, honey? They're not," Melody paused and turned her head so she could give Lyric a sidelong look, "going to make fun of my princess, are they?"
"I don't think so, Mom. Slippy and I are … well, we're not friends. But we talk. And she's nice. I like her."
"Do you think they know who you are?"
"Mom," Allegra said, "how could they address an envelope to Lyric Maker and not know who she is? C'mon. Everyone on the planet knows who we are."
"I want to go," Lyric said quietly. "I like Slippy, and maybe this is a chance to show them that the Maker girls aren't all trashy sex people. That we're respectable, just like everyone else."
"To a religious event!" Melody screeched, her hand to her chest and her eyes wide, like this was the most outrageous thing she'd ever heard.
"Why not?" Lyric said, ignoring the show. If she got sucked in, she'd forget what she wanted, and then Mom would win and Lyric wouldn't get to see Slippy doing this chanting thing she'd been talking about. Lyric had too many questions to miss out on being there. Would Slippy fall into a trance? Would something majestic happen? What did a … what was the sort of place where this was happening?
Lyric took the invitation back and read it again. Temple Beth El. It sounded harmless enough. She even knew where it was.
"You're sure?" Melody asked.
Lyric nodded. "You're always saying that if people would take the time to get to know us, they'd realize there's more here than porn flicks." She held the invitation up. "Here's the chance to show them." She looked at the words again, the fancy, shiny blue letters, the cream paper, the muted silver middle layer. It screamed of taste and class and all those other things that the Maker girls were supposed to be missing. "Maybe Slippy and her mom will take us shopping, Mom. Show us what to wear to Temple Beth El?"
"Temple Beth El?" Allegra said, tilting Lyric's hand so she could read the invitation upside down. "What's an El?"
"Who's Beth?" Melody asked.
"I bet Harmony will wish there's a Temple Harmony El," Allegra said.
The three of them looked at each other and started to laugh.
"We've got a lot to learn," Melody said. "Let's get busy."
"How?" Lyric asked.
Melody plucked the invitation out of Lyric's hands. "We start by calling this Tziporah's mother and explaining that you'd love to come, but we don't know the customs and would she be kind enough to help out."
"Her family's pretty religious, Mom," Allegra said.
"Not so religious that they are leaving Lyric out. That's a start," Melody said.
"They might try to convert you," Allegra told Lyric, who shrugged. "What'll you do if they try?"
"Listen and learn," Melody said. "And come back home and tell us everything!"
Usually, posts involving Melody and her girls have to do with the fact that Melody Maker is not a music magazine but a famous porn star. This week's Sunday Scribblings Prompt took my thoughts in a different direction. I sort of like it, particularly Temple Harmony El. And Tziporah's nickname of Slippy.
Follow this link to learn more about Lyric and her family.
"Is there one for me, too?" Allegra asked, reaching for the rest of the mail.
"No," Lyric said, staring glassy-eyed at the envelope. It was addressed to Miss Lyric Maker. It looked fancy, classy. And someone had sent it to her.
"Do you think it's a joke?"
Lyric turned the envelope over. It was heavy in her hand, like the paper was really expensive. Melody had shown them fancy paper like this once. Lyric couldn't remember why they were in a store that sold it, but they had been, and Melody had picked it up and let the girls touch it. The saleslady had frowned at them like they weren't good enough to be touching such expensive stuff. Lyric had thrown her a defiant look and really felt the paper. Even under her fingertips, it had been weighty. And smooth, like ice.
The return address on the back was also blue and shiny and raised. It had a name Lyric recognized. Schwartz.
"It's from Slippy."
"Oh," Allegra said. "No wonder I didn't get one." She turned away and flipped through the rest of the mail.
Lyric shrugged and tried to slide her finger under the flap, wanting to open it as gracefully and carefully as paper this rich deserved.
"I don't know why you like her," Allegra said. "She's strange."
"She's just quiet. Once you get her talking, she's really funny." Lyric slid the pages out. There was a reply envelope, in the same lush cream color and with the same raised blue letters. It even had a stamp already on it. Tucked under the envelope's flap was the reply card. It matched the envelopes, and it invited her to a special dinner dance. There were lines where she could pick if she wanted steak, chicken, or a special vegetarian meal.
"What is this?" Lyric asked, handing the reply card to Allegra. Her twin looked at it and shrugged.
There was a bigger piece of paper, too. One with a piece of tissue paper covering it. Lyric took away the tissue paper and looked at the paper underneath. A silver piece of paper had been glued between two pieces of the cream: one bigger and one smaller. The smaller one had writing on it, inviting Lyric to the Bat Mitzvah of Tziporah Hadassah Schwartz.
"Ooh," Allegra said. "Religion. Think Mom'll let you go?"
"Go where, girls?" Melody said, walking through the door. Her purse swung on her wrist and she wore oversized Jackie Kennedy sunglasses. And a plastic rain bonnet over her bottle blonde hair even though it wasn't raining. It completed the look, so it was necessary.
Allegra snatched the invitation and ran over to Melody with it. "A Bat Mitzvah?" Melody asked, her eyebrows shooting upwards. "They invited someone from our family to a religious event? Are they aware of who we are?"
"Slippy's been telling me about it," Lyric said. "She's been studying for almost a year and she gets to read from this sacred book. She says it's a big deal. I'm glad she wants me to see it."
And then it came. The question neither twin had wanted to face. "Why you, honey? They're not," Melody paused and turned her head so she could give Lyric a sidelong look, "going to make fun of my princess, are they?"
"I don't think so, Mom. Slippy and I are … well, we're not friends. But we talk. And she's nice. I like her."
"Do you think they know who you are?"
"Mom," Allegra said, "how could they address an envelope to Lyric Maker and not know who she is? C'mon. Everyone on the planet knows who we are."
"I want to go," Lyric said quietly. "I like Slippy, and maybe this is a chance to show them that the Maker girls aren't all trashy sex people. That we're respectable, just like everyone else."
"To a religious event!" Melody screeched, her hand to her chest and her eyes wide, like this was the most outrageous thing she'd ever heard.
"Why not?" Lyric said, ignoring the show. If she got sucked in, she'd forget what she wanted, and then Mom would win and Lyric wouldn't get to see Slippy doing this chanting thing she'd been talking about. Lyric had too many questions to miss out on being there. Would Slippy fall into a trance? Would something majestic happen? What did a … what was the sort of place where this was happening?
Lyric took the invitation back and read it again. Temple Beth El. It sounded harmless enough. She even knew where it was.
"You're sure?" Melody asked.
Lyric nodded. "You're always saying that if people would take the time to get to know us, they'd realize there's more here than porn flicks." She held the invitation up. "Here's the chance to show them." She looked at the words again, the fancy, shiny blue letters, the cream paper, the muted silver middle layer. It screamed of taste and class and all those other things that the Maker girls were supposed to be missing. "Maybe Slippy and her mom will take us shopping, Mom. Show us what to wear to Temple Beth El?"
"Temple Beth El?" Allegra said, tilting Lyric's hand so she could read the invitation upside down. "What's an El?"
"Who's Beth?" Melody asked.
"I bet Harmony will wish there's a Temple Harmony El," Allegra said.
The three of them looked at each other and started to laugh.
"We've got a lot to learn," Melody said. "Let's get busy."
"How?" Lyric asked.
Melody plucked the invitation out of Lyric's hands. "We start by calling this Tziporah's mother and explaining that you'd love to come, but we don't know the customs and would she be kind enough to help out."
"Her family's pretty religious, Mom," Allegra said.
"Not so religious that they are leaving Lyric out. That's a start," Melody said.
"They might try to convert you," Allegra told Lyric, who shrugged. "What'll you do if they try?"
"Listen and learn," Melody said. "And come back home and tell us everything!"
Usually, posts involving Melody and her girls have to do with the fact that Melody Maker is not a music magazine but a famous porn star. This week's Sunday Scribblings Prompt took my thoughts in a different direction. I sort of like it, particularly Temple Harmony El. And Tziporah's nickname of Slippy.
Follow this link to learn more about Lyric and her family.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Lyric, Melody, Sunday Scribblings
Thursday, August 28, 2008
DMH Fiction: Somewhere
"Where are we?" Scott asked, looking over Fozzy's shoulder. He pushed up his glasses even though they didn't need it.
Fozzy shrugged. "Somewhere."
"Is that somewhere near where we're supposed to be?"
Fozzy shrugged. "It's somewhere in the mountains. Are we supposed to be in the mountains?"
Lido handed Scott the map. "Are there mountains in Texas?"
"No," Scott said, wanting to grab handfuls of hair and tug until his scalp hurt. He wanted The Hatchet to come out of its blankets and chop down the mountains and get them to Texas. "We have a problem. We need to be in Texas in an hour."
"This isn't Texas," Fozzy said.
"No shit, Sherlock," Lido said. "I told you to take that right."
"We have an hour before we have to load in, and we're staring at the frickin mountains!" Scott leaned back in the seat and kicked, hoping he caught Fozzy in the butt. Idiot. How many times had he said, "Go East. Due East. We're in Arizona, so there's no way we can miss Texas"? How frickin dumb was the guy, and who the hell had stuffed him in the back seat where he wouldn't be able to see well so he could catch this mistake earlier?
"So what do we do?" Lido asked. Scott could see the panic creeping into the guy's eyes, hear it in his voice.
"Like I know?" Scott shot back. "If you'd followed the stupid map…" He grabbed it out of Lido's hand and looked at it.
No wonder. Lido had been holding it upside-down.
"I guess," Scott said, taking the deepest breath he could manage in the mountains' thin air, "we turn around and go home. And hope like hell someone'll hire us again once word about this gets out. You know it will."
"There's no way?" Fozzy asked.
"Dude, we don't even frickin know where we are!"
"Gimme that map," Fozzy said. Once it was in his hand, he carried it back to the trailer Lido's dad had loaned them for the quick trip to Texas. The Hatchet was in there, sleeping.
Scott seethed while Fozzy waited for The Hatchet to do its thing. Lido hung
his head, lit a cigarette, and tried to look cool.
Gecko just sat and stared at his hands, folded in his lap.
Scott wished he could be more like Gecko. Nothing bothered Gecko.
Including the confetti Fozzy brought back up to the front.
"Good work," Scott said. "Now how do we get home?"
For every ShapeShifter in the world, there's more than one Deadly Metal Hatchet. Hapless but well-intentioned. Talentless but with a great marketing gimmick. And hoping to make it big.
Explore more Deadly Metal Hatchet here. And be sure to leave a comment so I can return your visit, eh?
If you need a Trevor fix, there's one I posted right below this one... Come on... you know you do!
Fozzy shrugged. "Somewhere."
"Is that somewhere near where we're supposed to be?"
Fozzy shrugged. "It's somewhere in the mountains. Are we supposed to be in the mountains?"
Lido handed Scott the map. "Are there mountains in Texas?"
"No," Scott said, wanting to grab handfuls of hair and tug until his scalp hurt. He wanted The Hatchet to come out of its blankets and chop down the mountains and get them to Texas. "We have a problem. We need to be in Texas in an hour."
"This isn't Texas," Fozzy said.
"No shit, Sherlock," Lido said. "I told you to take that right."
"We have an hour before we have to load in, and we're staring at the frickin mountains!" Scott leaned back in the seat and kicked, hoping he caught Fozzy in the butt. Idiot. How many times had he said, "Go East. Due East. We're in Arizona, so there's no way we can miss Texas"? How frickin dumb was the guy, and who the hell had stuffed him in the back seat where he wouldn't be able to see well so he could catch this mistake earlier?
"So what do we do?" Lido asked. Scott could see the panic creeping into the guy's eyes, hear it in his voice.
"Like I know?" Scott shot back. "If you'd followed the stupid map…" He grabbed it out of Lido's hand and looked at it.
No wonder. Lido had been holding it upside-down.
"I guess," Scott said, taking the deepest breath he could manage in the mountains' thin air, "we turn around and go home. And hope like hell someone'll hire us again once word about this gets out. You know it will."
"There's no way?" Fozzy asked.
"Dude, we don't even frickin know where we are!"
"Gimme that map," Fozzy said. Once it was in his hand, he carried it back to the trailer Lido's dad had loaned them for the quick trip to Texas. The Hatchet was in there, sleeping.
Scott seethed while Fozzy waited for The Hatchet to do its thing. Lido hung
his head, lit a cigarette, and tried to look cool.
Gecko just sat and stared at his hands, folded in his lap.
Scott wished he could be more like Gecko. Nothing bothered Gecko.
Including the confetti Fozzy brought back up to the front.
"Good work," Scott said. "Now how do we get home?"
For every ShapeShifter in the world, there's more than one Deadly Metal Hatchet. Hapless but well-intentioned. Talentless but with a great marketing gimmick. And hoping to make it big.
Explore more Deadly Metal Hatchet here. And be sure to leave a comment so I can return your visit, eh?
If you need a Trevor fix, there's one I posted right below this one... Come on... you know you do!
Labels: creative writing, Deadly Metal Hatchet, fiction, Sunday Scribblings, touring
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Susan's Inside Writing: How I Met My...
The Sunday Scribblings Prompt this week is How I Met My.... I immediately thought of one of the most important instances in my fictional world: when Mitchell and Kerri met.
BUT, I've got a life. And that life demanded that I join the Cub Scouts and the rest of my family (still-infected finger and all) for a weekend up in Cook Forest State Park. Camping. Which means the only writing I did was in my head. I did a lot of writing last night; every time I closed my eyes, I was back on that damn canoe.
Mitchell and Kerri will have to wait until later in the week. For now, it's all about the old stuff.
I have posted two great stories in this vein here on the blog. Both have their great qualities and it's hard to choose one to talk about first.
Check out Chelle LaFleur's post that started out to be about a local musician named Jock LaFeet and became, instead, about Chelle's introduction to four guys driving around the country in Dad's Ford Bronco. Four guys who call themselves ShapeShifter.
Read it here -- and laugh with me about how Chelle's voice has evolved into something I now adore. Hope you do, too.
Whoops. A third introduction crept into my awareness. (Read on for the second; I'm out of order for the moment.) The first time ShapeShifter runs into Deadly Metal Hatchet. I miss DMH. Do you? If you're not sure, here it is: Deadly Metal Hatchet Intro.
Last -- but most definitely not least -- is THE big one. The one that this entire blog (and my current body of fiction) revolves around.
The day Trevor and Mitchell first meet. Read it here, if you haven't seen it yet. Or in a cleaned up form, as a downloadable .pdf, go here.
"How I met..." stories are important in writing fiction. Without them, your characters have no history. That makes it harder to create the all-important backstory that makes them come alive.
Now, if someone can explain why the river came alive behind my closed eyes last night, I'd appreciate it. That's one "How I met" experience that I could live without. It better think twice if it thinks it's welcome to return tonight...
BUT, I've got a life. And that life demanded that I join the Cub Scouts and the rest of my family (still-infected finger and all) for a weekend up in Cook Forest State Park. Camping. Which means the only writing I did was in my head. I did a lot of writing last night; every time I closed my eyes, I was back on that damn canoe.
Mitchell and Kerri will have to wait until later in the week. For now, it's all about the old stuff.
I have posted two great stories in this vein here on the blog. Both have their great qualities and it's hard to choose one to talk about first.
Check out Chelle LaFleur's post that started out to be about a local musician named Jock LaFeet and became, instead, about Chelle's introduction to four guys driving around the country in Dad's Ford Bronco. Four guys who call themselves ShapeShifter.
Read it here -- and laugh with me about how Chelle's voice has evolved into something I now adore. Hope you do, too.
Whoops. A third introduction crept into my awareness. (Read on for the second; I'm out of order for the moment.) The first time ShapeShifter runs into Deadly Metal Hatchet. I miss DMH. Do you? If you're not sure, here it is: Deadly Metal Hatchet Intro.
Last -- but most definitely not least -- is THE big one. The one that this entire blog (and my current body of fiction) revolves around.
The day Trevor and Mitchell first meet. Read it here, if you haven't seen it yet. Or in a cleaned up form, as a downloadable .pdf, go here.
"How I met..." stories are important in writing fiction. Without them, your characters have no history. That makes it harder to create the all-important backstory that makes them come alive.
Now, if someone can explain why the river came alive behind my closed eyes last night, I'd appreciate it. That's one "How I met" experience that I could live without. It better think twice if it thinks it's welcome to return tonight...
Labels: Sunday Scribblings, Susan's Inside Writing
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Roadie Poet: Ask
There's a code out here
On the road.
You do your job.
You hang out.
Laugh.
Joke.
Keep it light as long as you can.
You got here 'cause you're good.
You know your shit.
No need to ask for instructions.
Like a robot, you do what you gotta do.
Don't think about how mechanical it gets by tour's end.
Just do.
Think about what you're doing.
Pay attention;
One fuck-up can hurt the stars.
They're worth millions.
You don't hurt them.
No matter how much you want to
'cause they treat you like you're
Subhuman.
And whatever you do,
You never
Ever
Stop and ask them
Anything.
This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is ask. Once again, I had too many ideas to choose from, so don't be surprised if more fiction based around this theme surfaces in the future.
If you're visiting from Scribblings, please leave a comment so I make sure to visit you in return. Thanks for coming by!
If you're new to the Roadie Poet, click on the link in his name right there, and it'll take you to a biography page, and links to his earlier poems.
On the road.
You do your job.
You hang out.
Laugh.
Joke.
Keep it light as long as you can.
You got here 'cause you're good.
You know your shit.
No need to ask for instructions.
Like a robot, you do what you gotta do.
Don't think about how mechanical it gets by tour's end.
Just do.
Think about what you're doing.
Pay attention;
One fuck-up can hurt the stars.
They're worth millions.
You don't hurt them.
No matter how much you want to
'cause they treat you like you're
Subhuman.
And whatever you do,
You never
Ever
Stop and ask them
Anything.
This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is ask. Once again, I had too many ideas to choose from, so don't be surprised if more fiction based around this theme surfaces in the future.
If you're visiting from Scribblings, please leave a comment so I make sure to visit you in return. Thanks for coming by!
If you're new to the Roadie Poet, click on the link in his name right there, and it'll take you to a biography page, and links to his earlier poems.
Labels: poem, Roadie Poet, Sunday Scribblings
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Susan's Inside Writing: Old Friends
The prompt this week at Sunday Scribblings is My Oldest Friend.
I've never been one to hold on to friends forever. The fact that the Tour Manager has been in my life as much as he has is, in and of itself, amazing. Yet we weren't friends until about thirteen years ago. Or maybe we were; who can really tell among all that teenage angst and jockeying for popularity and the right crowd?
I suppose it makes sense, then, that this is an issue that I see within my fictional band, ShapeShifter. The four men who make up the band are friends onstage and off. It all began when a shy kid named Mitchell Voss met the outlandish abused outcast, Trevor Wolff. (You can read this episode here on the blog or here as a cleaned-up, downloadable .pdf file. Your pick.)
Trevor had a vision. Mitchell had a guitar. ShapeShifter was born.
(This is one of my favorite posts about the two of them.)
In due time, Eric and Daniel were brought into the fold. Yes, this was the band's original lineup and yes, it's the lineup in the band's adventures here on the blog. It's also part of the crux of Trevor's Song, my on-the-market novel that this blog was originally designed to support.
There are other relationships lurking in my fiction. Daniel has had the same girlfriend since he was sixteen. Her name is Val and you can meet her here and here, among other places (click on her name to find them). I love playing with Val because she's so different from our other long-term woman in the place, Mitchell's love, Kerri. One of these days, I'll do even more with the Daniel-Val relationship. Daniel and Val have grown up together; their relationship is complex, a little bit twisted and maybe even a little bit tragic. Yet they endure.
There are other relationships bubbling around my fictional world, too. Music writer Chelle LaFleur has a crush on Mitchell (and who in her right mind doesn't? He's a dashing, romantic sort of guy with charisma out the very cute wazoo) -- and has since she first saw them driving into town in his dad's Ford Bronco with a U-Haul on back. Read about it here -- and marvel with me at how Chelle's voice has evolved.
Notice how much of this revolves around Mitchell? That's what being loyal to the cool people does for you, and one of the coolest people around is Lyric. Read about her first encounters with Mitchell here -- and watch for more to come. I've got them stashed aside for the right time to spring them on you.
I suspect that as this thing grows, as we get closer to getting Trevor's Song into some form of print, there will be more characters who are friends of the core crew around here. New friends, old friends -- friends are where it's at.
Says the woman who sits behind her computer all day, with only a cat for company...
(did you buy that last line?)
I've never been one to hold on to friends forever. The fact that the Tour Manager has been in my life as much as he has is, in and of itself, amazing. Yet we weren't friends until about thirteen years ago. Or maybe we were; who can really tell among all that teenage angst and jockeying for popularity and the right crowd?
I suppose it makes sense, then, that this is an issue that I see within my fictional band, ShapeShifter. The four men who make up the band are friends onstage and off. It all began when a shy kid named Mitchell Voss met the outlandish abused outcast, Trevor Wolff. (You can read this episode here on the blog or here as a cleaned-up, downloadable .pdf file. Your pick.)
Trevor had a vision. Mitchell had a guitar. ShapeShifter was born.
(This is one of my favorite posts about the two of them.)
In due time, Eric and Daniel were brought into the fold. Yes, this was the band's original lineup and yes, it's the lineup in the band's adventures here on the blog. It's also part of the crux of Trevor's Song, my on-the-market novel that this blog was originally designed to support.
There are other relationships lurking in my fiction. Daniel has had the same girlfriend since he was sixteen. Her name is Val and you can meet her here and here, among other places (click on her name to find them). I love playing with Val because she's so different from our other long-term woman in the place, Mitchell's love, Kerri. One of these days, I'll do even more with the Daniel-Val relationship. Daniel and Val have grown up together; their relationship is complex, a little bit twisted and maybe even a little bit tragic. Yet they endure.
There are other relationships bubbling around my fictional world, too. Music writer Chelle LaFleur has a crush on Mitchell (and who in her right mind doesn't? He's a dashing, romantic sort of guy with charisma out the very cute wazoo) -- and has since she first saw them driving into town in his dad's Ford Bronco with a U-Haul on back. Read about it here -- and marvel with me at how Chelle's voice has evolved.
Notice how much of this revolves around Mitchell? That's what being loyal to the cool people does for you, and one of the coolest people around is Lyric. Read about her first encounters with Mitchell here -- and watch for more to come. I've got them stashed aside for the right time to spring them on you.
I suspect that as this thing grows, as we get closer to getting Trevor's Song into some form of print, there will be more characters who are friends of the core crew around here. New friends, old friends -- friends are where it's at.
Says the woman who sits behind her computer all day, with only a cat for company...
(did you buy that last line?)
Labels: Sunday Scribblings, Susan's Inside Writing
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Springer Fiction: Encountering Eric
It was nothing more than wishful thinking. Springer knew that. He knew that affording anything more than a new D string was out of the question. But he couldn't help himself. He had to stop in at Guitars by Gus and see what was new. Even a guy like him was allowed to dream.
Good thing dreaming was free. Since scrambling to put all that money together for the ShapeShifter Musical Hanukkah Celebration last December, Springer had been broke. His car insurance had come due, and since he had a job, Dad had made him cough up the cash for it.
"Son, you don't pay rent," Dad had pointed out.
Springer kept his mouth shut and handed over fifty bucks from his pay each week. That left him with just enough to fill his gas tank, although lately that hadn't been so easy, either. Springer had made his girl do some of the driving, but she hadn't been happy about it, and she let him know it.
Doing shit with her hadn't been happening much lately. Springer didn't want to think too much about that. He didn't want to think about much -- he just wanted to drop into Guitars by Gus and dream a little.
The shop was buzzing when he walked in. No one noticed him come through the door, which wasn't normal. Usually, you walked in and Gus himself or one of his kids was there to say hi. Today, no one.
That's because people were packed in. It was like someone was giving a clinic, one everyone else in town had known about, probably because they stopped in more often than once every few months.
Springer craned his neck, trying to see who was the cause of all the excitement.
No go.
He turned around and read the flyers taped to the front door, trying to read signs that weren't facing him. If there was anything there about a clinic today, he couldn't see it. Maybe it had been taken down.
Three people came in behind him, pushing Springer into the line to meet whoever it was. He tried eavesdropping on the conversations around him to find out who it was, but all he could hear was, "I brung this so he can sign it!"
As Springer got closer to the front of the line, one of Gus' sons shoved an oversize cardboard cover of the latest ShapeShifter album in his hands. "Here. You'll need this."
Springer stared at it in shock. No way. No fucking way. There was just no fucking way on this planet that he'd chanced into an in-store signing with someone from ShapeShifter. If only it was Eric… if only he could tell him what getting on stage with him at the Musical Hanukkah Celebration had meant. If only…
If only Springer's luck didn't suck. Seriously about that no fucking way bit. By the time he'd get up there, it'd turn out to be the other two. Or the drummer. Or Eric would get up and leave right before Springer could make eye contact with him or…
And then it was his turn, and it was Eric and …
Springer's mouth went dry. He tried swirling his tongue around in his mouth. Nothing.
Eric was looking at him. Hard. "I've seen you around somewhere…" the guitar god said.
Springer nodded and tried for words as he set the cover flat down on the table between them. "Musical…"
"Musical? Like South Pacific?"
Springer shook his head and held his hands up in Air Guitar position.
Eric nodded. "You won a jam with us at the Musical Hanukkah Celebration."
Springer nodded and just like that, the saliva returned to his mouth. So did the words. "That was so fucking cool to do. Man, if I could win it again next year, my life would be set, know that?"
Part of him stared in terror as his mouth kept flapping, spilling the worst case of the runs Springer'd had since the time he ate that bad bean burrito.
Eric was good about it, nodding and signing the cover flat Springer had set down, then flipping it over and writing something else.
Until he handed it back and made a motion with his head that Springer should step aside, the words kept coming. For all Springer knew, he was telling the guy about the time he lost his virginity. Or the stories his mom liked to torture him with, all about his potty training. Or …
Before he knew what had happened, Springer was out on the street, still babbling. That part of his brain that hadn't turned to mush was screaming at him, as angry as a brain could be.
He'd blown it. He'd been right there with Eric and hadn't said a single one of those things he'd needed to tell the man.
When he got back to his car and tossed the cover flat on the passenger side, too disgusted with himself to care about it, the words on back caught his eye. "See ya at the next Celebration."
Springer sat in the car and hugged himself. Maybe he wasn't such a fuck-up after all.
Haven't met Springer yet? I created him last winter, for the Second Annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration. (This link will take you to the genesis of the idea) Be sure to stop in for this year's fun. In the meantime, click on his name, or on ShapeShifter's, or Eric's and learn more about this fictional band who rules Springer's world.
Good thing dreaming was free. Since scrambling to put all that money together for the ShapeShifter Musical Hanukkah Celebration last December, Springer had been broke. His car insurance had come due, and since he had a job, Dad had made him cough up the cash for it.
"Son, you don't pay rent," Dad had pointed out.
Springer kept his mouth shut and handed over fifty bucks from his pay each week. That left him with just enough to fill his gas tank, although lately that hadn't been so easy, either. Springer had made his girl do some of the driving, but she hadn't been happy about it, and she let him know it.
Doing shit with her hadn't been happening much lately. Springer didn't want to think too much about that. He didn't want to think about much -- he just wanted to drop into Guitars by Gus and dream a little.
The shop was buzzing when he walked in. No one noticed him come through the door, which wasn't normal. Usually, you walked in and Gus himself or one of his kids was there to say hi. Today, no one.
That's because people were packed in. It was like someone was giving a clinic, one everyone else in town had known about, probably because they stopped in more often than once every few months.
Springer craned his neck, trying to see who was the cause of all the excitement.
No go.
He turned around and read the flyers taped to the front door, trying to read signs that weren't facing him. If there was anything there about a clinic today, he couldn't see it. Maybe it had been taken down.
Three people came in behind him, pushing Springer into the line to meet whoever it was. He tried eavesdropping on the conversations around him to find out who it was, but all he could hear was, "I brung this so he can sign it!"
As Springer got closer to the front of the line, one of Gus' sons shoved an oversize cardboard cover of the latest ShapeShifter album in his hands. "Here. You'll need this."
Springer stared at it in shock. No way. No fucking way. There was just no fucking way on this planet that he'd chanced into an in-store signing with someone from ShapeShifter. If only it was Eric… if only he could tell him what getting on stage with him at the Musical Hanukkah Celebration had meant. If only…
If only Springer's luck didn't suck. Seriously about that no fucking way bit. By the time he'd get up there, it'd turn out to be the other two. Or the drummer. Or Eric would get up and leave right before Springer could make eye contact with him or…
And then it was his turn, and it was Eric and …
Springer's mouth went dry. He tried swirling his tongue around in his mouth. Nothing.
Eric was looking at him. Hard. "I've seen you around somewhere…" the guitar god said.
Springer nodded and tried for words as he set the cover flat down on the table between them. "Musical…"
"Musical? Like South Pacific?"
Springer shook his head and held his hands up in Air Guitar position.
Eric nodded. "You won a jam with us at the Musical Hanukkah Celebration."
Springer nodded and just like that, the saliva returned to his mouth. So did the words. "That was so fucking cool to do. Man, if I could win it again next year, my life would be set, know that?"
Part of him stared in terror as his mouth kept flapping, spilling the worst case of the runs Springer'd had since the time he ate that bad bean burrito.
Eric was good about it, nodding and signing the cover flat Springer had set down, then flipping it over and writing something else.
Until he handed it back and made a motion with his head that Springer should step aside, the words kept coming. For all Springer knew, he was telling the guy about the time he lost his virginity. Or the stories his mom liked to torture him with, all about his potty training. Or …
Before he knew what had happened, Springer was out on the street, still babbling. That part of his brain that hadn't turned to mush was screaming at him, as angry as a brain could be.
He'd blown it. He'd been right there with Eric and hadn't said a single one of those things he'd needed to tell the man.
When he got back to his car and tossed the cover flat on the passenger side, too disgusted with himself to care about it, the words on back caught his eye. "See ya at the next Celebration."
Springer sat in the car and hugged himself. Maybe he wasn't such a fuck-up after all.
Haven't met Springer yet? I created him last winter, for the Second Annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration. (This link will take you to the genesis of the idea) Be sure to stop in for this year's fun. In the meantime, click on his name, or on ShapeShifter's, or Eric's and learn more about this fictional band who rules Springer's world.
Labels: creative writing, Eric, fiction, ShapeShifter, Springer, Sunday Scribblings
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Susan's Inside Writing: Vision
I love this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt. It's ripe with possibility.
Vision
Do I write about how Scott from Deadly Metal Hatchet wears glasses? Things Chelle observes in her role as a rock and roll reporter for the fictional Trumpet newspaper? What about Roadie Poet? What's in his vision these days besides a friend named Hambone and a girlfriend he calls More?
I could just post the outtake I have ready to go on Sunday night (so if you're reading this after Sunday, be sure to check it out). It's all about a vision Mitchell has. Or I could point you to an archived outtake, like this one. (For anyone familiar with my archives, it's the Flags outtake.)
But when you get right down to it, this blog and everything on it best represents my vision. My vision of my fictional world, my vision of what it's like to share it with readers, my vision of what it means to be a writer in 2008. Yes, I'm dying to bring you Trevor's Song, the novel. No, I can't even begin to tell you how much richer your reading experience will be because you hang out here with me. Or even stop in and visit from time to time, as many of you do.
I can tell you how much richer my own writing and my own vision for my fiction has become. Because I've got this place and because I've got readers, I'm constantly pushing myself to dig deeper into this fictional city of Riverview, USA. Not to mention the things I push myself to discover about these characters you read about here. Yes, even the ones you don't seem to love nearly as much as you love Trevor and Mitchell.
One thing really strikes me in all this: when I began to envision my fake band ShapeShifter (the fake band bit is a reference to my Thursday Thirteen this week and ooh, it hurts to think of these guys as fake. Fictional, sure. Fake? Not so much.), it was Mitchell and Kerri I created first. Trevor has become the proverbial secondary character who insisted on ... well, not just his own book, but really running the show.
Yet look at this. Who do you guys relate to the most? Who are your favorites? Trevor, Mitchell, and Roadie Poet (with Chelle running a close second and probably Lyric right there with her, if you knew her better).
They are all men.
I wish I could tell you about the rejection letters I've gotten from literary agents who ask me who'd want to read a book about a man. That's the reason some of them cite for why they don't want to work with me. They tell me that men don't read as many books as women, and that Trevor's Song can't possibly appeal to women.
Yet Trevor has become the man you can't help but love. You want more of him and frankly, I don't blame you. Trevor breaks the rules, and he does so in a manner that irritates a lot of people because he flaunts those rules he's busy breaking. He blows marijuana smoke in the faces of the school principals while Mitchell hides in a bathroom stall, afraid of what'll happen once he's caught and has to face his father. He's the bad boy with a soft side that everyone but him acknowledges.
I am eager to share my vision with you. I've often been vocal about the idea to collect the outtakes I've written and self-publish a little volume of them, for no reason other than to let you have some Trevor and Mitchell to hold into your hands. I'm holding off on that for now for reasons I don't want to get into, but know that it's something that I just may have to pull a Trevor and do for you. Flaunt the rules, do things my way, on my own terms...
Yeah, that's part of my vision for myself and for you, my readers. There's plenty more, of course, so stay tuned for it.
Vision
Do I write about how Scott from Deadly Metal Hatchet wears glasses? Things Chelle observes in her role as a rock and roll reporter for the fictional Trumpet newspaper? What about Roadie Poet? What's in his vision these days besides a friend named Hambone and a girlfriend he calls More?
I could just post the outtake I have ready to go on Sunday night (so if you're reading this after Sunday, be sure to check it out). It's all about a vision Mitchell has. Or I could point you to an archived outtake, like this one. (For anyone familiar with my archives, it's the Flags outtake.)
But when you get right down to it, this blog and everything on it best represents my vision. My vision of my fictional world, my vision of what it's like to share it with readers, my vision of what it means to be a writer in 2008. Yes, I'm dying to bring you Trevor's Song, the novel. No, I can't even begin to tell you how much richer your reading experience will be because you hang out here with me. Or even stop in and visit from time to time, as many of you do.
I can tell you how much richer my own writing and my own vision for my fiction has become. Because I've got this place and because I've got readers, I'm constantly pushing myself to dig deeper into this fictional city of Riverview, USA. Not to mention the things I push myself to discover about these characters you read about here. Yes, even the ones you don't seem to love nearly as much as you love Trevor and Mitchell.
One thing really strikes me in all this: when I began to envision my fake band ShapeShifter (the fake band bit is a reference to my Thursday Thirteen this week and ooh, it hurts to think of these guys as fake. Fictional, sure. Fake? Not so much.), it was Mitchell and Kerri I created first. Trevor has become the proverbial secondary character who insisted on ... well, not just his own book, but really running the show.
Yet look at this. Who do you guys relate to the most? Who are your favorites? Trevor, Mitchell, and Roadie Poet (with Chelle running a close second and probably Lyric right there with her, if you knew her better).
They are all men.
I wish I could tell you about the rejection letters I've gotten from literary agents who ask me who'd want to read a book about a man. That's the reason some of them cite for why they don't want to work with me. They tell me that men don't read as many books as women, and that Trevor's Song can't possibly appeal to women.
Yet Trevor has become the man you can't help but love. You want more of him and frankly, I don't blame you. Trevor breaks the rules, and he does so in a manner that irritates a lot of people because he flaunts those rules he's busy breaking. He blows marijuana smoke in the faces of the school principals while Mitchell hides in a bathroom stall, afraid of what'll happen once he's caught and has to face his father. He's the bad boy with a soft side that everyone but him acknowledges.
I am eager to share my vision with you. I've often been vocal about the idea to collect the outtakes I've written and self-publish a little volume of them, for no reason other than to let you have some Trevor and Mitchell to hold into your hands. I'm holding off on that for now for reasons I don't want to get into, but know that it's something that I just may have to pull a Trevor and do for you. Flaunt the rules, do things my way, on my own terms...
Yeah, that's part of my vision for myself and for you, my readers. There's plenty more, of course, so stay tuned for it.
Labels: Sunday Scribblings, Susan's Inside Writing
Friday, June 13, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Backstage with Jen
I had my head down, which had to be the dumbest thing I've ever done. I'm supposed to walk at the back of the line and make sure there aren't any stragglers. I'm supposed to be helping out. That's part of my job, part of the price that goes with the perks of all these backstage gigs. I'm supposed to be working.
Work is what I was thinking about, too, which makes this even stupider. It's been on my mind lately. Is this what I want to spend my life doing? Seriously?
When I looked up, I'd walked to the usual meet-and-greet area, right outside the band's dressing room. Only, no one was there.
This is a problem. The backstage area in this Civic Center is huge. There were only about twenty people lined up for the meet-and-greet, and twenty people can barely fill one of the corners in here. Not to mention, they can be practically anywhere. I could spend the entire night hunting for them and still be looking when the last of the production trucks pull out.
Fortunately, before I could panic, a woman came out of the band's dressing room. She wasn't much taller than me, but she was wearing these amazingly high fuck-me heels. Skinny jeans that rode so low on her hips, I knew she couldn't bend over and keep them on. And the hair. Jet black and hanging loose, halfway down her back and teasing the back of her bustier, which, o of course, laced up the front and pushed her boobs halfway up to her chin.
I don't think I need to mention she had the nails and makeup to match.
I was staring at rock and roll royalty, only I had no idea who she was. About all I can tell you is that she was not crew. Nor was she your regular, run-of-the-mill groupie. Not with that air of belonging that she had.
She frowned at me and put the backs of her hands on those skinny little hips. I could almost see her hip bones. I didn't even want to try to compare them to mine. "Hmm," she said. "Looks like you're lost."
I nodded helplessly. There were no words for her. There were no words from me at all at that moment, which wasn't the smartest thing. I should have been introducing myself to her; I had every right to be … well, at the meet-and-greet, doing my job.
"Well," she said and turned, taking her hands off her hips and motioning me forward with one, "let's go. I'll take you over there."
There was no sigh that showed she didn't want to be responsible for me. No nothing. Just straight matter-of-fact, no big deal. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was easier than letting me be in the wrong place when the band came out. They might get a big laugh out of the record label rep who had to follow the band to get to where she belonged, or they might go ballistic that I wasn't in my place. They were, after all, the band. I worked for them, and this one in particular wasn't one you pissed off or fucked around with. Not if you want to hang on to your job.
And don't you think that us local reps forget that. Once we do, we're done.
"Hey Charlie," my guide called when we'd gone around two corners and stood in a huge open space that would soon be filled with roadies pushing road trunks to their specific trucks for the trip to the next town. "I found a lost soul for you."
"I was wondering where you'd gotten to, Jen," the band's tour manager said. I touched the girl's elbow in thanks and went to stand with Charlie.
"Thanks, Val," the tour manager called as the woman strutted off.
"Val?" I echoed. Something about the name struck a chord, but I couldn't place it.
"The drummer's girlfriend?" Charlie said, giving me a look that told me I should have known this. I probably should have; when I'd started as a record rep, I'd known everything about every band on our label. I'd probably even met this woman. Hell, I'd probably talked to her at one point. Maybe even known her name back then.
After awhile in this job, names and faces start to blend together. The troublemakers and the divas, those are the ones who stand out, followed by the cool ones. My guide would be one of them now, too. She was the exact person I'd dreamed of being when I'd taken this job.
I began handing out cover flats and talking to the guests as I pulled Sharpies out of my purse, getting everyone ready for the band's appearance. Just doing my job, basically. But part of my brain wondered if this was really what I wanted to be doing the rest of my life. I'd passed the point at which I could morph into rock royalty, like I'd once dreamed of being.
I guess the question was who was I, and who did I want to be now.
You groupies may recognize Charlie and Val (and the mention of Daniel, too), but this is really Jen's piece. I'm not sure who she is, not really, except that I CAN say she's not autobiographical, as the Tour Manager asked. And while I'd like to get to know her more, I'm not sure there's a novel in her. We'll have to wait and see.
Work is what I was thinking about, too, which makes this even stupider. It's been on my mind lately. Is this what I want to spend my life doing? Seriously?
When I looked up, I'd walked to the usual meet-and-greet area, right outside the band's dressing room. Only, no one was there.
This is a problem. The backstage area in this Civic Center is huge. There were only about twenty people lined up for the meet-and-greet, and twenty people can barely fill one of the corners in here. Not to mention, they can be practically anywhere. I could spend the entire night hunting for them and still be looking when the last of the production trucks pull out.
Fortunately, before I could panic, a woman came out of the band's dressing room. She wasn't much taller than me, but she was wearing these amazingly high fuck-me heels. Skinny jeans that rode so low on her hips, I knew she couldn't bend over and keep them on. And the hair. Jet black and hanging loose, halfway down her back and teasing the back of her bustier, which, o of course, laced up the front and pushed her boobs halfway up to her chin.
I don't think I need to mention she had the nails and makeup to match.
I was staring at rock and roll royalty, only I had no idea who she was. About all I can tell you is that she was not crew. Nor was she your regular, run-of-the-mill groupie. Not with that air of belonging that she had.
She frowned at me and put the backs of her hands on those skinny little hips. I could almost see her hip bones. I didn't even want to try to compare them to mine. "Hmm," she said. "Looks like you're lost."
I nodded helplessly. There were no words for her. There were no words from me at all at that moment, which wasn't the smartest thing. I should have been introducing myself to her; I had every right to be … well, at the meet-and-greet, doing my job.
"Well," she said and turned, taking her hands off her hips and motioning me forward with one, "let's go. I'll take you over there."
There was no sigh that showed she didn't want to be responsible for me. No nothing. Just straight matter-of-fact, no big deal. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was easier than letting me be in the wrong place when the band came out. They might get a big laugh out of the record label rep who had to follow the band to get to where she belonged, or they might go ballistic that I wasn't in my place. They were, after all, the band. I worked for them, and this one in particular wasn't one you pissed off or fucked around with. Not if you want to hang on to your job.
And don't you think that us local reps forget that. Once we do, we're done.
"Hey Charlie," my guide called when we'd gone around two corners and stood in a huge open space that would soon be filled with roadies pushing road trunks to their specific trucks for the trip to the next town. "I found a lost soul for you."
"I was wondering where you'd gotten to, Jen," the band's tour manager said. I touched the girl's elbow in thanks and went to stand with Charlie.
"Thanks, Val," the tour manager called as the woman strutted off.
"Val?" I echoed. Something about the name struck a chord, but I couldn't place it.
"The drummer's girlfriend?" Charlie said, giving me a look that told me I should have known this. I probably should have; when I'd started as a record rep, I'd known everything about every band on our label. I'd probably even met this woman. Hell, I'd probably talked to her at one point. Maybe even known her name back then.
After awhile in this job, names and faces start to blend together. The troublemakers and the divas, those are the ones who stand out, followed by the cool ones. My guide would be one of them now, too. She was the exact person I'd dreamed of being when I'd taken this job.
I began handing out cover flats and talking to the guests as I pulled Sharpies out of my purse, getting everyone ready for the band's appearance. Just doing my job, basically. But part of my brain wondered if this was really what I wanted to be doing the rest of my life. I'd passed the point at which I could morph into rock royalty, like I'd once dreamed of being.
I guess the question was who was I, and who did I want to be now.
You groupies may recognize Charlie and Val (and the mention of Daniel, too), but this is really Jen's piece. I'm not sure who she is, not really, except that I CAN say she's not autobiographical, as the Tour Manager asked. And while I'd like to get to know her more, I'm not sure there's a novel in her. We'll have to wait and see.
Labels: fiction, Sunday Scribblings, touring, Val, Writer's Island
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Susan's Inside Writing: Nights
By now, the devoted groupies of you should have caught on to the fun I've been having with certain writing prompts. Like this week's Sunday Scribblings.
The prompt this week, for those of you who didn't go visit it, is called "My nights." My nights anymore are boring. The Tour Manager puts the kids to bed and I dive for this here computer and begin trying to catch up on everything I didn't accomplish during the day: blogs, outtakes, and the current novel-length Work in Progress.
Yeah. Like I said, boring.
But, you lucky people you, I write about people who come alive at night. No, not vampires (although some would call KISS such).
I write about a rock band (well, two of them now that I've got Deadly Metal Hatchet) and the people who orbit them. That gives me lots of opportunities to write about the night.
I mean, when you're as big a band as ShapeShifter, you play at night. Even when you're participating in those day-long (or multi-day-long) concerts. You get to close the show. Like ShapeShifter did that one New Year's Eve. Or this night.
A good way to spend a night off is to go check out a new band.
The night doesn't end when a band leaves the stage. Oh, no. First, the band's gotta have a post-show meal. Or a party.
Sometimes, when a band is in its early days, roadies are hard to afford. That means the band has to do their own load-out after the show. This isn't always such a bad thing. After all, they might meet interesting people. Or field interesting propositions.
Nights are also good for dreams and serenades. Interesting things bubble out of your subconscious at night. And it's easy to be romantic at night.
Yeah, I'd rather spend my nights writing about the fictional rock band ShapeShifter and the people who orbit them. The possibilities of what can happen are endless, and I have yet to get tired of exploring, creating, and dreaming. Not to mention writing it all down and sharing it with you here.
Have fun exploring all these links to old posts. If you're not already a proud West of Mars groupie, hopefully I'll turn you into one. If you are already a groupie, stay tuned. New stuff is on the way.
The prompt this week, for those of you who didn't go visit it, is called "My nights." My nights anymore are boring. The Tour Manager puts the kids to bed and I dive for this here computer and begin trying to catch up on everything I didn't accomplish during the day: blogs, outtakes, and the current novel-length Work in Progress.
Yeah. Like I said, boring.
But, you lucky people you, I write about people who come alive at night. No, not vampires (although some would call KISS such).
I write about a rock band (well, two of them now that I've got Deadly Metal Hatchet) and the people who orbit them. That gives me lots of opportunities to write about the night.
I mean, when you're as big a band as ShapeShifter, you play at night. Even when you're participating in those day-long (or multi-day-long) concerts. You get to close the show. Like ShapeShifter did that one New Year's Eve. Or this night.
A good way to spend a night off is to go check out a new band.
The night doesn't end when a band leaves the stage. Oh, no. First, the band's gotta have a post-show meal. Or a party.
Sometimes, when a band is in its early days, roadies are hard to afford. That means the band has to do their own load-out after the show. This isn't always such a bad thing. After all, they might meet interesting people. Or field interesting propositions.
Nights are also good for dreams and serenades. Interesting things bubble out of your subconscious at night. And it's easy to be romantic at night.
Yeah, I'd rather spend my nights writing about the fictional rock band ShapeShifter and the people who orbit them. The possibilities of what can happen are endless, and I have yet to get tired of exploring, creating, and dreaming. Not to mention writing it all down and sharing it with you here.
Have fun exploring all these links to old posts. If you're not already a proud West of Mars groupie, hopefully I'll turn you into one. If you are already a groupie, stay tuned. New stuff is on the way.
Labels: Sunday Scribblings, Susan's Inside Writing
Friday, May 30, 2008
Pam Fiction: A Body Like Mine
So Molly and I are out shopping and all when this girl comes up to me and asks if I work out at that chain gym. The thirty-minute workout place.
"No," I tell her.
"Oh," the girl says. She tells me that she's just started going there and she wants to look like me in a few weeks. That's what they promised.
I look the girl over. She's not fat, but she's soft. And round. Okay, maybe she's fat, but not a tub. But no way, no how is she going to look like me in a few weeks, no matter who promised.
I take a minute and explain I'm an exercise instructor and I've got my certifications and I go to advanced learning and I'm on the cutting edge of exercise. That's why I look like this and yes, I'm proud of it.
The girl says okay and that she hopes the thirty-minute place will make her look like that, too, even though I pretty much just told her that it won't.
Which means, I tell Molly when the girl goes, we've got to go check out these thirty-minute places and see exactly what they're selling.
So we do. We go in and the girl at the front desk -- who looks good but not great, like the place has paid off for her but she's not on my level. No way, no how -- asks if we usually come at a different time because we don't look familiar.
I explain to her that I'm an instructor at a few gyms in the area.
"Oh!" she says all perky, but then she gets all sad. "Sorry, but we're not hiring."
I try again. I tell her I've been hearing good things about this place and I'd like to see what it's like.
"Oh!" she says, all excited like she was a second ago. "You'll want to talk to our membership services!"
I explain again. I just want to talk to a fitness professional. You know: pro to pro.
That confuses her. I try to explain it again, but Molly jumps in. "Can you get whoever's in charge?"
So I get to talk to this Traci chick, who shows me what's going on. Omigod, I can't believe some people say this is exercise. All this weight equipment in a circle, and women moving their way around the circle. But they're not working, not the way the women in my classes work. They're going fast, which Traci tells me is the way to make it harder. But for people who are working harder, most of them don't have red faces. A lot of them are sweating, but there's more than a few who're chattering away like this is some coffee shop they're in. If my students did this, I'd ask if this was a social club or a workout. They'd say workout and wait for a break. But here, there's these women laughing and barely touching their machines for anything but balance. It's sad. I can see a few who are trying hard to focus and a few more who are in their zone, but the talkers, they're messing the whole place up. You'd think someone would ask them to get off the equipment while they talk. I do, when I go lift at any of my gyms.
When we leave, Molly asks me what I think of the place. I tell her the truth: it's great for people who've never worked out before and who need to get started. Or for people who want to pretend they're working out.
Molly says it takes all kinds, and she's right. I'll take the kinds who show up to sweat, the ones who put passion into their workouts. The ones who know that getting a body like mine means diet and hard exercise. That's how you get a body like mine.
When those talkers are ready to figure that out, I'll be at my gyms, teaching my classes. Just like always. After all, once you've got a body like this, you need to take care of it, right?
Ahh, Pam's quite the character, isn't she? A lot ditzy, not terribly smart and definitely full of herself. That's probably why she's not here more often. If you'd like to catch up on her past adventures as a ShapeShifter groupie, click here. That'll take you back to her character sketch page, and will link you from there to the fiction that's been posted here in the past.
"No," I tell her.
"Oh," the girl says. She tells me that she's just started going there and she wants to look like me in a few weeks. That's what they promised.
I look the girl over. She's not fat, but she's soft. And round. Okay, maybe she's fat, but not a tub. But no way, no how is she going to look like me in a few weeks, no matter who promised.
I take a minute and explain I'm an exercise instructor and I've got my certifications and I go to advanced learning and I'm on the cutting edge of exercise. That's why I look like this and yes, I'm proud of it.
The girl says okay and that she hopes the thirty-minute place will make her look like that, too, even though I pretty much just told her that it won't.
Which means, I tell Molly when the girl goes, we've got to go check out these thirty-minute places and see exactly what they're selling.
So we do. We go in and the girl at the front desk -- who looks good but not great, like the place has paid off for her but she's not on my level. No way, no how -- asks if we usually come at a different time because we don't look familiar.
I explain to her that I'm an instructor at a few gyms in the area.
"Oh!" she says all perky, but then she gets all sad. "Sorry, but we're not hiring."
I try again. I tell her I've been hearing good things about this place and I'd like to see what it's like.
"Oh!" she says, all excited like she was a second ago. "You'll want to talk to our membership services!"
I explain again. I just want to talk to a fitness professional. You know: pro to pro.
That confuses her. I try to explain it again, but Molly jumps in. "Can you get whoever's in charge?"
So I get to talk to this Traci chick, who shows me what's going on. Omigod, I can't believe some people say this is exercise. All this weight equipment in a circle, and women moving their way around the circle. But they're not working, not the way the women in my classes work. They're going fast, which Traci tells me is the way to make it harder. But for people who are working harder, most of them don't have red faces. A lot of them are sweating, but there's more than a few who're chattering away like this is some coffee shop they're in. If my students did this, I'd ask if this was a social club or a workout. They'd say workout and wait for a break. But here, there's these women laughing and barely touching their machines for anything but balance. It's sad. I can see a few who are trying hard to focus and a few more who are in their zone, but the talkers, they're messing the whole place up. You'd think someone would ask them to get off the equipment while they talk. I do, when I go lift at any of my gyms.
When we leave, Molly asks me what I think of the place. I tell her the truth: it's great for people who've never worked out before and who need to get started. Or for people who want to pretend they're working out.
Molly says it takes all kinds, and she's right. I'll take the kinds who show up to sweat, the ones who put passion into their workouts. The ones who know that getting a body like mine means diet and hard exercise. That's how you get a body like mine.
When those talkers are ready to figure that out, I'll be at my gyms, teaching my classes. Just like always. After all, once you've got a body like this, you need to take care of it, right?
Ahh, Pam's quite the character, isn't she? A lot ditzy, not terribly smart and definitely full of herself. That's probably why she's not here more often. If you'd like to catch up on her past adventures as a ShapeShifter groupie, click here. That'll take you back to her character sketch page, and will link you from there to the fiction that's been posted here in the past.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Pam, stereotypes, Sunday Scribblings
Friday, May 16, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Daniel's Shoulder (part 1)
The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is sore/soar. I was going to play with Eric, whose guitar is often said to soar above the rhythm line that Mitchell, Daniel, and Trevor lay down, but I've got a massive migraine and this was hanging around, waiting to be shared. Be sure to check back for the second part.
It was the look on Daniel's face that froze Mitchell, mid-stride. He knew that look on his drummer's face, the left eye slitted, the left side of the mouth poured open so that half the guy's teeth were showing. Even though he didn't have first-hand knowledge of the shoulder pulled to the ear or the hand gently rubbing it, Mitchell knew the pain.
"Need me to call Lyric?"
"Yeah, would you?" Daniel tried to relax his shoulder. And his face. The shoulder went back into place more easily.
Mitchell paused, finally grabbing a chair and turning it backwards so he could lean into it when he sat.
"Can we talk later and you call her now?" Daniel asked. He grimaced and rubbed his shoulder again.
"I'm not the one paying her."
"Oh." The drummer thought a minute. "What's her usual rate?"
"Airfare, hotel room, and a thirty-buck per diem."
"Thirty bucks!"
Mitchell shrugged. "She's gotta eat."
Daniel winced again and dug harder at that sore left shoulder. "Okay, fine. Whatever."
With a nod, Mitchell stood up and went to place the call.
Okay, so you've got to read the next part, which reveals the punchline. Go here for it. You can leave comments here or there. Or both. I love comments.
It was the look on Daniel's face that froze Mitchell, mid-stride. He knew that look on his drummer's face, the left eye slitted, the left side of the mouth poured open so that half the guy's teeth were showing. Even though he didn't have first-hand knowledge of the shoulder pulled to the ear or the hand gently rubbing it, Mitchell knew the pain.
"Need me to call Lyric?"
"Yeah, would you?" Daniel tried to relax his shoulder. And his face. The shoulder went back into place more easily.
Mitchell paused, finally grabbing a chair and turning it backwards so he could lean into it when he sat.
"Can we talk later and you call her now?" Daniel asked. He grimaced and rubbed his shoulder again.
"I'm not the one paying her."
"Oh." The drummer thought a minute. "What's her usual rate?"
"Airfare, hotel room, and a thirty-buck per diem."
"Thirty bucks!"
Mitchell shrugged. "She's gotta eat."
Daniel winced again and dug harder at that sore left shoulder. "Okay, fine. Whatever."
With a nod, Mitchell stood up and went to place the call.
Okay, so you've got to read the next part, which reveals the punchline. Go here for it. You can leave comments here or there. Or both. I love comments.
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, fiction, Lyric, Mitchell, outtake, Sunday Scribblings
Monday, May 12, 2008
Melody Fiction: The Wrong Kind of Fantasy
For you regulars around here, a new fictional face -- Melody, Lyric's mother. (And a welcome to you newcomers! I hope you'll stay awhile.) I've been working on her backstory some; I'm quite intrigued by the soon-to-be famous Melody Maker. I hope you are, too.
Melody put the phone down and gave the boss a sultry look. "Was that good enough for you?" she purred.
He swallowed and nodded.
Melody was pleased with the glazed look in his eye, with the way he was having trouble catching his breath. She'd wowed them both, the person on the other end of the pretend phone call and the boss. It hadn't been hard. Men who called phone sex lines wanted to be encouraged. They wanted to do most of the talking. This was, after all, their own fantasy that they needed to hear come to life. They didn't care if it was her on the other end of the phone. Not yet. Maybe one day, once they'd talked to her a few times, gotten off in a good way, and weren't so drunk or stoned or high that they'd remember they'd talked to a girl named Melody.
Right now, she was disposable.
That was how she felt, too. Not strong, like she had that day she'd done that photo shoot. Not desired, like she'd felt when she'd seen the pictures.
No, she thought. For all those callers knew, she could be some fat dumpy housewife in curlers who was ironing as she spoke the come-on lines.
This outfit was billed as having the most guarantees for anonymous callers, but when she'd walked in and asked about working for them, she hadn't realized she'd be one of those anonymous callers.
Melody Maker, as she now called herself, wanted more. She wanted to be known. To be strong. To be desired.
But mostly, she wanted people to see her, not simply hear her voice on the other end of a call. There was nothing special in that. In being invisible except for her voice.
"We'll start you at a higher pay," the boss said, finally coming back from the glaze she'd left him in.
"No, I don't think so," Melody said, trying to come off as being thoughtful when all she really wanted was to run back to that photographer's studio and tell him she was ready for the more he'd promised her.
"I haven't told you how high," the boss said. "Don't you want to know?"
"Save it," she told him, patting his knee. She couldn't help the glance, couldn't help smiling to herself when she noticed that any effects of her phone call had returned in full force. "I think I'm meant for bigger than phone calls."
She slid off her stool, smiling brightly as her breasts jiggled. The boss couldn't take his eyes off them.
The photographer it would be, then.
Melody put the phone down and gave the boss a sultry look. "Was that good enough for you?" she purred.
He swallowed and nodded.
Melody was pleased with the glazed look in his eye, with the way he was having trouble catching his breath. She'd wowed them both, the person on the other end of the pretend phone call and the boss. It hadn't been hard. Men who called phone sex lines wanted to be encouraged. They wanted to do most of the talking. This was, after all, their own fantasy that they needed to hear come to life. They didn't care if it was her on the other end of the phone. Not yet. Maybe one day, once they'd talked to her a few times, gotten off in a good way, and weren't so drunk or stoned or high that they'd remember they'd talked to a girl named Melody.
Right now, she was disposable.
That was how she felt, too. Not strong, like she had that day she'd done that photo shoot. Not desired, like she'd felt when she'd seen the pictures.
No, she thought. For all those callers knew, she could be some fat dumpy housewife in curlers who was ironing as she spoke the come-on lines.
This outfit was billed as having the most guarantees for anonymous callers, but when she'd walked in and asked about working for them, she hadn't realized she'd be one of those anonymous callers.
Melody Maker, as she now called herself, wanted more. She wanted to be known. To be strong. To be desired.
But mostly, she wanted people to see her, not simply hear her voice on the other end of a call. There was nothing special in that. In being invisible except for her voice.
"We'll start you at a higher pay," the boss said, finally coming back from the glaze she'd left him in.
"No, I don't think so," Melody said, trying to come off as being thoughtful when all she really wanted was to run back to that photographer's studio and tell him she was ready for the more he'd promised her.
"I haven't told you how high," the boss said. "Don't you want to know?"
"Save it," she told him, patting his knee. She couldn't help the glance, couldn't help smiling to herself when she noticed that any effects of her phone call had returned in full force. "I think I'm meant for bigger than phone calls."
She slid off her stool, smiling brightly as her breasts jiggled. The boss couldn't take his eyes off them.
The photographer it would be, then.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Melody, Sunday Scribblings, telephones, Writer's Island
