Saturday, November 29, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Cranberries (The Early Days)
Patterson didn't mind that they'd left early. The after-dinner entertainment had been the same for years now: the men gathered around the television, the women in the kitchen, cleaning up and gossiping, the kids who were too young to do either dispersing to the basement or another round of football in the yard.
Mitchell, for all his love of baseball, loathed watching football. And Trevor's lewd comments about the sport had been immediately unwelcome.
Frankly, Patterson had been glad to have an excuse to leave. He wasn't much of a football lover, himself, and family togetherness had its limits when there was so much in your life you couldn't discuss.
He pulled the Bronco into its spot on the side of the driveway and sat for a moment. Trevor, in the back seat, had gotten awfully quiet. Too quiet.
Mitchell, beside him, hopped out of the Bronco like he didn't have a care in the world. Like leaving early wasn't a big deal. To the boy, it probably hadn't been. Spending the day with the family had been okay at first, with the annual flag football game and the cousins to catch up with. But if you kept Mitchell away from his guitar too long, he started to get twitchy. Once that happened, the cousins decided he was weird. Adding Trevor to the mix hadn't helped, but leaving that one at home had never crossed Patterson's mind. Trevor was part of the family now, no matter how hard he worked at reminding them all that he wasn't.
Trevor followed Mitchell out of the Bronco, but didn't wait by the back door with the younger boy. Instead, Trevor stared at the sky.
"Did you ever wonder," he said to Patterson, his face turned upward.
"I wondered what's bothering you tonight."
Trevor shoved his hands into the pockets of the leather vest he'd consented to wear over his denim jacket. He hunched his shoulders.
Patterson had a few guesses. But it was best if the boy talked without prompts.
Suddenly, the hands were out of the pockets, the shoulders were down, and the boy had spun to face his guardian. "Do you have any fucking clue what it's like to watch that table get cleared and hear everyone laugh that everyone forgot about the cranberries and this and that and everything else? Do you have any fucking clue how lucky you are to even have a fucking family?"
"Yes," Patterson said. "And not just because this is a holiday of gratitude, either."
Mitchell wandered closer, but stayed safely behind Trevor.
"Do you know what my Thanksgivings used to be like?" Trevor went on, his face turning red in the starlight. "Do you know what we'd have for dinner?"
"No," Patterson said. "Tell me."
Trevor just shook his head, like the words wouldn't come. Mitchell sat down in the grass and folded his legs Indian-style. He began playing with his shoelaces.
Trevor pulled his cigarettes out of the chest pocket of the denim jacket. "Some years, it was us sitting around the table, watching him drink a bottle of JD. One year, he beat Mom with the bird she'd brought home and then made her cook it and stood there while we ate it. I puked it back up about an hour later." He snorted. "And don't forget the year there was no food because Mom couldn't get a hold of his paycheck and he stole hers and drank 'em both."
Mitchell shook his head and visibly swallowed. Patterson just listened. He'd been witness to scenes like this, although not at the Wolff household. It didn't matter; the tragedy was still the same. The fact that he'd been able to make a difference in this young man's life couldn't even begin to make up for the families he hadn't been able to help so directly.
"Happy fucking birthday, Trevor," Trevor said, sniffing hard and rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his denim jacket. "They usually forgot. And there's the Voss family," he said, gesturing expansively, "with a birthday cake and apologies for being a week late."
Patterson looked at Mitchell; he felt the boy watching him. He'd managed to shelter Mitchell from the worst of Trevor's stories; this couldn't be easy.
Mitchell was imploring his father to make it stop. To help him know what to say or do.
Patterson pursed his lips and gave the barest shake to his head.
"And all that fucking food that everyone forgot to eat," Trevor said.
"We didn't forget," Mitchell said. "No one likes the cranberries. So Aunt Paula leaves 'em on the table because we're supposed to have cranberries. She's probably shoving them back in the container she uses every year, and she'll throw it in the freezer until next year. They'll make it to the table, probably still frozen, and then when we clear, everyone will joke about forgetting to eat them when the truth is, no one wants 'em."
"Think that's funny?" Trevor whirled and bent over to look at Mitchell, who shrugged.
"I think cranberries are okay," Mitchell said.
Patterson had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.
Trevor cocked his head, considering.
Mitchell started pulling at the grass.
"So you're saying I'm a cranberry?" Trevor asked at last.
Mitchell made a sound sort of like one of Trevor's indignant snorts. "No," the boy said. "You're an ass who's keeping me from my guitar. C'mon. Let's go make music."
Patterson moved to unlock the front door, wondering if a parent could be more proud of his son. It wasn't likely.
Want to know more about who these folk are? All the info you need is at West of Mars. Go check it out.
Mitchell, for all his love of baseball, loathed watching football. And Trevor's lewd comments about the sport had been immediately unwelcome.
Frankly, Patterson had been glad to have an excuse to leave. He wasn't much of a football lover, himself, and family togetherness had its limits when there was so much in your life you couldn't discuss.
He pulled the Bronco into its spot on the side of the driveway and sat for a moment. Trevor, in the back seat, had gotten awfully quiet. Too quiet.
Mitchell, beside him, hopped out of the Bronco like he didn't have a care in the world. Like leaving early wasn't a big deal. To the boy, it probably hadn't been. Spending the day with the family had been okay at first, with the annual flag football game and the cousins to catch up with. But if you kept Mitchell away from his guitar too long, he started to get twitchy. Once that happened, the cousins decided he was weird. Adding Trevor to the mix hadn't helped, but leaving that one at home had never crossed Patterson's mind. Trevor was part of the family now, no matter how hard he worked at reminding them all that he wasn't.
Trevor followed Mitchell out of the Bronco, but didn't wait by the back door with the younger boy. Instead, Trevor stared at the sky.
"Did you ever wonder," he said to Patterson, his face turned upward.
"I wondered what's bothering you tonight."
Trevor shoved his hands into the pockets of the leather vest he'd consented to wear over his denim jacket. He hunched his shoulders.
Patterson had a few guesses. But it was best if the boy talked without prompts.
Suddenly, the hands were out of the pockets, the shoulders were down, and the boy had spun to face his guardian. "Do you have any fucking clue what it's like to watch that table get cleared and hear everyone laugh that everyone forgot about the cranberries and this and that and everything else? Do you have any fucking clue how lucky you are to even have a fucking family?"
"Yes," Patterson said. "And not just because this is a holiday of gratitude, either."
Mitchell wandered closer, but stayed safely behind Trevor.
"Do you know what my Thanksgivings used to be like?" Trevor went on, his face turning red in the starlight. "Do you know what we'd have for dinner?"
"No," Patterson said. "Tell me."
Trevor just shook his head, like the words wouldn't come. Mitchell sat down in the grass and folded his legs Indian-style. He began playing with his shoelaces.
Trevor pulled his cigarettes out of the chest pocket of the denim jacket. "Some years, it was us sitting around the table, watching him drink a bottle of JD. One year, he beat Mom with the bird she'd brought home and then made her cook it and stood there while we ate it. I puked it back up about an hour later." He snorted. "And don't forget the year there was no food because Mom couldn't get a hold of his paycheck and he stole hers and drank 'em both."
Mitchell shook his head and visibly swallowed. Patterson just listened. He'd been witness to scenes like this, although not at the Wolff household. It didn't matter; the tragedy was still the same. The fact that he'd been able to make a difference in this young man's life couldn't even begin to make up for the families he hadn't been able to help so directly.
"Happy fucking birthday, Trevor," Trevor said, sniffing hard and rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his denim jacket. "They usually forgot. And there's the Voss family," he said, gesturing expansively, "with a birthday cake and apologies for being a week late."
Patterson looked at Mitchell; he felt the boy watching him. He'd managed to shelter Mitchell from the worst of Trevor's stories; this couldn't be easy.
Mitchell was imploring his father to make it stop. To help him know what to say or do.
Patterson pursed his lips and gave the barest shake to his head.
"And all that fucking food that everyone forgot to eat," Trevor said.
"We didn't forget," Mitchell said. "No one likes the cranberries. So Aunt Paula leaves 'em on the table because we're supposed to have cranberries. She's probably shoving them back in the container she uses every year, and she'll throw it in the freezer until next year. They'll make it to the table, probably still frozen, and then when we clear, everyone will joke about forgetting to eat them when the truth is, no one wants 'em."
"Think that's funny?" Trevor whirled and bent over to look at Mitchell, who shrugged.
"I think cranberries are okay," Mitchell said.
Patterson had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.
Trevor cocked his head, considering.
Mitchell started pulling at the grass.
"So you're saying I'm a cranberry?" Trevor asked at last.
Mitchell made a sound sort of like one of Trevor's indignant snorts. "No," the boy said. "You're an ass who's keeping me from my guitar. C'mon. Let's go make music."
Patterson moved to unlock the front door, wondering if a parent could be more proud of his son. It wasn't likely.
Want to know more about who these folk are? All the info you need is at West of Mars. Go check it out.
Labels: brotherly love, creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, Patterson, Trevor
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 08, 2008
The Origin of Mabel
Many of you regulars may remember Mabel. Here's how the legend began:
It wasn't supposed to be a big deal. Just a cheap guitar that could take some abuse, something up to life on the road. Take abuse, it did. It got knocked, bumped, dropped. But in the end, not even the inflatable ones could handle being stepped on.
Just like that, Mabel's life came to an end.
Mitchell couldn't believe how much he missed the stupid thing. He moped. He whined. He made the band threaten to leave him at a rest stop.
It was Daniel and Eric who came to the rescue, of course.
And Mabel the second was born.
The idea for this began with this week's 100-word challenge: Resurrection. It continued with this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: change.
To read more about Mabel, check out this link. She's appeared in other spots, too. If you'd like to read them, search the blog by using her name. They'll pop right up. Have fun and remember to leave comments so I know where you've been!
It wasn't supposed to be a big deal. Just a cheap guitar that could take some abuse, something up to life on the road. Take abuse, it did. It got knocked, bumped, dropped. But in the end, not even the inflatable ones could handle being stepped on.
Just like that, Mabel's life came to an end.
Mitchell couldn't believe how much he missed the stupid thing. He moped. He whined. He made the band threaten to leave him at a rest stop.
It was Daniel and Eric who came to the rescue, of course.
And Mabel the second was born.
The idea for this began with this week's 100-word challenge: Resurrection. It continued with this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: change.
To read more about Mabel, check out this link. She's appeared in other spots, too. If you'd like to read them, search the blog by using her name. They'll pop right up. Have fun and remember to leave comments so I know where you've been!
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, Sunday Scribblings, Velvet Verbosity
Friday, October 31, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Needing Candy (The Early Days)
Warning: This outtake contains lots of foul language and men in women's clothing. Happy Halloween!
"Trevor, you may not go trick-or-treating!"
"Aww, Mom, why not?"
Mitchell dove for the safety of his room. If Ma wasn't going to let Trevor out of the house in spandex pants and a vest, she sure as shit wasn't going to let him out. Not with his hair spray painted orange and while he was wearing one of Amy's old bras. Aim would kill him when she saw him in her only long skirt, too. Hopefully she'd stay up at school tonight and hit up those stupid frat house parties she'd been raving about. As if he'd go to college, let alone join a fucking fraternity.
Trevor showed up a minute later, looking glum. "Mom threatened to barricade the door."
"Did you ask if we can hand out the candy?"
Trev shook his head. "She's on to that trick, dude."
"So let's fuck with her and really hand out the candy."
"What are you going to do about your hair?"
Mitchell shrugged. "We've got a gig tonight, right?"
"And no candy to throw during it." Trevor sat down on the bed and dropped his chin into his hand.
"Eric'll cover for us."
Trevor sat up and snapped his head around. He narrowed his eyes at Mitchell, who raised his eyebrows in surprise at the extreme reaction and waited. "What happened to pulling our own weight?" the bass player demanded. He jumped up and started waving his arms around, occasionally pointing at Mitchell. "We're a band and we rely on each other but that doesn't mean we slack off. It means we all work our asses off to be the best fucking band we can be. That doesn't mean you sit on your pampered ass and wait for Eric to show up with the fucking candy. That means you use my escape route out that window of yours and we go fucking trick-or-treat so we have something to give our fans, dumbfuck!"
"Not in a skirt," Mitchell said calmly, picking at a fold. Really, he thought, these things weren't so bad, once you got used to them. It was sort of free inside there, not all caught up inside a denim casing like a sausage or something.
Trevor jumped up and down, his eyes screwed shut, his motorcycle boots thunking on the floor. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Nothing. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Fuck off. I'm the one giving a fuck around here."
"No," Mitchell said, sitting up and adjusting the bra. They'd stuffed it with socks, of course, although Trevor had sniggered and suggested using underwear. It didn't matter what was in there; Mitchell now had a much better idea of why they called them knockers. "It's not about whether or not I give a fuck. It's about how long we have to wait to pull off my plan."
"Oh, a plan," Trevor said with an exaggerated sniff and wag of his head.
Mitchell stared at the ceiling and asked whoever was hanging out up there
for some patience. "Yes, a plan, you dumbass," he said. "It's simple. We hand out candy. One to the kids, one to us. By the time we need to split, we're set."
"And how are you planning on getting that past Mom? You know she won't go for it."
"It's simple. Either we take it, or we eat it. Remember what happened last time you hit a sugar high?"
"Fuckhead."
Mitchell laughed. He stood up and held his arms out. "So tell me. Do my boots go with the skirt?"
For more Scandalous happenings, check out this week's Sunday Scribblings. And, as always, I invite you back to my website where you can learn more about Trevor and Mitchell and where you can gain easy access to see more of them in action.
"Trevor, you may not go trick-or-treating!"
"Aww, Mom, why not?"
Mitchell dove for the safety of his room. If Ma wasn't going to let Trevor out of the house in spandex pants and a vest, she sure as shit wasn't going to let him out. Not with his hair spray painted orange and while he was wearing one of Amy's old bras. Aim would kill him when she saw him in her only long skirt, too. Hopefully she'd stay up at school tonight and hit up those stupid frat house parties she'd been raving about. As if he'd go to college, let alone join a fucking fraternity.
Trevor showed up a minute later, looking glum. "Mom threatened to barricade the door."
"Did you ask if we can hand out the candy?"
Trev shook his head. "She's on to that trick, dude."
"So let's fuck with her and really hand out the candy."
"What are you going to do about your hair?"
Mitchell shrugged. "We've got a gig tonight, right?"
"And no candy to throw during it." Trevor sat down on the bed and dropped his chin into his hand.
"Eric'll cover for us."
Trevor sat up and snapped his head around. He narrowed his eyes at Mitchell, who raised his eyebrows in surprise at the extreme reaction and waited. "What happened to pulling our own weight?" the bass player demanded. He jumped up and started waving his arms around, occasionally pointing at Mitchell. "We're a band and we rely on each other but that doesn't mean we slack off. It means we all work our asses off to be the best fucking band we can be. That doesn't mean you sit on your pampered ass and wait for Eric to show up with the fucking candy. That means you use my escape route out that window of yours and we go fucking trick-or-treat so we have something to give our fans, dumbfuck!"
"Not in a skirt," Mitchell said calmly, picking at a fold. Really, he thought, these things weren't so bad, once you got used to them. It was sort of free inside there, not all caught up inside a denim casing like a sausage or something.
Trevor jumped up and down, his eyes screwed shut, his motorcycle boots thunking on the floor. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Nothing. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Fuck off. I'm the one giving a fuck around here."
"No," Mitchell said, sitting up and adjusting the bra. They'd stuffed it with socks, of course, although Trevor had sniggered and suggested using underwear. It didn't matter what was in there; Mitchell now had a much better idea of why they called them knockers. "It's not about whether or not I give a fuck. It's about how long we have to wait to pull off my plan."
"Oh, a plan," Trevor said with an exaggerated sniff and wag of his head.
Mitchell stared at the ceiling and asked whoever was hanging out up there
for some patience. "Yes, a plan, you dumbass," he said. "It's simple. We hand out candy. One to the kids, one to us. By the time we need to split, we're set."
"And how are you planning on getting that past Mom? You know she won't go for it."
"It's simple. Either we take it, or we eat it. Remember what happened last time you hit a sugar high?"
"Fuckhead."
Mitchell laughed. He stood up and held his arms out. "So tell me. Do my boots go with the skirt?"
For more Scandalous happenings, check out this week's Sunday Scribblings. And, as always, I invite you back to my website where you can learn more about Trevor and Mitchell and where you can gain easy access to see more of them in action.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, holidays, Mitchell, Sunday Scribblings, Trevor
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Rusty's Place (Trevor's Song Era)
So this was it, Trevor thought as he followed Mitchell off the elevator and down the narrow, dark hallway. This was the other love shack, the one Mitchell bonked Rusty in when he wasn't doing her in his own place. Trevor wasn't so sure he wanted to go in. Hell, he wasn't sure why Mitchell wanted in Rusty, but the big idiot had never been the smartest thing around when it came to girls.
At least the door to Rusty's place was cool: floor to ceiling and on these rollers that made a great noise when Mitchell pulled it open. It looked old and industrial and was almost as interesting as his place.
The first thing Trevor noticed was the space. Huge. Empty. A few ugly couches, a few lights set around them like he'd seen at photo shoots the band had been on. And a drafting desk, white, facing the couches.
A couple of mismatched throw rugs on the floor. Rusty's bike by the door, and hooks for keys and shit. Not hooks, he realized as he looked closer. Carabiners. They made stealing her keys pretty fucking hard, the way they were rigged, there. It was almost a good idea.
Behind the drafting desk, he saw a couple of stools, one of which held Her Rustiness. Her shadow fell behind her on one of those screens for privacy that had some soothing nature scene painted on it. That must be her living space back there, but damn if Trevor could see any of it. Damn if Trevor wanted to see it.
He hated to admit it, but the whole place added up to some sort of artsy style. A little too serious to be a student's digs but at the same time it was obvious she wasn't on easy street. If this wasn't Rusty's place, he might even have been able to respect the person who lived here.
"Hey, you're here," she said from behind that drafting desk. She lifted her head and pierced him with those damn eyes of hers. Trevor still didn't understand how Mitchell had found a girl who had the famous Voss eyes.
"Yep," Mitchell said, crossing the couch area and going over to Rusty. He put his hands on her waist and kissed her like he was trying to crawl down her throat. All of him, not just his tongue.
Trevor looked around, wondering where the bathroom was. Just in case bad judgment got the better of him and he decided not to yak on her floor. Watching her clean up that mess would be sublime -- assuming Mitchell didn't make him do it himself, which the idiot would probably do. After all, Rusty might get her precious self dirty or something.
He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It hadn't hit him; it couldn't be Mitchell. That meant…
He jumped again, away from Rusty this time. He gave her a quick once-over: paint-covered sweatpants that used to be grey and a sorta snug but not tight t-shirt. He couldn't deny she had a good shape. Even worse, the paint streaks brought that out.
That she was barefoot didn't surprise him. Mitchell would have to fall for someone who hated clothes as much as he did. It was that simple, until you got to the eyes. That was just fucking freaky.
"Hi, Trev," she said like he hadn't just handed out this insult by getting away from her touch. Sometimes, he thought she was clueless, but then he looked in those eyes and knew better. The Queen of Polite, that's what he ought to call her. Maybe he would -- except Rusty fit so much better. And it pissed her off.
Trevor realized he had no cranky comeback for her. Nothing about the lack of walls helping make sure she didn't get lost. Nothing about the high ceilings or those couches. Nothing.
Mitchell growled and stuck an elbow in his ribs. Trevor glared at him and reached for his cigarettes.
"Let's get rolling," Mitchell said.
"I need to change," Rusty said. She vanished behind the stupid screen.
"You can't change enough," Trevor told her and placed an unlit cigarette in its usual place at the corner of his mouth.
"How did I know you'd say that?" she asked. It was weird, talking to her like this. He couldn't see her but nothing was muffling her voice. It was like talking to someone who was invisible. Then again, life would be better if she wasn't there at all.
"Maybe you're a fucking clairvoyant or something."
"Maybe I'm just smart," she said, coming around the screen all dressed in jeans and another t-shirt, this one without paint on it. "We ready?" She held her arm out. Mitchell grabbed it and wound it around his waist.
Trevor tried not to gag. "I'm readier than you'll ever know," he said.
"Good thing," she said as Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor's head. It wasn't hard; just enough to remind him to watch himself. Like he'd do anything else here in Rusty's lair. If she'd used it to snag Mitchell, there was no telling what she'd do to him.
So you've met Trevor, Mitchell, and Kerri over the past week. Now you get to see them in action, as part of the Sunday Scribblings prompt.
I don't know about this one. For those of you who're regulars, I'm going to drive you NUTS when I say this: it feels like it belongs right inside of Trevor's Song. Sorry, but it's true.
Stay tuned for news on how to help get that book into your hands. There's a lot brewing behind the scenes here. And yes, you'll like it all.
At least the door to Rusty's place was cool: floor to ceiling and on these rollers that made a great noise when Mitchell pulled it open. It looked old and industrial and was almost as interesting as his place.
The first thing Trevor noticed was the space. Huge. Empty. A few ugly couches, a few lights set around them like he'd seen at photo shoots the band had been on. And a drafting desk, white, facing the couches.
A couple of mismatched throw rugs on the floor. Rusty's bike by the door, and hooks for keys and shit. Not hooks, he realized as he looked closer. Carabiners. They made stealing her keys pretty fucking hard, the way they were rigged, there. It was almost a good idea.
Behind the drafting desk, he saw a couple of stools, one of which held Her Rustiness. Her shadow fell behind her on one of those screens for privacy that had some soothing nature scene painted on it. That must be her living space back there, but damn if Trevor could see any of it. Damn if Trevor wanted to see it.
He hated to admit it, but the whole place added up to some sort of artsy style. A little too serious to be a student's digs but at the same time it was obvious she wasn't on easy street. If this wasn't Rusty's place, he might even have been able to respect the person who lived here.
"Hey, you're here," she said from behind that drafting desk. She lifted her head and pierced him with those damn eyes of hers. Trevor still didn't understand how Mitchell had found a girl who had the famous Voss eyes.
"Yep," Mitchell said, crossing the couch area and going over to Rusty. He put his hands on her waist and kissed her like he was trying to crawl down her throat. All of him, not just his tongue.
Trevor looked around, wondering where the bathroom was. Just in case bad judgment got the better of him and he decided not to yak on her floor. Watching her clean up that mess would be sublime -- assuming Mitchell didn't make him do it himself, which the idiot would probably do. After all, Rusty might get her precious self dirty or something.
He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It hadn't hit him; it couldn't be Mitchell. That meant…
He jumped again, away from Rusty this time. He gave her a quick once-over: paint-covered sweatpants that used to be grey and a sorta snug but not tight t-shirt. He couldn't deny she had a good shape. Even worse, the paint streaks brought that out.
That she was barefoot didn't surprise him. Mitchell would have to fall for someone who hated clothes as much as he did. It was that simple, until you got to the eyes. That was just fucking freaky.
"Hi, Trev," she said like he hadn't just handed out this insult by getting away from her touch. Sometimes, he thought she was clueless, but then he looked in those eyes and knew better. The Queen of Polite, that's what he ought to call her. Maybe he would -- except Rusty fit so much better. And it pissed her off.
Trevor realized he had no cranky comeback for her. Nothing about the lack of walls helping make sure she didn't get lost. Nothing about the high ceilings or those couches. Nothing.
Mitchell growled and stuck an elbow in his ribs. Trevor glared at him and reached for his cigarettes.
"Let's get rolling," Mitchell said.
"I need to change," Rusty said. She vanished behind the stupid screen.
"You can't change enough," Trevor told her and placed an unlit cigarette in its usual place at the corner of his mouth.
"How did I know you'd say that?" she asked. It was weird, talking to her like this. He couldn't see her but nothing was muffling her voice. It was like talking to someone who was invisible. Then again, life would be better if she wasn't there at all.
"Maybe you're a fucking clairvoyant or something."
"Maybe I'm just smart," she said, coming around the screen all dressed in jeans and another t-shirt, this one without paint on it. "We ready?" She held her arm out. Mitchell grabbed it and wound it around his waist.
Trevor tried not to gag. "I'm readier than you'll ever know," he said.
"Good thing," she said as Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor's head. It wasn't hard; just enough to remind him to watch himself. Like he'd do anything else here in Rusty's lair. If she'd used it to snag Mitchell, there was no telling what she'd do to him.
So you've met Trevor, Mitchell, and Kerri over the past week. Now you get to see them in action, as part of the Sunday Scribblings prompt.
I don't know about this one. For those of you who're regulars, I'm going to drive you NUTS when I say this: it feels like it belongs right inside of Trevor's Song. Sorry, but it's true.
Stay tuned for news on how to help get that book into your hands. There's a lot brewing behind the scenes here. And yes, you'll like it all.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Kerri, Mitchell, Sunday Scribblings, Trevor
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Pam Fiction: Pregnant Women
Okay, so I know I'm not the smartest girl who ever walked the Earth. I mean, if I couldn't figure that out in school, then maybe I am too stupid to live, like those rich bitches used to say I was.
But I'm not. Know how I know that? It's because I know something that a bunch of smarties at some university back East had to study for years to figure out. I'm a health professional. Them, they're eggheads. That's how I got to know this so much faster.
Pregnant women who exercise have less depression.
Like I didn't know that? Hello?
I can totally see it on the faces of my pregger students. How they walk in all achy and complaining and maybe sorry they've done this to themselves but of course they can't admit that. I watch them careful 'cause, you know, they're pregnant and all. As class goes on, those aches go away. Their bodies gear up and get in the groove. I see their faces relax. Their hunched shoulders drop. They smile. By the time they leave, it's all good and being pregnant is the best thing in the world.
It's simple. Exercise makes you feel good. It makes you feel like your body's under your control. I've never been pregnant but my students say that sometimes, their body feels out of control. That it's doing all these things and they can't stop it and they can barely watch because some of it's ugly. Their body knows what to do and it goes and does it and the heck with what their brain wants!
This is why I do what I do. I never feel as good or as alive or as sexy or anything as I do after I've worked out. I don't feel dumb when it's me up there leading the class. I'm not dumb when they come to me and ask why something hurts.
And I'm sure not dumb when I know that exercise makes pregnant women less depressed.
Now if only Mitchell Voss would see how not dumb I am. And that I'm only with Trevor until Mitchell notices. I mean, how much closer does a girl have to get? Hello? I'm right here with your best friend, buddy! Open your eyes. I'm waiting.
With Yom Kippur ending, pregnancy and kids are on my mind (see this post for why) and ... well, I felt like it.
If you'd like more of Pam, click here.
But I'm not. Know how I know that? It's because I know something that a bunch of smarties at some university back East had to study for years to figure out. I'm a health professional. Them, they're eggheads. That's how I got to know this so much faster.
Pregnant women who exercise have less depression.
Like I didn't know that? Hello?
I can totally see it on the faces of my pregger students. How they walk in all achy and complaining and maybe sorry they've done this to themselves but of course they can't admit that. I watch them careful 'cause, you know, they're pregnant and all. As class goes on, those aches go away. Their bodies gear up and get in the groove. I see their faces relax. Their hunched shoulders drop. They smile. By the time they leave, it's all good and being pregnant is the best thing in the world.
It's simple. Exercise makes you feel good. It makes you feel like your body's under your control. I've never been pregnant but my students say that sometimes, their body feels out of control. That it's doing all these things and they can't stop it and they can barely watch because some of it's ugly. Their body knows what to do and it goes and does it and the heck with what their brain wants!
This is why I do what I do. I never feel as good or as alive or as sexy or anything as I do after I've worked out. I don't feel dumb when it's me up there leading the class. I'm not dumb when they come to me and ask why something hurts.
And I'm sure not dumb when I know that exercise makes pregnant women less depressed.
Now if only Mitchell Voss would see how not dumb I am. And that I'm only with Trevor until Mitchell notices. I mean, how much closer does a girl have to get? Hello? I'm right here with your best friend, buddy! Open your eyes. I'm waiting.
With Yom Kippur ending, pregnancy and kids are on my mind (see this post for why) and ... well, I felt like it.
If you'd like more of Pam, click here.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Pam
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
Sunday, September 21, 2008
100 Words: Yearning
Maybe if she wasn't who she was, she wouldn't understand it so utterly. Maybe she wouldn't smile when she woke up to find her arm being chorded, her hip being strummed.
She did understand it, though. She had similar pulls: to draw, to sketch. To make a piece of paper come alive with an image. His music, her art… together, they were a team whose creations couldn't intersect. It was a team of space-giving and passion-nurturing, of speaking a language few could hear.
He said she was his muse. She knew he was hers.
Who knew where they could go?
Wow. Here it is, all these years after I created Mitchell, Kerri, Trevor and the fictional city of Riverview, USA.
This is the root of what I was trying to create, the Mitchell-Kerri dynamic. Somehow Trevor snuck in there and upstaged them, but when you get down to it, this is where it all began.
The 100 word prompt this week at Velvet Verbosity's blog is yearning.
I do, however, still yearn to bring you a book. Stay tuned.
She did understand it, though. She had similar pulls: to draw, to sketch. To make a piece of paper come alive with an image. His music, her art… together, they were a team whose creations couldn't intersect. It was a team of space-giving and passion-nurturing, of speaking a language few could hear.
He said she was his muse. She knew he was hers.
Who knew where they could go?
Wow. Here it is, all these years after I created Mitchell, Kerri, Trevor and the fictional city of Riverview, USA.
This is the root of what I was trying to create, the Mitchell-Kerri dynamic. Somehow Trevor snuck in there and upstaged them, but when you get down to it, this is where it all began.
The 100 word prompt this week at Velvet Verbosity's blog is yearning.
I do, however, still yearn to bring you a book. Stay tuned.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Kerri, Velvet Verbosity
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
Friday, September 12, 2008
100 Words: Twist (Pre-Trevor's Song Era)
There had to be something fucked up about it. Normal people didn't come off stage and crave ice cream, but then again, Trevor Wolff wasn't normal people.
Not mere ice cream. Soft serve. Or softish old-fashioned, the kind that demands constant attention and a tongue pushing it down to the bottom of the cone and wiping up what spills over the sides and down over your hands…
Mitchell liked to drag a willing girl into the shower But Trevor, he liked to wait. To make that trip and choose which you felt like: vanilla or chocolate. Or some of each.
Methinks there's more than one twist going on here, but I'm not entirely certain. You decide.
If you're new to Trevor and Mitchell, well, what took you so long to get here? Come hang out with everyone's favorite fictional band! Click on the boys' names to be taken to a character sketch page that'll tell you all you need to know and even give you extra links to see them in action.
This short piece was written for Velvet Verbosity's 100 word challenge. Come join in; it's a great writing exercise.
Not mere ice cream. Soft serve. Or softish old-fashioned, the kind that demands constant attention and a tongue pushing it down to the bottom of the cone and wiping up what spills over the sides and down over your hands…
Mitchell liked to drag a willing girl into the shower But Trevor, he liked to wait. To make that trip and choose which you felt like: vanilla or chocolate. Or some of each.
Methinks there's more than one twist going on here, but I'm not entirely certain. You decide.
If you're new to Trevor and Mitchell, well, what took you so long to get here? Come hang out with everyone's favorite fictional band! Click on the boys' names to be taken to a character sketch page that'll tell you all you need to know and even give you extra links to see them in action.
This short piece was written for Velvet Verbosity's 100 word challenge. Come join in; it's a great writing exercise.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, food, Mitchell, touring, Trevor, Velvet Verbosity
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Fiction Outtake: The Time After Dinner (The Early Days)
It's not necessary, but it may help if you visit The Time Before Dinner. This is a sequel of sorts. You should be able to catch on to the basic idea if you're too lazy to go look, though.
When Mitchell got up after dinner and left the house, Trevor knew exactly where he was going -- and why. He figured he'd give the idiot a while to get his head together, but Amy started bugging him, grabbing at his forearm and being so fucking whiny that Trevor left the house to track down Mitchell sooner than he wanted to.
Sure enough, Mitchell was in their spot by the river, chewing on a piece of grass and staring at nothing. He was all stretched out, his legs crossed at the ankle, the hand that wasn't playing with the grass in his mouth tucked up behind his head.
He looked like Huck Finn. He even had his shoes off.
Trevor sat down beside him and stared at the river. It was barely moving today. Even the air was still. "Yeah?" Trevor asked. "So?"
"So what?"
With a curl in his upper lip, Trevor mimicked Mitchell. Like the idiot didn't know what this was all about. "I go to all that trouble to find you a girl who's willing to take on your virginal ass and that's all you can say to me?"
"Uhh… thanks?"
Trevor grabbed the grass and yanked it out of Mitchell's mouth.
Mitchell yelped and sat up, fingers hovering over his lip. "Fuckhead!"
"That didn't hurt, you baby." He made a show of looking Mitchell up and down. "It's a fucking miracle I was able to find someone for you, and this shit is exactly why."
Mitchell turned away and didn't say anything.
Trevor let him stew. He lit up a cigarette and waited.
"So," he said when Mitchell relaxed a hair, "did you last longer than thirty seconds?"
"Fucker."
Trevor crowed, the cigarette dangling off his lower lip as he laughed. "You didn't, did you! I fucking knew it!"
"I lasted," Mitchell growled.
"One day. Two miracles. Think Hell's about to freeze over?"
Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor's head. Trevor just grinned.
"How'd you do it?" he asked when Mitchell stopped growling. "Multiplication tables?"
"Chords. I talked myself through two different Rat Catcher songs."
"What?"
"What's wrong?"
"You're there with a girl for the first fucking time ever and all you can do is play your fucking guitar?"
"It worked, didn't it? Two Rat Catcher songs… that's, like, ten minutes!"
"You stupid fuck. You've got a girl. Don't you know what that means?"
"I do now, yeah."
Trevor wanted to smear Mitchell's grin into the riverbank. "No! No, no, no!" He jumped up and pulled his cigarette off his lip. It felt like it tore and for a second, he could see a piece of grass hanging out of Mitchell's mouth. But only for a second; he had more important things to set the stupid ass straight about.
Mitchell was looking at him, his elbows hooked around his knees.
He took that as permission to rant. "Girls are soft. They smell good. They're curvy and fun to touch. They squirm. And, oh fuck, the sounds they make. You didn't notice any of that, did you?"
"Yeah. Of course!"
"Then what the fuck did you need to play your stupid-assed guitar for?"
"'Cause if I hadn't, you'd be sitting here yelling at me for being too fast and not stopping to appreciate her the right way. Why'd you come out here, anyway? Nothing I do is ever right yet you never shut up about what a perfect person I am. It can't be both ways, know that?"
Mitchell was on his feet now. His eyes had turned that dark blue that Trevor knew meant danger, and his face was red.
Trevor took a step back. Maybe Mitchell had been smart enough to figure this girl stuff out on his own. But on the other hand, maybe he hadn't been.
"And you should just stay outta my sex life anyway!" Mitchell yelled.
"If I did that, you wouldn't have one!"
He knew the fist to his gut was coming. It felt good when it landed, taking some of his breath away and doubling him over not quite in half. Instinct made him want to cover his head, but this was Mitchell, and it ended there. He wasn't Hank; he knew when to stop.
Too bad I don't, Trevor thought as his breath came back and he straightened up. "You should be thanking me."
"For the girl? Yeah, sure, whatever. For showing up here and putting on your high-and-mighty act? No fucking way. Take it with you and leave me the fuck alone already." Mitchell sat down, his back to Trevor. He was probably staring off at the river, but his back was shaking.
Trevor went and sat beside him. "Okay, I'm done being a dick now."
"Good."
"Was it?" He nudged Mitchell with his elbow and watched as the guy fought with himself. It was more fun to stay pissed, Trevor knew that. Smart people got out of the way when Mitchell was pissed.
Trevor wasn't smart. He was also Mitchell's best friend. He knew if he waited, he'd get it.
"Yeah, it was good," the big idiot finally said. He let out a deep breath and nodded. "It was good."
When Mitchell got up after dinner and left the house, Trevor knew exactly where he was going -- and why. He figured he'd give the idiot a while to get his head together, but Amy started bugging him, grabbing at his forearm and being so fucking whiny that Trevor left the house to track down Mitchell sooner than he wanted to.
Sure enough, Mitchell was in their spot by the river, chewing on a piece of grass and staring at nothing. He was all stretched out, his legs crossed at the ankle, the hand that wasn't playing with the grass in his mouth tucked up behind his head.
He looked like Huck Finn. He even had his shoes off.
Trevor sat down beside him and stared at the river. It was barely moving today. Even the air was still. "Yeah?" Trevor asked. "So?"
"So what?"
With a curl in his upper lip, Trevor mimicked Mitchell. Like the idiot didn't know what this was all about. "I go to all that trouble to find you a girl who's willing to take on your virginal ass and that's all you can say to me?"
"Uhh… thanks?"
Trevor grabbed the grass and yanked it out of Mitchell's mouth.
Mitchell yelped and sat up, fingers hovering over his lip. "Fuckhead!"
"That didn't hurt, you baby." He made a show of looking Mitchell up and down. "It's a fucking miracle I was able to find someone for you, and this shit is exactly why."
Mitchell turned away and didn't say anything.
Trevor let him stew. He lit up a cigarette and waited.
"So," he said when Mitchell relaxed a hair, "did you last longer than thirty seconds?"
"Fucker."
Trevor crowed, the cigarette dangling off his lower lip as he laughed. "You didn't, did you! I fucking knew it!"
"I lasted," Mitchell growled.
"One day. Two miracles. Think Hell's about to freeze over?"
Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor's head. Trevor just grinned.
"How'd you do it?" he asked when Mitchell stopped growling. "Multiplication tables?"
"Chords. I talked myself through two different Rat Catcher songs."
"What?"
"What's wrong?"
"You're there with a girl for the first fucking time ever and all you can do is play your fucking guitar?"
"It worked, didn't it? Two Rat Catcher songs… that's, like, ten minutes!"
"You stupid fuck. You've got a girl. Don't you know what that means?"
"I do now, yeah."
Trevor wanted to smear Mitchell's grin into the riverbank. "No! No, no, no!" He jumped up and pulled his cigarette off his lip. It felt like it tore and for a second, he could see a piece of grass hanging out of Mitchell's mouth. But only for a second; he had more important things to set the stupid ass straight about.
Mitchell was looking at him, his elbows hooked around his knees.
He took that as permission to rant. "Girls are soft. They smell good. They're curvy and fun to touch. They squirm. And, oh fuck, the sounds they make. You didn't notice any of that, did you?"
"Yeah. Of course!"
"Then what the fuck did you need to play your stupid-assed guitar for?"
"'Cause if I hadn't, you'd be sitting here yelling at me for being too fast and not stopping to appreciate her the right way. Why'd you come out here, anyway? Nothing I do is ever right yet you never shut up about what a perfect person I am. It can't be both ways, know that?"
Mitchell was on his feet now. His eyes had turned that dark blue that Trevor knew meant danger, and his face was red.
Trevor took a step back. Maybe Mitchell had been smart enough to figure this girl stuff out on his own. But on the other hand, maybe he hadn't been.
"And you should just stay outta my sex life anyway!" Mitchell yelled.
"If I did that, you wouldn't have one!"
He knew the fist to his gut was coming. It felt good when it landed, taking some of his breath away and doubling him over not quite in half. Instinct made him want to cover his head, but this was Mitchell, and it ended there. He wasn't Hank; he knew when to stop.
Too bad I don't, Trevor thought as his breath came back and he straightened up. "You should be thanking me."
"For the girl? Yeah, sure, whatever. For showing up here and putting on your high-and-mighty act? No fucking way. Take it with you and leave me the fuck alone already." Mitchell sat down, his back to Trevor. He was probably staring off at the river, but his back was shaking.
Trevor went and sat beside him. "Okay, I'm done being a dick now."
"Good."
"Was it?" He nudged Mitchell with his elbow and watched as the guy fought with himself. It was more fun to stay pissed, Trevor knew that. Smart people got out of the way when Mitchell was pissed.
Trevor wasn't smart. He was also Mitchell's best friend. He knew if he waited, he'd get it.
"Yeah, it was good," the big idiot finally said. He let out a deep breath and nodded. "It was good."
Labels: brotherly love, creative writing, fiction, fiction outtake, Mitchell, Trevor
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
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Bored on the Bus (Trevor's Song Era)
They'd been on the bus for what felt like weeks. So long that they were way overdue for a day off inside of an actual hotel room -- and every single member of ShapeShifter was grossed out by the thought of how excited they were about something as sterile and isolated as a hotel room. But at this point, with only the bus or the inside of the venue to look at, a hotel seemed like the ultimate luxury.
During these stretches, it wasn't unusual for no one to talk. No one had anything to say, really. Not when you were spending exactly every waking minute with each other. Not when you'd done this dance for years.
Mitchell didn't even have much to say to Kerri, which was pretty pathetic considering they were still newlyweds. She didn't seem to care, except that she was as bored as the rest of them. So bored that she had squished herself on the couch beside him, her chin on his upraised knee. Instead of drawing, she was playing idly with the hair on his leg. He knew she wouldn't be doing it if he'd put his jeans back on, but when all you were doing was sitting on a bus, why bother with pants?
He could only take so much of Kerri's petting and stroking. It wasn't hot, it wasn't comforting. It was just damn annoying.
He lifted his leg and straightened it, moving gently so he didn't startle her onto the floor or hurt her. "Woman," he growled, "my leg is not a guitar. If you want to strum something, go find one."
With a shrug, Kerri stood up.
"What are you doing?" He knew he flailed as he sat up, but he didn't care. She'd been supposed to stop petting him, not do … whatever.
"Getting a guitar," she said carelessly, and disappeared into the bunks.
Eric and Daniel chuckled as Mitchell groaned, but Trevor nodded. "That'll teach your dumb ass," the bass player said and lit a cigarette. "You know she can't resist a challenge. Even an easy one like that."
"At least it'll give us something to do," Daniel said as Kerri came back carrying Mabel.
She sat down at the other end of Trevor's couch, facing Mitchell, and put the guitar properly on her right leg. Then she shook out her hair and straightened her back, looking to the table at Eric. Mitchell noticed how pointedly she ignored him. He tried to keep his latest groan inaudible; it would only egg her on.
"So. What do I do now?" she asked Eric, a too-bright smile plastered to her face.
Mitchell wanted to cover his own face with his hands. Anything to keep from watching this. But he couldn't look away.
"You need a pick," Eric said.
Kerri handed the guitar to Trevor, who took it with a sneer. She stood up, watching Mitchell as if she expected him to do something.
"What?" he asked as she stared down at him. Fuck, but he hated it when she smiled like that. All smug and full of herself -- and about to make him the butt of some joke, he was sure. Anyone with a shred of common sense would get up and leave before it happened, but he was stuck there, both by his own inertia and some sick need to be present.
Kerri bent down so she could reach across him, making sure she brushed her breast against his face. She dug in the change pocket of his jeans.
He refused to so much as breathe until she came up with one of the eight million or so picks they'd had made for this tour. He told himself not to panic; he still had two others in there. And maybe she'd give it back. Or, even better, make him come looking for it.
She smirked at him as she reseated herself and took Mabel back from Trevor.
"Okay," she said to Eric, "now what?"
Trevor leaned forward as Eric motioned Mitchell out of the way so he could sit across from Kerri and give her instructions. She made a show of not knowing how to hold the pick or how to use it.
Her performance set Mitchell's teeth on edge. And that was before she struck a note.
"What about my face?" she asked when Eric told her she was ready to move on to the next step.
"What about it?" Eric asked.
"Not even Asshole there can play guitar with his face," Trevor said, jerking his chin at Mitchell, who growled. Kerri didn't need to know about the time he'd tried. Hell, Mitchell wasn't srue Trevor knew about it.
Kerri took a deep, exaggerated breath. "I know that," she said. "But to watch the three of you, in order to play guitar, you also have to make faces. Like this," she said, puckering up like she'd eaten a lemon. "Or this," she said, opening her mouth and widening her eyes.
Daniel laughed.
"Oh, you're not much better, you know," Kerri said, pointing the pick at him. She stuck her tongue into her cheek and, again, let her jaw drop open.
Mitchell bit back a smile, but Eric didn't bother hiding it. Her faces were poor imitations of theirs, but they got the point across. Daniel pretended he didn't care, and Trevor was pretending he wasn't paying attention, even though his eyes flicked back and forth. He was, like always, too full of himself to give in and have a good time, especially because it was Kerri at the root of it all. Trevor couldn't stand it when she pulled shit like this -- because he wanted to be the one at the center of it.
"You know what's going to happen now?" Daniel asked, picking up Eric's cigarettes and fiddling with the pack. "We're going to get on stage tonight and obsess about our faces."
That was entirely too true.
Mitchell told himself he shouldn't care. Guitar players were supposed to make faces; the girls in the crowd ate it up. The guys thought it was the path to coolness -- and a lot of them practiced their faces more than they did their guitars even though the more you played, the more natural the faces turned. It was all part of rock and roll.
Besides, he told himself as Kerri tried to stand up, only to discover the hard way that guitars had straps for a specific reason, if this got inside his head too bad, he'd divorce the wench.
But in the meantime, at least he wasn't bored.
Has it been too long since we've had an outtake just for the fun or it, or WHAT?
If you're new around here, the best way to figure out what's up is to head over to my main website and poke around. Or click on each character's name above; that'll take you to their character sketch page on the website. You can read about everyone, or click on some of the links at the bottom of the page and be taken back here to the blog for more of the gang in action.
During these stretches, it wasn't unusual for no one to talk. No one had anything to say, really. Not when you were spending exactly every waking minute with each other. Not when you'd done this dance for years.
Mitchell didn't even have much to say to Kerri, which was pretty pathetic considering they were still newlyweds. She didn't seem to care, except that she was as bored as the rest of them. So bored that she had squished herself on the couch beside him, her chin on his upraised knee. Instead of drawing, she was playing idly with the hair on his leg. He knew she wouldn't be doing it if he'd put his jeans back on, but when all you were doing was sitting on a bus, why bother with pants?
He could only take so much of Kerri's petting and stroking. It wasn't hot, it wasn't comforting. It was just damn annoying.
He lifted his leg and straightened it, moving gently so he didn't startle her onto the floor or hurt her. "Woman," he growled, "my leg is not a guitar. If you want to strum something, go find one."
With a shrug, Kerri stood up.
"What are you doing?" He knew he flailed as he sat up, but he didn't care. She'd been supposed to stop petting him, not do … whatever.
"Getting a guitar," she said carelessly, and disappeared into the bunks.
Eric and Daniel chuckled as Mitchell groaned, but Trevor nodded. "That'll teach your dumb ass," the bass player said and lit a cigarette. "You know she can't resist a challenge. Even an easy one like that."
"At least it'll give us something to do," Daniel said as Kerri came back carrying Mabel.
She sat down at the other end of Trevor's couch, facing Mitchell, and put the guitar properly on her right leg. Then she shook out her hair and straightened her back, looking to the table at Eric. Mitchell noticed how pointedly she ignored him. He tried to keep his latest groan inaudible; it would only egg her on.
"So. What do I do now?" she asked Eric, a too-bright smile plastered to her face.
Mitchell wanted to cover his own face with his hands. Anything to keep from watching this. But he couldn't look away.
"You need a pick," Eric said.
Kerri handed the guitar to Trevor, who took it with a sneer. She stood up, watching Mitchell as if she expected him to do something.
"What?" he asked as she stared down at him. Fuck, but he hated it when she smiled like that. All smug and full of herself -- and about to make him the butt of some joke, he was sure. Anyone with a shred of common sense would get up and leave before it happened, but he was stuck there, both by his own inertia and some sick need to be present.
Kerri bent down so she could reach across him, making sure she brushed her breast against his face. She dug in the change pocket of his jeans.
He refused to so much as breathe until she came up with one of the eight million or so picks they'd had made for this tour. He told himself not to panic; he still had two others in there. And maybe she'd give it back. Or, even better, make him come looking for it.
She smirked at him as she reseated herself and took Mabel back from Trevor.
"Okay," she said to Eric, "now what?"
Trevor leaned forward as Eric motioned Mitchell out of the way so he could sit across from Kerri and give her instructions. She made a show of not knowing how to hold the pick or how to use it.
Her performance set Mitchell's teeth on edge. And that was before she struck a note.
"What about my face?" she asked when Eric told her she was ready to move on to the next step.
"What about it?" Eric asked.
"Not even Asshole there can play guitar with his face," Trevor said, jerking his chin at Mitchell, who growled. Kerri didn't need to know about the time he'd tried. Hell, Mitchell wasn't srue Trevor knew about it.
Kerri took a deep, exaggerated breath. "I know that," she said. "But to watch the three of you, in order to play guitar, you also have to make faces. Like this," she said, puckering up like she'd eaten a lemon. "Or this," she said, opening her mouth and widening her eyes.
Daniel laughed.
"Oh, you're not much better, you know," Kerri said, pointing the pick at him. She stuck her tongue into her cheek and, again, let her jaw drop open.
Mitchell bit back a smile, but Eric didn't bother hiding it. Her faces were poor imitations of theirs, but they got the point across. Daniel pretended he didn't care, and Trevor was pretending he wasn't paying attention, even though his eyes flicked back and forth. He was, like always, too full of himself to give in and have a good time, especially because it was Kerri at the root of it all. Trevor couldn't stand it when she pulled shit like this -- because he wanted to be the one at the center of it.
"You know what's going to happen now?" Daniel asked, picking up Eric's cigarettes and fiddling with the pack. "We're going to get on stage tonight and obsess about our faces."
That was entirely too true.
Mitchell told himself he shouldn't care. Guitar players were supposed to make faces; the girls in the crowd ate it up. The guys thought it was the path to coolness -- and a lot of them practiced their faces more than they did their guitars even though the more you played, the more natural the faces turned. It was all part of rock and roll.
Besides, he told himself as Kerri tried to stand up, only to discover the hard way that guitars had straps for a specific reason, if this got inside his head too bad, he'd divorce the wench.
But in the meantime, at least he wasn't bored.
Has it been too long since we've had an outtake just for the fun or it, or WHAT?
If you're new around here, the best way to figure out what's up is to head over to my main website and poke around. Or click on each character's name above; that'll take you to their character sketch page on the website. You can read about everyone, or click on some of the links at the bottom of the page and be taken back here to the blog for more of the gang in action.
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, Eric, fiction, fiction outtake, Mitchell, ShapeShifter, touring, Trevor
Monday, July 28, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Trevor's Bike (The Early Days)
Dreams generally weren't welcome in Trevor Wolff's world. Why bother, when they so rarely came true?
Okay, the dream about the band had, but that was mostly due to Mitchell's refusal to give up. It had nothing to do with the magic of dreams, how you wake up and suddenly, one day, there it is. Whatever you'd wanted, waiting for you like on a silver platter. Nope, Mitchell had refused to rely on luck and dreams and all that other fairy shit. He'd buckled down and spent hours on the band's logo, the band's music, his own guitar, and even bass lessons for Trevor.
Not that Trevor was any closer to being good than he'd been on that first day when Mitchell had first put a bass in his hands. But whatever. He was in a band and who cared if he sucked? He looked good up there.
That was how dreams come true -- when you let yourself dream them.
The dream about the Vincent wasn't likely to come true through hard work. Vincents were rare. They cost a lot of money if they were in great shape. Sometimes, the falling apart ones cost a lot of money, too. ShapeShifter might have started to bring in the bucks, but Trevor still wasn't flush enough to pay those prices. Getting his hands on a Vincent wasn't a dream worth letting himself dream about.
Until the phone rang. "Hey, uhh, yeah. This is Ray, over at Hammer, Wrench, and Torque. This Trevor?"
He almost didn't answer; he was too busy grabbing at the cigarette that had fallen off his lip when he'd heard Wrench's voice. "Yeah," he finally said, trying to sound cool while he brushed ashes off his jeans and immediately began playing with the newly burned fibers.
"We wanted to let you know that someone dropped off the frame of a Vincent today. Looks like a D-series Shadow. You interested?"
Trevor's heart leaped out of his chest. He knew that feeling, all right -- but he'd never known it to feel so good.
"You might want to take a look before you say yes or no," Hammer said.
"I'll be there as soon as I can be," Trevor said. He'd have to call Mitchell and convince him to put down the guitar long enough to play chauffeur. It shouldn't be hard; Amy was home for a visit and that probably meant she was torturing the big idiot to no end. Not that he didn't deserve it, but Trevor needed a ride more than Mitchell needed what he deserved.
"Think hard, man," Hammer warned. "It may not be what you want, but if you've got the patience, it can be."
That alone was enough for Trevor. Even if it was a piece of steel that had been hammered flat, he wanted the bike.
No one knew better than Trevor Wolff what it was like to need some work. Or what the payoff was once someone who cared showed some patience.
Ahh. Trevor's back; I know you guys have missed him. I have, too.
Not sure what the fuss is about? Click on Trevor's name and it'll take you to his bio page. At the bottom are all sorts of links that will take you back to other posts here at the Meet and Greet that Trevor's starred in. There are a lot, so get a fresh cup of coffee and have fun!
Okay, the dream about the band had, but that was mostly due to Mitchell's refusal to give up. It had nothing to do with the magic of dreams, how you wake up and suddenly, one day, there it is. Whatever you'd wanted, waiting for you like on a silver platter. Nope, Mitchell had refused to rely on luck and dreams and all that other fairy shit. He'd buckled down and spent hours on the band's logo, the band's music, his own guitar, and even bass lessons for Trevor.
Not that Trevor was any closer to being good than he'd been on that first day when Mitchell had first put a bass in his hands. But whatever. He was in a band and who cared if he sucked? He looked good up there.
That was how dreams come true -- when you let yourself dream them.
The dream about the Vincent wasn't likely to come true through hard work. Vincents were rare. They cost a lot of money if they were in great shape. Sometimes, the falling apart ones cost a lot of money, too. ShapeShifter might have started to bring in the bucks, but Trevor still wasn't flush enough to pay those prices. Getting his hands on a Vincent wasn't a dream worth letting himself dream about.
Until the phone rang. "Hey, uhh, yeah. This is Ray, over at Hammer, Wrench, and Torque. This Trevor?"
He almost didn't answer; he was too busy grabbing at the cigarette that had fallen off his lip when he'd heard Wrench's voice. "Yeah," he finally said, trying to sound cool while he brushed ashes off his jeans and immediately began playing with the newly burned fibers.
"We wanted to let you know that someone dropped off the frame of a Vincent today. Looks like a D-series Shadow. You interested?"
Trevor's heart leaped out of his chest. He knew that feeling, all right -- but he'd never known it to feel so good.
"You might want to take a look before you say yes or no," Hammer said.
"I'll be there as soon as I can be," Trevor said. He'd have to call Mitchell and convince him to put down the guitar long enough to play chauffeur. It shouldn't be hard; Amy was home for a visit and that probably meant she was torturing the big idiot to no end. Not that he didn't deserve it, but Trevor needed a ride more than Mitchell needed what he deserved.
"Think hard, man," Hammer warned. "It may not be what you want, but if you've got the patience, it can be."
That alone was enough for Trevor. Even if it was a piece of steel that had been hammered flat, he wanted the bike.
No one knew better than Trevor Wolff what it was like to need some work. Or what the payoff was once someone who cared showed some patience.
Ahh. Trevor's back; I know you guys have missed him. I have, too.
Not sure what the fuss is about? Click on Trevor's name and it'll take you to his bio page. At the bottom are all sorts of links that will take you back to other posts here at the Meet and Greet that Trevor's starred in. There are a lot, so get a fresh cup of coffee and have fun!
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Poetry Train, Trevor
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Key Lime Pie (Trevor's Song era)
No Thirteen this week, as I'm off to Cub Scout Camp again this summer. As a treat, I thought I'd show you what you guys inspired, based on your responses to this Thirteen I wrote back in May. Hope you like it; there may be more to follow if you do.
Eric didn't notice it until he was on his way back to sound check. He'd just taken a bathroom break that had been long enough to make his tech feel like part of the band instead of the stand-in for the real guitarist. Stupid touring; it got to him like this every few weeks, it seemed. It got to all of them, but he swore, he got it the worst.
He stopped by the deli tray to grab a slice of turkey. That's when he noticed it, sitting on the end of the table like it didn't need to be kept cold or anything.
Mitchell was not going to be happy about it.
Eric wasn't quite out of the dressing room when the rest of the guys pushed through the door.
"Nice of you to come back," Trevor told him with one of his usual sneers. "I thought you were a member of ShapeShifter."
"I didn't really want the guy puking on stage," Mitchell told the bass player. Eric tried to get a feel for the guy's mood. Sometimes, sound check went well and mellowed Mitchell out. Sometimes, it totally sucked and the guy was a dragon. Right now, he was talkative.
"Remember what happened when that one roadie puked?" Mitchell asked. "How fucking bad it smelled? And it lasted until the end of the tour, too. No, Eric, you did the right thing, ducking out on us. We wrote a new song," the band leader said.
Eric smiled wanly and flopped down on the couch. Mitchell was in a good enough mood. Maybe he wouldn't hurt someone when he noticed it.
… or then again, maybe he would, Eric thought when Mitchell growled, "What the fuck is that?"
Eric sat up to look.
Mitchell stood in front of it, breathing so hard, his nostrils flared. "Get someone in here who can explain this," he said.
Since the four of them were alone at the moment, Daniel jumped to do it.
"Just use it for an ashtray," Trevor said, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and reaching to lead by example.
Mitchell strong-armed him out of the way.
"Well, fuck you, too," Trevor said.
"Not until we get some fucking answers," Mitchell growled. He hadn't taken his eyes off it. Eric wasn't sure he would, even though it was pretty obvious the thing wasn't going to move by itself.
Daniel came back. "They're going to find someone," he said and stood on his toes to peek over Mitchell's shoulder, as if he needed to be shielded from it. "At least this one's not green."
Mitchell growled more loudly. Daniel backed off. Even Trevor took a step back.
A few minutes passed with no one really knowing what to do. All four of them kept throwing glances at it, like they expected it to get up and come after them or something. Maybe melt, Eric decided, picking up a can of Coke from a bus tray full of melting ice. If that ice was melting, there was no way the non-green thing was in good shape.
Not like any of them would be dumb enough to eat it.
"There's a problem?" The mousy man who led Charlie, the band's tour manager, into the dressing room had seven strands of hair left at the front of his head. They'd been pulled back into a ponytail and they made the guy instantly memorable.
Charlie peeked over Mitchell's shoulder. "Whoa. That's some bad vibes." He turned to the mousy guy. "That a key lime pie?"
Mousy guy nodded. "My wife made it. She said she read in a magazine that you guys like key lime pies."
From across the room, Eric could hear Mitchell breathing. Hard. He closed his eyes and hoped the guy wasn't about to explode.
"Take it out of here," Mitchell said. It wasn't a request.
"But my wife…"
"Take it!"
"What'll I tell her?" The guy's eyes were darting everywhere, like he was about to panic.
Mitchell picked up the pie and pressed it firmly into the guy's chest. "Tell her you hope it doesn't stain. And tell her she needs to be more careful about what she reads because we fucking hate key lime pie."
He let go. Half the pie fell to the floor. The other half stuck to the guy's shirt.
"Oh," the guy said in such a small voice, it was almost a squeak.
Eric stood up. "Look," he said, "thank your wife for the pie, but explain to her that she read an article written by a reporter who has a problem with us ever since Trevor puked on him after eating a key lime pie that some fan had made."
"But my wife…"
Daniel put a hand on the guy's shoulder, looking with distaste at the custard smeared on his shirt, "Was wrong, and you got off light. We're the band. This pie was a violation of our concert rider and we could pull even more of a prima donna routine and make you very unhappy. You got off light. Hell, Charlie, give the guy a free t-shirt to wear and then call JR. We don't do shows with this joker anymore."
The mousy guy paled. "But…"
Mitchell started to laugh. "You're the promoter and you fucked up this royally? Dude, you're done. Go fucking sell real estate or something." He jerked his head toward the door and Charlie sprang into action, escorting the mousy promoter dude out of the dressing room.
Trevor and Daniel laughed. Even Mitchell relaxed enough to smile.
"The best laid plans…" Eric said and decided that pie or no, he needed to return to the bathroom.
Ahh, yes. Sometimes, it sucks to be in a band. If you're new to ShapeShifter, or if you want to read more, click on the links in each band member's name. That'll take you to that person's bio page. Once you've read the bio and gotten a bit of a background on them, you can follow the links at the bottom to read more of their adventures.
Not sure where to start?
Here are a few of my favorite ShapeShifter adventures on the road:
Backstage Party
Bean Dip #1
Bean Dip #2
Green Hair Week -- The Concert (You may need to read the whole series to really get it, but it's fun.)
If you need me for anything, I'll be back in a few days. The Tour Manager will hold the fort down while I'm gone.
Eric didn't notice it until he was on his way back to sound check. He'd just taken a bathroom break that had been long enough to make his tech feel like part of the band instead of the stand-in for the real guitarist. Stupid touring; it got to him like this every few weeks, it seemed. It got to all of them, but he swore, he got it the worst.
He stopped by the deli tray to grab a slice of turkey. That's when he noticed it, sitting on the end of the table like it didn't need to be kept cold or anything.
Mitchell was not going to be happy about it.
Eric wasn't quite out of the dressing room when the rest of the guys pushed through the door.
"Nice of you to come back," Trevor told him with one of his usual sneers. "I thought you were a member of ShapeShifter."
"I didn't really want the guy puking on stage," Mitchell told the bass player. Eric tried to get a feel for the guy's mood. Sometimes, sound check went well and mellowed Mitchell out. Sometimes, it totally sucked and the guy was a dragon. Right now, he was talkative.
"Remember what happened when that one roadie puked?" Mitchell asked. "How fucking bad it smelled? And it lasted until the end of the tour, too. No, Eric, you did the right thing, ducking out on us. We wrote a new song," the band leader said.
Eric smiled wanly and flopped down on the couch. Mitchell was in a good enough mood. Maybe he wouldn't hurt someone when he noticed it.
… or then again, maybe he would, Eric thought when Mitchell growled, "What the fuck is that?"
Eric sat up to look.
Mitchell stood in front of it, breathing so hard, his nostrils flared. "Get someone in here who can explain this," he said.
Since the four of them were alone at the moment, Daniel jumped to do it.
"Just use it for an ashtray," Trevor said, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and reaching to lead by example.
Mitchell strong-armed him out of the way.
"Well, fuck you, too," Trevor said.
"Not until we get some fucking answers," Mitchell growled. He hadn't taken his eyes off it. Eric wasn't sure he would, even though it was pretty obvious the thing wasn't going to move by itself.
Daniel came back. "They're going to find someone," he said and stood on his toes to peek over Mitchell's shoulder, as if he needed to be shielded from it. "At least this one's not green."
Mitchell growled more loudly. Daniel backed off. Even Trevor took a step back.
A few minutes passed with no one really knowing what to do. All four of them kept throwing glances at it, like they expected it to get up and come after them or something. Maybe melt, Eric decided, picking up a can of Coke from a bus tray full of melting ice. If that ice was melting, there was no way the non-green thing was in good shape.
Not like any of them would be dumb enough to eat it.
"There's a problem?" The mousy man who led Charlie, the band's tour manager, into the dressing room had seven strands of hair left at the front of his head. They'd been pulled back into a ponytail and they made the guy instantly memorable.
Charlie peeked over Mitchell's shoulder. "Whoa. That's some bad vibes." He turned to the mousy guy. "That a key lime pie?"
Mousy guy nodded. "My wife made it. She said she read in a magazine that you guys like key lime pies."
From across the room, Eric could hear Mitchell breathing. Hard. He closed his eyes and hoped the guy wasn't about to explode.
"Take it out of here," Mitchell said. It wasn't a request.
"But my wife…"
"Take it!"
"What'll I tell her?" The guy's eyes were darting everywhere, like he was about to panic.
Mitchell picked up the pie and pressed it firmly into the guy's chest. "Tell her you hope it doesn't stain. And tell her she needs to be more careful about what she reads because we fucking hate key lime pie."
He let go. Half the pie fell to the floor. The other half stuck to the guy's shirt.
"Oh," the guy said in such a small voice, it was almost a squeak.
Eric stood up. "Look," he said, "thank your wife for the pie, but explain to her that she read an article written by a reporter who has a problem with us ever since Trevor puked on him after eating a key lime pie that some fan had made."
"But my wife…"
Daniel put a hand on the guy's shoulder, looking with distaste at the custard smeared on his shirt, "Was wrong, and you got off light. We're the band. This pie was a violation of our concert rider and we could pull even more of a prima donna routine and make you very unhappy. You got off light. Hell, Charlie, give the guy a free t-shirt to wear and then call JR. We don't do shows with this joker anymore."
The mousy guy paled. "But…"
Mitchell started to laugh. "You're the promoter and you fucked up this royally? Dude, you're done. Go fucking sell real estate or something." He jerked his head toward the door and Charlie sprang into action, escorting the mousy promoter dude out of the dressing room.
Trevor and Daniel laughed. Even Mitchell relaxed enough to smile.
"The best laid plans…" Eric said and decided that pie or no, he needed to return to the bathroom.
Ahh, yes. Sometimes, it sucks to be in a band. If you're new to ShapeShifter, or if you want to read more, click on the links in each band member's name. That'll take you to that person's bio page. Once you've read the bio and gotten a bit of a background on them, you can follow the links at the bottom to read more of their adventures.
Not sure where to start?
Here are a few of my favorite ShapeShifter adventures on the road:
Backstage Party
Bean Dip #1
Bean Dip #2
Green Hair Week -- The Concert (You may need to read the whole series to really get it, but it's fun.)
If you need me for anything, I'll be back in a few days. The Tour Manager will hold the fort down while I'm gone.
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, Eric, fiction, fiction outtake, Mitchell, ShapeShifter, touring, Trevor
Sunday, 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
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Byline: Chelle LaFleur -- Deadlines
Lots of you come up to me and try to keep me from leavin' shows when I got to. I try to be nice and all, but boys and girls, Chelle's got a deadline here. If she don't hit that deadline over at The Trumpet, her review don't make the paper. Capiche? And since the whole reason Chelle's got a job is to review bands for The Trumpet, if she don't make her deadlines, she don't get a paycheck.
You heard it first and you heard it here: Let Chelle make like Cinderella and get to the paper on time.
Another attempt at Velvet Verbosity's 100 word challenge! This one wrote itself, but I still like the first one better. If you've never met Chelle before, click on her name and check out her bio page, which includes links to more of her journalistic endeavors.
You heard it first and you heard it here: Let Chelle make like Cinderella and get to the paper on time.
Another attempt at Velvet Verbosity's 100 word challenge! This one wrote itself, but I still like the first one better. If you've never met Chelle before, click on her name and check out her bio page, which includes links to more of her journalistic endeavors.
Labels: Chelle LaFleur, creative writing, fiction, Velvet Verbosity
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
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
