Sunday, June 29, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Foot Pedals (the Early Days)
It all began the day Mitchell bought the pedals for his guitar.
"You plug it in, right?" he asked Trevor, who looked up from an inspection of the match he'd just used to light a joint.
Trevor shrugged.
Mitchell stuck the plug into the hole on his guitar. The power cord went into
the outlet. "That's all, right?"
Trevor shrugged.
Mitchell tried a note. Nothing. He stepped on the pedals. Nothing.
"What the fuck?"
Trevor took a drag off the joint and gave Mitchell one of those raised-eyebrow looks that meant he was echoing the question. "Ask Gus," the bass player said once he'd exhaled. "He sold you the fucking thing. He shoulda showed you how to make it work."
Mitchell pulled his head into his shoulders. "I told him I'd read the manual if I needed help."
"So why don't you?"
"Gus kept it. He told me to figure it out on my own."
Trevor nodded slowly. It reminded Mitchell of those wise men in those bad movies Trevor always liked to watch. "So go figure and leave me the fuck alone already."
Mitchell shook his head and turned back to the new pedal. Gus was right. The best way to master something like this was to fart around with it until you understood it.
Still… it had to have a power switch or something.
Didn't it?
Ahh, my boys. If you're new to Trevor and Mitchell, click on their names to learn more about them and to maybe even read a few other outtakes they star in. You know you want to.
If you're not new to Trevor and Mitchell, why not poke around some anyway? Refresh your memory, find something new. There's plenty in my archives, you know.
"You plug it in, right?" he asked Trevor, who looked up from an inspection of the match he'd just used to light a joint.
Trevor shrugged.
Mitchell stuck the plug into the hole on his guitar. The power cord went into
the outlet. "That's all, right?"
Trevor shrugged.
Mitchell tried a note. Nothing. He stepped on the pedals. Nothing.
"What the fuck?"
Trevor took a drag off the joint and gave Mitchell one of those raised-eyebrow looks that meant he was echoing the question. "Ask Gus," the bass player said once he'd exhaled. "He sold you the fucking thing. He shoulda showed you how to make it work."
Mitchell pulled his head into his shoulders. "I told him I'd read the manual if I needed help."
"So why don't you?"
"Gus kept it. He told me to figure it out on my own."
Trevor nodded slowly. It reminded Mitchell of those wise men in those bad movies Trevor always liked to watch. "So go figure and leave me the fuck alone already."
Mitchell shook his head and turned back to the new pedal. Gus was right. The best way to master something like this was to fart around with it until you understood it.
Still… it had to have a power switch or something.
Didn't it?
Ahh, my boys. If you're new to Trevor and Mitchell, click on their names to learn more about them and to maybe even read a few other outtakes they star in. You know you want to.
If you're not new to Trevor and Mitchell, why not poke around some anyway? Refresh your memory, find something new. There's plenty in my archives, you know.
Labels: fiction, fiction outtake, Mitchell, Trevor, Writer's Island
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Protection (just before Trevor's Song era)
I found this new prompt site, Velvet Verbosity, which challenges you to be inspired by a one-word prompt, but to make your inspiration fit into 100 words. No more, no less. This week's word: Protection.
Yeah. I thought the same thing.
"It's time," ShapeShifter's manager said. "You need to protect yourselves."
"Sounds like it's the girls who need to be protected from us."
"Either way. You're at the point in your career where you need to be careful. Paternity suits might be only nine months away."
No one smiled. Trevor didn't smirk. It wasn't funny. This was about contracts and rules and following them, three things Trevor particularly hated. This was about growing up, which was one of those things Trevor had vowed to never do.
"If we have to, we have to," Mitchell said. He wasn't happy about it, either.
To learn more about ShapeShifter, Trevor, and Mitchell, follow these links. You'll be taken to their bio pages, and from there, you can read more of their fictional hijinks.
Yeah. I thought the same thing.
"It's time," ShapeShifter's manager said. "You need to protect yourselves."
"Sounds like it's the girls who need to be protected from us."
"Either way. You're at the point in your career where you need to be careful. Paternity suits might be only nine months away."
No one smiled. Trevor didn't smirk. It wasn't funny. This was about contracts and rules and following them, three things Trevor particularly hated. This was about growing up, which was one of those things Trevor had vowed to never do.
"If we have to, we have to," Mitchell said. He wasn't happy about it, either.
To learn more about ShapeShifter, Trevor, and Mitchell, follow these links. You'll be taken to their bio pages, and from there, you can read more of their fictional hijinks.
Labels: fiction outtake, Mitchell, ShapeShifter, Trevor, Velvet Verbosity, Writer's Island
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
Monday, June 09, 2008
Deadly Metal Hatchet Fiction: Fozzy's Skateboard
So you came here, expecting to read about this fictional ShapeShifter band. Nope. Not today. I've been playing with this idea for the other band that's starting to test the waters here, and finally had the time/energy to get it down. If you're new to Deadly Metal Hatchet, they are a baby band -- as compared to ShapeShifter's world domination -- who are more about the Deadly Metal Hatchet, their gimmick, then they are about music. In a word, they suck. But they aren't letting that stop them.
Lido could only stare when Fozzy pulled it out of his road case. If it had been Scott or Gecko, he wouldn't have blinked or thought twice or anything like that. But this was Fozzy. He who hated having his picture taken, even when he was wearing jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Not that he had scars on his arm, but that was Fozzy for you. He'd almost died in a motorcycle accident; he was allowed to be weird about certain things.
"You for real?" Scott asked as Fozzy set it on the floor and put a foot on the deck, testing its stability.
"Yeah."
"But… Fozz…" Lido paused, not sure how to word this. Fozzy could be sensitive -- too freaking sensitive, as Scott would say -- about anything that might make any one of them bring up the motorcycle accident.
And, of course, Fozzy was glaring at him. Daring him to go there.
Lido could hear the Hatchet panting.
He held up his hands. "It's just not you, man. That's all."
Fozzy laughed that bitter, harsh laugh that made Lido cringe. It was the sound of the Hatchet and as much as Lido loved the band's gimmick, he hated when Fozzy tried to bring it into their lives like this.
"It's not me," Fozzy said and laughed again. "Like you'd fucking know."
Scott eased over so he was standing beside Lido, like he was getting ready in case Fozzy charged. Scott was really the only one who could defuse Fozzy when he got like this, but Lido wasn't so ready to hand the control over.
Without ideas of what to say next, Lido started to rethink that idea of control.
Fozzy moved his leg back and forth. The wheels made a cool sound.
"Do that again," Lido said, tilting his head to listen. When Fozzy did, he sang a few nonsense syllables along.
Scott patted Lido on the shoulder as Fozzy nodded and stepped up onto the skateboard. He wobbled immediately and jumped off -- and glared at Scott and Lido, as if he was expecting them to laugh at him.
Lido just shrugged. "Guess it takes practice."
"We've got plenty of time for that," Scott said, glancing at his watch as if it meant something. It didn't. Not really. Their tour manager would round them up when they needed to get ready to go on stage. All they had to do was find a way to kill the time between now and then.
"I know," Fozzy said. "That's why I did this." He tried the skateboard again and managed to stay on a hair longer.
Scott touched Lido's shoulder, telling him to stop staring and come along. In typical Fozzy fashion, the guy didn't want an audience.
It was enough to make you wonder why the guy had picked up the guitar in the first place. But then again, with Fozzy, most things made you wonder.
Like what you see? Want to know more about Deadly Metal Hatchet? There's not a lot yet, but if you follow this link (or the one above, the first time their name appears), it'll take you to their bio page, which links to more fiction about them. Happy reading and be sure to leave comments, even on the old posts!
Lido could only stare when Fozzy pulled it out of his road case. If it had been Scott or Gecko, he wouldn't have blinked or thought twice or anything like that. But this was Fozzy. He who hated having his picture taken, even when he was wearing jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Not that he had scars on his arm, but that was Fozzy for you. He'd almost died in a motorcycle accident; he was allowed to be weird about certain things.
"You for real?" Scott asked as Fozzy set it on the floor and put a foot on the deck, testing its stability.
"Yeah."
"But… Fozz…" Lido paused, not sure how to word this. Fozzy could be sensitive -- too freaking sensitive, as Scott would say -- about anything that might make any one of them bring up the motorcycle accident.
And, of course, Fozzy was glaring at him. Daring him to go there.
Lido could hear the Hatchet panting.
He held up his hands. "It's just not you, man. That's all."
Fozzy laughed that bitter, harsh laugh that made Lido cringe. It was the sound of the Hatchet and as much as Lido loved the band's gimmick, he hated when Fozzy tried to bring it into their lives like this.
"It's not me," Fozzy said and laughed again. "Like you'd fucking know."
Scott eased over so he was standing beside Lido, like he was getting ready in case Fozzy charged. Scott was really the only one who could defuse Fozzy when he got like this, but Lido wasn't so ready to hand the control over.
Without ideas of what to say next, Lido started to rethink that idea of control.
Fozzy moved his leg back and forth. The wheels made a cool sound.
"Do that again," Lido said, tilting his head to listen. When Fozzy did, he sang a few nonsense syllables along.
Scott patted Lido on the shoulder as Fozzy nodded and stepped up onto the skateboard. He wobbled immediately and jumped off -- and glared at Scott and Lido, as if he was expecting them to laugh at him.
Lido just shrugged. "Guess it takes practice."
"We've got plenty of time for that," Scott said, glancing at his watch as if it meant something. It didn't. Not really. Their tour manager would round them up when they needed to get ready to go on stage. All they had to do was find a way to kill the time between now and then.
"I know," Fozzy said. "That's why I did this." He tried the skateboard again and managed to stay on a hair longer.
Scott touched Lido's shoulder, telling him to stop staring and come along. In typical Fozzy fashion, the guy didn't want an audience.
It was enough to make you wonder why the guy had picked up the guitar in the first place. But then again, with Fozzy, most things made you wonder.
Like what you see? Want to know more about Deadly Metal Hatchet? There's not a lot yet, but if you follow this link (or the one above, the first time their name appears), it'll take you to their bio page, which links to more fiction about them. Happy reading and be sure to leave comments, even on the old posts!
Labels: Deadly Metal Hatchet, Poetry Train, touring, Writer's Island
Monday, May 26, 2008
Roadie Poet: Returns
Don't realize it until we get inside.
Been here before.
Recognize the loading dock,
The room the crew showers in,
The way things look from the stage.
Out into darkness --
For now.
It'll get lit up later.
Hambone remembers this place, too.
We talk at dinner.
Bands we've been here with
Tours we've done
Crew we went with.
More sits and listens.
Tells me later
She can't wait until she's got these lists to make
When she's been around more.
I gotta tell her
Coming back to a familiar place
It feels good
But not as good
As home.
I'm not sure about this ending. Might be too cliched, so let me know what you think.
If you're new to Roadie Poet, welcome! If you've missed him, or want to revisit old poetry from our favorite crew member, click here. That'll take you to his profile page. All his poems are listed at the bottom of the page. Happy catching up!
Been here before.
Recognize the loading dock,
The room the crew showers in,
The way things look from the stage.
Out into darkness --
For now.
It'll get lit up later.
Hambone remembers this place, too.
We talk at dinner.
Bands we've been here with
Tours we've done
Crew we went with.
More sits and listens.
Tells me later
She can't wait until she's got these lists to make
When she's been around more.
I gotta tell her
Coming back to a familiar place
It feels good
But not as good
As home.
I'm not sure about this ending. Might be too cliched, so let me know what you think.
If you're new to Roadie Poet, welcome! If you've missed him, or want to revisit old poetry from our favorite crew member, click here. That'll take you to his profile page. All his poems are listed at the bottom of the page. Happy catching up!
Labels: poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, Writer's Island
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
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Mitchell fiction: Interview
From an excerpt of an interview with ShapeShifter's Mitchell Voss…
Voss leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Exactly," he said. "Our music is ferocious. It's supposed to be. Otherwise, it wouldn't be the release it is."
Music as a release. It's a concept that has lost steam over the years, replaced by the phenomenon of self-mutilation. But it's a concept Voss holds to.
"We all need that release. We all need something that takes us outside ourself and, in a way, soothes us. Something that when we come back to ourselves, things are okay again and the problems are manageable."
What sort of problems can someone like Voss have? After all, the man's an international superstar. He's got security to keep overeager fans away. He's got people to take out the kitchen trash at the mere snap of his fingers.
"That'd be nice," he says. "I f----- hate taking the trash out. My parents used to make me do it just because they knew how much I hated it. They'd tell me to suck it up and remember that every beautiful thing has its hidden, ugly side. And then they'd launch into this lecture about being lazy and the importance of doing chores around the house and how if I hate it that much, I'll understand how wonderful it is to have kids of my own and blah blah blah… Suddenly, the idea of taking out the trash becomes appealing!"
Still, Voss doesn't smile. The famous frown deepens. "It doesn't matter who you are or how you earn your way in the world. We all have those times when we need to break free of being polite and let it all hang out. Our fans get that. That's part of what makes the bond they have with us so strong. We're leading the way, almost. Showing them how to cut loose and let it all out. Come along with us and get the s--- out of your system for the length of a song, a CD, a show. You'll feel better afterward."
Yep, it's fiction. But it's fun to show off my journalistically trained chops every now and then!
Voss leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Exactly," he said. "Our music is ferocious. It's supposed to be. Otherwise, it wouldn't be the release it is."
Music as a release. It's a concept that has lost steam over the years, replaced by the phenomenon of self-mutilation. But it's a concept Voss holds to.
"We all need that release. We all need something that takes us outside ourself and, in a way, soothes us. Something that when we come back to ourselves, things are okay again and the problems are manageable."
What sort of problems can someone like Voss have? After all, the man's an international superstar. He's got security to keep overeager fans away. He's got people to take out the kitchen trash at the mere snap of his fingers.
"That'd be nice," he says. "I f----- hate taking the trash out. My parents used to make me do it just because they knew how much I hated it. They'd tell me to suck it up and remember that every beautiful thing has its hidden, ugly side. And then they'd launch into this lecture about being lazy and the importance of doing chores around the house and how if I hate it that much, I'll understand how wonderful it is to have kids of my own and blah blah blah… Suddenly, the idea of taking out the trash becomes appealing!"
Still, Voss doesn't smile. The famous frown deepens. "It doesn't matter who you are or how you earn your way in the world. We all have those times when we need to break free of being polite and let it all hang out. Our fans get that. That's part of what makes the bond they have with us so strong. We're leading the way, almost. Showing them how to cut loose and let it all out. Come along with us and get the s--- out of your system for the length of a song, a CD, a show. You'll feel better afterward."
Yep, it's fiction. But it's fun to show off my journalistically trained chops every now and then!
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, Poetry Train, Writer's Island
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Susan's Inside Writing: Outrageous
This week's Writer's Island prompt was outrageous, which I thought a pretty good prompt for old Trevor.
Trevor's not the most outrageous person you'll ever meet. I'll grant you that. Instead, Trevor's Outrageousness comes in the form of a lack of caring and inhibition. In a sense, he's my wild side, the part of me that longs to be let out. I've gotten better over the years since I created Trevor, but I've still got nothing on the master -- probably because I care more than he does.
At the same time that I've been mulling over this prompt, Julia tagged me with the Seven Things Meme. She said it was for me or ShapeShifter to do. And so with no further ado...
How Trevor equals outrageous. In his own words and voice, so don't yell at me.
1. Read this post. It'll tell you a fucking lot.
2. I got conned by the groupies around this joint to write a poem. I think I said a lot of shit they were wishing they had the balls to say.
3. Is it really sick if I say that piercing Mitchell's ear was one of the highlights of my life? It wouldn't have been if he'd taken it like a man. Shit, one little hole, right? Count on the big idiot to fuck that one up. Royally.
4. I've conned Rusty into all sorts of great shit. Most of it hasn't been on the blog 'cause it's in the book. Which means you got yet another reason to wait for the book. Can't wait? Want it sooner? Make a bigger noise about this here blog. Bring your friends over. Leave comments like mad. Things are looking good, so get off your asses and help make 'em look better.
5. Ever been shopping for your properly healthy, and probably perfectly organic, fruits and green shit and seen someone do this? It sucked that Rusty was so cool about it. I fucking love it when she turns as red as her fake hair color.
6. This is where I'm supposed to talk about me and Rusty, but forget it. Read the book. Go back up to #4 if you're all frustrated there's no book to read yet. Trevor Wolff doesn't repeat himself. Ever.
7. Now, I don't think any of this makes me outrageous. This is who I am, and fuck you if you don't like it even though you know you do or you wouldn't be hanging out here so fucking much. But I'll tell you one thing that is outrageous. That's that I'm this rock star and I don't drink. Not such a long story why, but ... you gotta wait for the book.
I know, I know. I suck. But trust Trevor; the book doesn't. Go on back up to #4 and follow those instructions once more. If you've done it right, this'll be the third time now and that means you're good at it and you got it down.
What's that? I can't hear you. The buzz about this here blog's not loud enough yet.
Go fix it, will ya?
According to the rules of the meme, I'm supposed to tag someone, but while you groupies are all awesome, I don't know how you can follow Trevor with the proper amount of style. Thus, if you do it, please give me a link back! You know... it'll help make that buzz a little bit louder.
Look! Winter did! So did Ann! And Bethanie! Go check out their own outrageous comments, why don't you?
Trevor's not the most outrageous person you'll ever meet. I'll grant you that. Instead, Trevor's Outrageousness comes in the form of a lack of caring and inhibition. In a sense, he's my wild side, the part of me that longs to be let out. I've gotten better over the years since I created Trevor, but I've still got nothing on the master -- probably because I care more than he does.
At the same time that I've been mulling over this prompt, Julia tagged me with the Seven Things Meme. She said it was for me or ShapeShifter to do. And so with no further ado...
How Trevor equals outrageous. In his own words and voice, so don't yell at me.
1. Read this post. It'll tell you a fucking lot.
2. I got conned by the groupies around this joint to write a poem. I think I said a lot of shit they were wishing they had the balls to say.
3. Is it really sick if I say that piercing Mitchell's ear was one of the highlights of my life? It wouldn't have been if he'd taken it like a man. Shit, one little hole, right? Count on the big idiot to fuck that one up. Royally.
4. I've conned Rusty into all sorts of great shit. Most of it hasn't been on the blog 'cause it's in the book. Which means you got yet another reason to wait for the book. Can't wait? Want it sooner? Make a bigger noise about this here blog. Bring your friends over. Leave comments like mad. Things are looking good, so get off your asses and help make 'em look better.
5. Ever been shopping for your properly healthy, and probably perfectly organic, fruits and green shit and seen someone do this? It sucked that Rusty was so cool about it. I fucking love it when she turns as red as her fake hair color.
6. This is where I'm supposed to talk about me and Rusty, but forget it. Read the book. Go back up to #4 if you're all frustrated there's no book to read yet. Trevor Wolff doesn't repeat himself. Ever.
7. Now, I don't think any of this makes me outrageous. This is who I am, and fuck you if you don't like it even though you know you do or you wouldn't be hanging out here so fucking much. But I'll tell you one thing that is outrageous. That's that I'm this rock star and I don't drink. Not such a long story why, but ... you gotta wait for the book.
I know, I know. I suck. But trust Trevor; the book doesn't. Go on back up to #4 and follow those instructions once more. If you've done it right, this'll be the third time now and that means you're good at it and you got it down.
What's that? I can't hear you. The buzz about this here blog's not loud enough yet.
Go fix it, will ya?
According to the rules of the meme, I'm supposed to tag someone, but while you groupies are all awesome, I don't know how you can follow Trevor with the proper amount of style. Thus, if you do it, please give me a link back! You know... it'll help make that buzz a little bit louder.
Look! Winter did! So did Ann! And Bethanie! Go check out their own outrageous comments, why don't you?
Labels: meme, Trevor, Writer's Island
Friday, April 11, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Turbulence (The Trevor's Song Era)
It was the bumps that woke Mitchell. That really sucked; he was exhausted, they were headed home, and he just couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. Except he couldn't sleep while being tossed around like this. He was stuck in this awful state, unable to do a fucking thing.
Across the aisle, Trevor had made a pillow of his denim jacket. He still slept, but then again, when Trevor wasn't acting weird lately, he was sleeping. Having him sleep went over better than trying to deal with his latest round of weird shit. If someone had to sleep, no one minded that it was Trevor doing it.
Daniel gave Mitchell a thin-lipped sort-of smile. "I was wondering when it'd get to you."
"How long's it been going on?"
"Too damn long," he said and shifted in his seat, like his legs were stiff. Mitchell doubted that was the problem; the guy probably wanted off the stupid plane. "The pilot's been on a few times. He's been trying all sorts of different altitudes, but none of them are any good. He made a few noises about turning around, but I guess they wouldn't let him."
Mitchell didn't know how to respond to that. Flying wasn't his thing. At most, it was the way to get from the US to Europe, or maybe from Riverview to New York or wherever the tour was starting. Anything more than that and he was lost.
"I just hope we get there soon," Eric said from Mitchell's other side. He'd pulled down the shade over the little window, which Mitchell didn't understand. Why ask for the window seat if you weren't going to look through the window? At least the views were cool. When you could see more than a cloud, anyway.
"Can you see anything out there?" Mitchell asked.
Just as Eric got his hand on the window shade, the plane bucked.
Eric's hand moved from the shade to the arms of his seat so fast, it was a blur. He grabbed hold -- even though Mitchell already had a good grip on the one they shared -- and turned pale. "Not really, no," he said softly.
Trevor didn't stir.
The plane calmed. Daniel gave Mitchell a weak smile. "Are we there yet?"
"Fuck, I hope so."
How perfect was this? I wrote this last weekend for the Flash Fiction Carnival, but it applies to the Writer's Island and Sunday Scribblings prompts this week, too. Really. Amazing. Smell those changing winds... Ahhh....
If you're new around here, clicking on the links in the fiction will take you back to that person's bio page. From there, you can access a bunch of other fictional posts about that particular character.
And while you're there, check out the free download!
Across the aisle, Trevor had made a pillow of his denim jacket. He still slept, but then again, when Trevor wasn't acting weird lately, he was sleeping. Having him sleep went over better than trying to deal with his latest round of weird shit. If someone had to sleep, no one minded that it was Trevor doing it.
Daniel gave Mitchell a thin-lipped sort-of smile. "I was wondering when it'd get to you."
"How long's it been going on?"
"Too damn long," he said and shifted in his seat, like his legs were stiff. Mitchell doubted that was the problem; the guy probably wanted off the stupid plane. "The pilot's been on a few times. He's been trying all sorts of different altitudes, but none of them are any good. He made a few noises about turning around, but I guess they wouldn't let him."
Mitchell didn't know how to respond to that. Flying wasn't his thing. At most, it was the way to get from the US to Europe, or maybe from Riverview to New York or wherever the tour was starting. Anything more than that and he was lost.
"I just hope we get there soon," Eric said from Mitchell's other side. He'd pulled down the shade over the little window, which Mitchell didn't understand. Why ask for the window seat if you weren't going to look through the window? At least the views were cool. When you could see more than a cloud, anyway.
"Can you see anything out there?" Mitchell asked.
Just as Eric got his hand on the window shade, the plane bucked.
Eric's hand moved from the shade to the arms of his seat so fast, it was a blur. He grabbed hold -- even though Mitchell already had a good grip on the one they shared -- and turned pale. "Not really, no," he said softly.
Trevor didn't stir.
The plane calmed. Daniel gave Mitchell a weak smile. "Are we there yet?"
"Fuck, I hope so."
How perfect was this? I wrote this last weekend for the Flash Fiction Carnival, but it applies to the Writer's Island and Sunday Scribblings prompts this week, too. Really. Amazing. Smell those changing winds... Ahhh....
If you're new around here, clicking on the links in the fiction will take you back to that person's bio page. From there, you can access a bunch of other fictional posts about that particular character.
And while you're there, check out the free download!
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, Eric, fiction, fiction outtake, Mitchell, ShapeShifter, Sunday Scribblings, touring, Trevor, Writer's Island
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Fiction Outtake: The First Two Drawings (Trevor's Song era)
Most guys, Mitchell figured, would freak out the first time they woke up in their new girl's place. It wasn't familiar, the bed felt a bit weird, nothing was where it should be.
Enter the touring musician, he thought as he stretched his arms over his head, kind of digging the lack of a head board. He'd woken up in so many strange places -- including, once, curled up around one of those outdoor chiminea things with a hangover that made his mouth feel like the inside of the filthy, ash-filled thing -- that he only freaked out the first few days he got to spend in his own bed.
Now, though, it was all about the fact that there was supposed to be a woman beside him in her bed. His woman. He was finally ready to say that.
He lifted his head and tried to squint through the Chinese panel things that separated her futon-thing from the rest of the loft. It was a heavy panel thing, the kind that girls slipped behind while they changed their clothes. He couldn't see Kerri, but a little bit of light slithered around the edges of the screen. Her loft had been fully dark when they'd finally gotten too tired to do something as simple as kiss, hard as that still was to imagine. Fuck, he wanted her.
Emerging from behind the screens, he saw her, seated in front of a small pool of light that was focused on the paper on her drafting desk. She was busy drawing, her head bowed. She'd thrown clothes on, too: a paint-spattered button-down shirt and grey sweatpants that had become a piece of art on their own. She couldn't have looked hotter if she was still naked.
Quietly, so he didn't startle her and make her mess up the picture, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed against her back.
She rested her head against him; he felt her spine elongate as she straightened. "Hi," she said, pursing her lips to give him one of those sideways kisses that was more intention than contact.
"I thought I was the one who liked to work all night."
"Mmmm," she said. "I love to work like this. Here, tell me what you think."
He thought he hated that she sat forward. His belly and chest immediately felt cold.
Just as fast, he was distracted by the picture she held up. The first was of him, probably meant to be from the awards show the other night. It was just him; there was no background. Him and his guitar -- and his middle finger raised as he chorded. So she'd noticed that he did that. He could usually get it by the TV censors. Clearly, she was savvier than they were.
"Did I get the guitar right? I'm new at them," she said.
"Damn close," he said, afraid to touch it and wrinkle the paper or something. She was amazing; that was all there was to it. Before the awards, they'd been on, what? Two dates -- if you could call them that. Maybe he'd grabbed his guitar and played when they'd gotten smashed on that second … uhh, whatever, but for the most part, all she knew of him and his guitars was what she'd seen two nights ago now, at the awards.
She slid her hands down his legs, then turned to look at him. "You're not wearing anything."
"Yeah. So?"
She pointed to the windows. "Neighbors can see in."
"Neighbors can sell tickets once it lightens up outside. They'll make a fucking million or two. You might, too, if you keep drawing like that."
"You may not say that when you see this one…" she said, sliding it out from underneath a clean sheet of paper. "I've never done anything like it. I mean nothing. So if you hate it, I'm trashing it. I can't even believe I'm showing it to you; I barely know you!"
This one, he did take from her, but only because he couldn't stop himself. There was no doubt it was a drawing of them, even though all you could see was two naked torsos. It was one of those perspective things, where you felt like you were falling into the crevice their bodies made, their shoulders apart and their bodies slowly coming closer together until they joined.
"Holy fuck," he breathed and took a step backwards. He needed that distance.
She reached for it. "It sucks."
He held it out of her reach. "If that's your idea of suck… This… This…" He shook his head, as if that would help clear the image from his brain. He was ready to swear it was seared there, forever. "It's amazing."
"You think?"
He looked over at her; if she wasn't ready to bolt and run, no one on the face of the Earth ever had been. "Yeah," he said, wondering if she'd make good on that look if he talked about how he wanted to hang it on a wall in their bedroom, in the house they would buy. For fuck's sake, they'd been together how long now? It was still in the range of hours. And here he was, like a lunatic, thinking about forever.
Trevor, he knew, would laugh in his face and call him a loser.
But that picture. If Trev saw it, he'd shut the fuck up. And then be jealous as hell.
Enter the touring musician, he thought as he stretched his arms over his head, kind of digging the lack of a head board. He'd woken up in so many strange places -- including, once, curled up around one of those outdoor chiminea things with a hangover that made his mouth feel like the inside of the filthy, ash-filled thing -- that he only freaked out the first few days he got to spend in his own bed.
Now, though, it was all about the fact that there was supposed to be a woman beside him in her bed. His woman. He was finally ready to say that.
He lifted his head and tried to squint through the Chinese panel things that separated her futon-thing from the rest of the loft. It was a heavy panel thing, the kind that girls slipped behind while they changed their clothes. He couldn't see Kerri, but a little bit of light slithered around the edges of the screen. Her loft had been fully dark when they'd finally gotten too tired to do something as simple as kiss, hard as that still was to imagine. Fuck, he wanted her.
Emerging from behind the screens, he saw her, seated in front of a small pool of light that was focused on the paper on her drafting desk. She was busy drawing, her head bowed. She'd thrown clothes on, too: a paint-spattered button-down shirt and grey sweatpants that had become a piece of art on their own. She couldn't have looked hotter if she was still naked.
Quietly, so he didn't startle her and make her mess up the picture, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed against her back.
She rested her head against him; he felt her spine elongate as she straightened. "Hi," she said, pursing her lips to give him one of those sideways kisses that was more intention than contact.
"I thought I was the one who liked to work all night."
"Mmmm," she said. "I love to work like this. Here, tell me what you think."
He thought he hated that she sat forward. His belly and chest immediately felt cold.
Just as fast, he was distracted by the picture she held up. The first was of him, probably meant to be from the awards show the other night. It was just him; there was no background. Him and his guitar -- and his middle finger raised as he chorded. So she'd noticed that he did that. He could usually get it by the TV censors. Clearly, she was savvier than they were.
"Did I get the guitar right? I'm new at them," she said.
"Damn close," he said, afraid to touch it and wrinkle the paper or something. She was amazing; that was all there was to it. Before the awards, they'd been on, what? Two dates -- if you could call them that. Maybe he'd grabbed his guitar and played when they'd gotten smashed on that second … uhh, whatever, but for the most part, all she knew of him and his guitars was what she'd seen two nights ago now, at the awards.
She slid her hands down his legs, then turned to look at him. "You're not wearing anything."
"Yeah. So?"
She pointed to the windows. "Neighbors can see in."
"Neighbors can sell tickets once it lightens up outside. They'll make a fucking million or two. You might, too, if you keep drawing like that."
"You may not say that when you see this one…" she said, sliding it out from underneath a clean sheet of paper. "I've never done anything like it. I mean nothing. So if you hate it, I'm trashing it. I can't even believe I'm showing it to you; I barely know you!"
This one, he did take from her, but only because he couldn't stop himself. There was no doubt it was a drawing of them, even though all you could see was two naked torsos. It was one of those perspective things, where you felt like you were falling into the crevice their bodies made, their shoulders apart and their bodies slowly coming closer together until they joined.
"Holy fuck," he breathed and took a step backwards. He needed that distance.
She reached for it. "It sucks."
He held it out of her reach. "If that's your idea of suck… This… This…" He shook his head, as if that would help clear the image from his brain. He was ready to swear it was seared there, forever. "It's amazing."
"You think?"
He looked over at her; if she wasn't ready to bolt and run, no one on the face of the Earth ever had been. "Yeah," he said, wondering if she'd make good on that look if he talked about how he wanted to hang it on a wall in their bedroom, in the house they would buy. For fuck's sake, they'd been together how long now? It was still in the range of hours. And here he was, like a lunatic, thinking about forever.
Trevor, he knew, would laugh in his face and call him a loser.
But that picture. If Trev saw it, he'd shut the fuck up. And then be jealous as hell.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, fiction outtake, Kerri, Mitchell, Writer's Island
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Walter Fiction: The Approach of Spring
"Walter," Lila said, "the equinox is next week."
"I know, love." He looked up from the crossword puzzle in the morning paper. "We're set for it."
"Are you? You haven't left the house in a month. How can the band be ready for next week if you don't practice?"
"We're pros." Of course it would be fine. It always was. He'd been playing with this group of guys for years now. The Vernal Equinox Celebration always went well.
Lila knew better than to push it. Just as spring came slowly every year, so did Walter and his music. Spring meant the beginning of his touring season. Come August, when they'd all had enough, he'd take another month off, join everyone at the Autumnal Equinox Celebration, and then spend the winter holed up in his basement studio, creating a new album.
And then, just like the way the Earth turned, Walter's musical cycle would begin again.
If the Earth didn't need to practice for all this, why did he?
Springtime, awakening... how aware of the changing seasons is an aging rocker, anyway? That's what inspired this. For more Walter, visit here, here, and here. And stay tuned; in my file of saved stuff I need to post one day, I've got at least one more piece that features him.
"I know, love." He looked up from the crossword puzzle in the morning paper. "We're set for it."
"Are you? You haven't left the house in a month. How can the band be ready for next week if you don't practice?"
"We're pros." Of course it would be fine. It always was. He'd been playing with this group of guys for years now. The Vernal Equinox Celebration always went well.
Lila knew better than to push it. Just as spring came slowly every year, so did Walter and his music. Spring meant the beginning of his touring season. Come August, when they'd all had enough, he'd take another month off, join everyone at the Autumnal Equinox Celebration, and then spend the winter holed up in his basement studio, creating a new album.
And then, just like the way the Earth turned, Walter's musical cycle would begin again.
If the Earth didn't need to practice for all this, why did he?
Springtime, awakening... how aware of the changing seasons is an aging rocker, anyway? That's what inspired this. For more Walter, visit here, here, and here. And stay tuned; in my file of saved stuff I need to post one day, I've got at least one more piece that features him.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Poetry Train, Walter, Writer's Island
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Letter G (the early days)
"R," Trevor said.
Mitchell looked up from his guitar. "The fuck?"
"R."
Mitchell growled.
Trevor gave an exaggerated sigh. "The prompt this week at that Writer's Island place Susan likes to hang out on. It's," he took a deep breath and waved his fingers near his face. "The Letter," he said in a voice that was supposed to be spooky.
"Oh," Mitchell said. He looked down again, then gave Trevor one of those looks that would have been through his bangs if the guy was dumb enough to have any. "I like G," he said, and strummed the chord.
Trevor considered. Gs were good. G marked the spot. G wasn't a grade. Yeah, there was lots to like about G. And it wasn't like he was attached to R in any way, shape, form, or sound. In fact, R was usually Mitchell's sound. The one he made when he growled.
"Yeah," he said at last. "G's good."
Mitchell smirked and Trevor realized what he'd said. Good. It fucking started with … G. So did almost every other phrase Trevor could think of. Go figure. Goddamn. Geez. Girl. Give me. Guitars.
Trevor turned his back on Mitchell and reached for a cigarette. Count on the asshole there to come up with a better letter than he could. Maybe that's what made them such a … successful team. M took Trevor's ideas and ran with them.
Trevor tried to tell himself that meant his ideas didn't suck.
Gigantically.
Yep, a bonus excerpt this week! What can I say, I was inspired. In fact, I wrote a few more outtakes over the weekend and now my file of stuff for this here blog is about to burst. Stay tuned for all of it...
Mitchell looked up from his guitar. "The fuck?"
"R."
Mitchell growled.
Trevor gave an exaggerated sigh. "The prompt this week at that Writer's Island place Susan likes to hang out on. It's," he took a deep breath and waved his fingers near his face. "The Letter," he said in a voice that was supposed to be spooky.
"Oh," Mitchell said. He looked down again, then gave Trevor one of those looks that would have been through his bangs if the guy was dumb enough to have any. "I like G," he said, and strummed the chord.
Trevor considered. Gs were good. G marked the spot. G wasn't a grade. Yeah, there was lots to like about G. And it wasn't like he was attached to R in any way, shape, form, or sound. In fact, R was usually Mitchell's sound. The one he made when he growled.
"Yeah," he said at last. "G's good."
Mitchell smirked and Trevor realized what he'd said. Good. It fucking started with … G. So did almost every other phrase Trevor could think of. Go figure. Goddamn. Geez. Girl. Give me. Guitars.
Trevor turned his back on Mitchell and reached for a cigarette. Count on the asshole there to come up with a better letter than he could. Maybe that's what made them such a … successful team. M took Trevor's ideas and ran with them.
Trevor tried to tell himself that meant his ideas didn't suck.
Gigantically.
Yep, a bonus excerpt this week! What can I say, I was inspired. In fact, I wrote a few more outtakes over the weekend and now my file of stuff for this here blog is about to burst. Stay tuned for all of it...
Labels: fiction, Mitchell, outtake, Trevor, Writer's Island
