Sunday, May 18, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Daniel's Shoulder (part 2)
If you missed the start of this, you'd better go read it, or this will be little more than nonsense for ya. The first part's short, although not as short as this one. It won't take long. And there's a link to bring you back here.
As he left the dressing room, Mitchell held up a hand at the roadie who'd been sent to escort him to the meet-and-greet. "I need to make a call," he said and turned toward the production office.
Lyric answered almost immediately.
"Daniel's shoulder's bothering him," he said, "so have the bills get sent his way. Oh, and Lyric, he's paying you a thirty-buck per diem."
She laughed. "Thanks, but you didn't need to."
"Hey, I take care of my girls. So go make calls; you might be able to get on Kerri's flight out in the morning."
"Does this mean you'll be paying me a per diem, too, the next time you need me out there?"
"Fuck no."
As he left the dressing room, Mitchell held up a hand at the roadie who'd been sent to escort him to the meet-and-greet. "I need to make a call," he said and turned toward the production office.
Lyric answered almost immediately.
"Daniel's shoulder's bothering him," he said, "so have the bills get sent his way. Oh, and Lyric, he's paying you a thirty-buck per diem."
She laughed. "Thanks, but you didn't need to."
"Hey, I take care of my girls. So go make calls; you might be able to get on Kerri's flight out in the morning."
"Does this mean you'll be paying me a per diem, too, the next time you need me out there?"
"Fuck no."
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Lyric, Mitchell, outtake
Friday, May 16, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Daniel's Shoulder (part 1)
The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is sore/soar. I was going to play with Eric, whose guitar is often said to soar above the rhythm line that Mitchell, Daniel, and Trevor lay down, but I've got a massive migraine and this was hanging around, waiting to be shared. Be sure to check back for the second part.
It was the look on Daniel's face that froze Mitchell, mid-stride. He knew that look on his drummer's face, the left eye slitted, the left side of the mouth poured open so that half the guy's teeth were showing. Even though he didn't have first-hand knowledge of the shoulder pulled to the ear or the hand gently rubbing it, Mitchell knew the pain.
"Need me to call Lyric?"
"Yeah, would you?" Daniel tried to relax his shoulder. And his face. The shoulder went back into place more easily.
Mitchell paused, finally grabbing a chair and turning it backwards so he could lean into it when he sat.
"Can we talk later and you call her now?" Daniel asked. He grimaced and rubbed his shoulder again.
"I'm not the one paying her."
"Oh." The drummer thought a minute. "What's her usual rate?"
"Airfare, hotel room, and a thirty-buck per diem."
"Thirty bucks!"
Mitchell shrugged. "She's gotta eat."
Daniel winced again and dug harder at that sore left shoulder. "Okay, fine. Whatever."
With a nod, Mitchell stood up and went to place the call.
Okay, so you've got to read the next part, which reveals the punchline. Go here for it. You can leave comments here or there. Or both. I love comments.
It was the look on Daniel's face that froze Mitchell, mid-stride. He knew that look on his drummer's face, the left eye slitted, the left side of the mouth poured open so that half the guy's teeth were showing. Even though he didn't have first-hand knowledge of the shoulder pulled to the ear or the hand gently rubbing it, Mitchell knew the pain.
"Need me to call Lyric?"
"Yeah, would you?" Daniel tried to relax his shoulder. And his face. The shoulder went back into place more easily.
Mitchell paused, finally grabbing a chair and turning it backwards so he could lean into it when he sat.
"Can we talk later and you call her now?" Daniel asked. He grimaced and rubbed his shoulder again.
"I'm not the one paying her."
"Oh." The drummer thought a minute. "What's her usual rate?"
"Airfare, hotel room, and a thirty-buck per diem."
"Thirty bucks!"
Mitchell shrugged. "She's gotta eat."
Daniel winced again and dug harder at that sore left shoulder. "Okay, fine. Whatever."
With a nod, Mitchell stood up and went to place the call.
Okay, so you've got to read the next part, which reveals the punchline. Go here for it. You can leave comments here or there. Or both. I love comments.
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, fiction, Lyric, Mitchell, outtake, Sunday Scribblings
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Mother's Day (Post Trevor's Song Era)
Mitchell handed his guitar to Bobby and grabbed the nearest roadie by the shirt collar. "Phone! I need a fucking phone right fucking now!"
The roadie's eyes got huge and he shook a little bit. Might even have peed on himself until Charlie, ShapeShifter's tour manager, came to the rescue. "Just push SEND," he yelled over Eric's guitar solo.
Mitchell let go of the roadie and took the phone from Charlie. It was huge and weighed a ton; one of those new cellular phones. They'd only gotten it for Charlie after things with Trevor had gone so haywire. Mitchell hated it.
But he had to admit it had its uses.
He had no idea what time it was at home. Frankly, he didn't care. He only had another minute or two before he had to go support Eric and lead the band into their next song. There was shit to do after the show, and then it was off travelling to the next town. It was now or never.
"Ma?" he said when she picked up. "Happy Mother's Day."
A little bit of Mother's Day fun for all my fellow moms out there. Hope your day is full of pizza, bicycles and Penguin victories!
The roadie's eyes got huge and he shook a little bit. Might even have peed on himself until Charlie, ShapeShifter's tour manager, came to the rescue. "Just push SEND," he yelled over Eric's guitar solo.
Mitchell let go of the roadie and took the phone from Charlie. It was huge and weighed a ton; one of those new cellular phones. They'd only gotten it for Charlie after things with Trevor had gone so haywire. Mitchell hated it.
But he had to admit it had its uses.
He had no idea what time it was at home. Frankly, he didn't care. He only had another minute or two before he had to go support Eric and lead the band into their next song. There was shit to do after the show, and then it was off travelling to the next town. It was now or never.
"Ma?" he said when she picked up. "Happy Mother's Day."
A little bit of Mother's Day fun for all my fellow moms out there. Hope your day is full of pizza, bicycles and Penguin victories!
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, telephones, touring
Friday, March 21, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Easter Eggs (Trevor's Song era)
"I just don't get it," Eric said. "I've done this for years. Why's it a problem now?"
"Because we're ShapeShifter," Mitchell said with a small shrug, like it was no big deal. But it was.
"We were ShapeShifter before yesterday! What changed?"
Now Mitchell sighed. "The number of records we've sold, the number of people who come to see us every night, the security staff, the type of hotel we stay in… do I really need to keep going?"
"It's called success, wanker," Trevor said, leaning around Mitchell so Eric could see his face.
Eric was privately glad when Mitchell gave the bass player a shove back into place. He understood it, and Mitchell knew that. Lord knew, they'd had these talks often enough. They were starting to be routine -- until the reason for today's talk. There was nothing routine about this, about what had happened.
Worst of all, their manager said if they didn't start being more careful, there would be more of them. They were lucky this was the first time.
He shook his head again. "I just don't get it."
Trevor sighed loudly. "What you don't get," he said, standing up so he could pose and vogue, "is why the band's in trouble over something you did. You're the good one, the one who never creates waves. So now that some chick's pissed that you threw candy into the crowd when she was busy begging her boyfriend to suck her face or something so she wasn't watching you and took one of your stupid candied eggs to the face and now she's making noise about suing us, you're pretending it doesn't make sense. What doesn't make sense is why no one's bothered to see how bad the girl's hurt--"
"JR told us not to try to contact her," Daniel said quickly. "Because she's got her lawyer involved."
"We still ought to know," Trevor insisted. "Did a corner of the wrapper put her eye out? Does she have a bruise she could have gotten when some crowd surfer dropped his foot? Did the stupid chocolate egg make her swallow her own tooth?"
"I don't throw that hard!"
"Maybe you should have," Trevor spit at him.
Mitchell growled. Trevor sat down.
Eric tried to understand what that had been about. It made about as much sense as this girl, who was having a tantrum about being hit in the eye by one of the chocolate Easter eggs he'd thrown into the crowd. He'd been throwing Easter candy for years. He'd done interviews about it. Every single ShapeShifter fan out there knew that for a few shows before Easter, Eric threw chocolate eggs. That was just one of the things ShapeShifter did.
And now this girl, who had been there only to make her boyfriend happy, was having a hissy fit. Trevor was right: she hadn't been watching the band.
"Hey," he said suddenly, "what about that bit about 'Enter at your own risk' that's on the back of every ticket? Is that still there?"
He was met by three dumb looks.
"I'll call JR and ask," Mitchell said after a painfully long minute of silence. "You might be onto something."
"A ticket," Daniel said. "Shit, I'd forgotten all about those things, it's been so long since we've needed them."
"That's because we're ShapeShifter," Trevor said. He tapped a cigarette on its box. "I told you idiots I'd make this band big."
"Yep," Mitchell said, standing up and heading for the hotel phone. "It's all because of you, Trev."
"I hope this doesn't mean the end of my eggs," Eric said.
"It does," Mitchell said. He paused and put the phone down. "Look, it sucks, but is it such a shitty thing to have to give up? Think about it, Eric. Can you give up the eggs if we're getting all this other stuff in return?"
This conversation, too, was starting to have hints of déjà vu to it. They were having to give up going in the front doors of hotels, of being able to move around without a bodyguard shadowing them. Every time someone complained, that was the answer: all this other stuff in return. Our dreams, they're coming true. It's worth it.
They were only chocolate eggs. But that didn't mean he was ready to give them up.
Have you seen the free download yet?
"Because we're ShapeShifter," Mitchell said with a small shrug, like it was no big deal. But it was.
"We were ShapeShifter before yesterday! What changed?"
Now Mitchell sighed. "The number of records we've sold, the number of people who come to see us every night, the security staff, the type of hotel we stay in… do I really need to keep going?"
"It's called success, wanker," Trevor said, leaning around Mitchell so Eric could see his face.
Eric was privately glad when Mitchell gave the bass player a shove back into place. He understood it, and Mitchell knew that. Lord knew, they'd had these talks often enough. They were starting to be routine -- until the reason for today's talk. There was nothing routine about this, about what had happened.
Worst of all, their manager said if they didn't start being more careful, there would be more of them. They were lucky this was the first time.
He shook his head again. "I just don't get it."
Trevor sighed loudly. "What you don't get," he said, standing up so he could pose and vogue, "is why the band's in trouble over something you did. You're the good one, the one who never creates waves. So now that some chick's pissed that you threw candy into the crowd when she was busy begging her boyfriend to suck her face or something so she wasn't watching you and took one of your stupid candied eggs to the face and now she's making noise about suing us, you're pretending it doesn't make sense. What doesn't make sense is why no one's bothered to see how bad the girl's hurt--"
"JR told us not to try to contact her," Daniel said quickly. "Because she's got her lawyer involved."
"We still ought to know," Trevor insisted. "Did a corner of the wrapper put her eye out? Does she have a bruise she could have gotten when some crowd surfer dropped his foot? Did the stupid chocolate egg make her swallow her own tooth?"
"I don't throw that hard!"
"Maybe you should have," Trevor spit at him.
Mitchell growled. Trevor sat down.
Eric tried to understand what that had been about. It made about as much sense as this girl, who was having a tantrum about being hit in the eye by one of the chocolate Easter eggs he'd thrown into the crowd. He'd been throwing Easter candy for years. He'd done interviews about it. Every single ShapeShifter fan out there knew that for a few shows before Easter, Eric threw chocolate eggs. That was just one of the things ShapeShifter did.
And now this girl, who had been there only to make her boyfriend happy, was having a hissy fit. Trevor was right: she hadn't been watching the band.
"Hey," he said suddenly, "what about that bit about 'Enter at your own risk' that's on the back of every ticket? Is that still there?"
He was met by three dumb looks.
"I'll call JR and ask," Mitchell said after a painfully long minute of silence. "You might be onto something."
"A ticket," Daniel said. "Shit, I'd forgotten all about those things, it's been so long since we've needed them."
"That's because we're ShapeShifter," Trevor said. He tapped a cigarette on its box. "I told you idiots I'd make this band big."
"Yep," Mitchell said, standing up and heading for the hotel phone. "It's all because of you, Trev."
"I hope this doesn't mean the end of my eggs," Eric said.
"It does," Mitchell said. He paused and put the phone down. "Look, it sucks, but is it such a shitty thing to have to give up? Think about it, Eric. Can you give up the eggs if we're getting all this other stuff in return?"
This conversation, too, was starting to have hints of déjà vu to it. They were having to give up going in the front doors of hotels, of being able to move around without a bodyguard shadowing them. Every time someone complained, that was the answer: all this other stuff in return. Our dreams, they're coming true. It's worth it.
They were only chocolate eggs. But that didn't mean he was ready to give them up.
Have you seen the free download yet?
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, Eric, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, ShapeShifter, touring, Trevor
Friday, March 14, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Baking Cookies (The Early Years)
Mitchell stopped at the top of the steps and sniffed, then inhaled as deeply -- and as quietly -- as he could. "Something smells," he said, wrinkling his nose and pretending the reek was bad. He even waved his hand in front of his face as he leaned forward so he could see Amy and Beth on the family room couch -- and so they could see him.
"That's why you're supposed to say excuse me when you fart, Pipsqueak!"
"Oh. Sorry," Mitchell said and shut his bedroom door behind him. He didn't have to hear Amy's laugh to know it was following him. She thought she was so funny.
"When's the cookie raid?" Trevor asked.
"Give it an hour," Mitchell said and reached for his guitar. "Don't want to strike too soon or they'll just eat what's left of the dough again and we won't get shit."
"We'll get to lick the bowl."
"Not last time, we didn't. Trust me, Trev. We lay low, we get the goods."
Trevor stood up and was out of the room before Mitchell could stop him.
"Bring me three!" Mitchell called after him, chuckling. He'd gotten them all that time.
"That's why you're supposed to say excuse me when you fart, Pipsqueak!"
"Oh. Sorry," Mitchell said and shut his bedroom door behind him. He didn't have to hear Amy's laugh to know it was following him. She thought she was so funny.
"When's the cookie raid?" Trevor asked.
"Give it an hour," Mitchell said and reached for his guitar. "Don't want to strike too soon or they'll just eat what's left of the dough again and we won't get shit."
"We'll get to lick the bowl."
"Not last time, we didn't. Trust me, Trev. We lay low, we get the goods."
Trevor stood up and was out of the room before Mitchell could stop him.
"Bring me three!" Mitchell called after him, chuckling. He'd gotten them all that time.
Labels: Amy, brotherly love, creative writing, fiction, food, Mitchell, outtake, Trevor
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Val's Cake (Trevor's Song era... or beyond)
"Okay, Val! Let's see it!" Daniel called when he got home from practice, not that he'd had far to go, since the practice space was in their back yard.
She tried not to panic. "Are you alone?"
"I promised you I would be," he said. As if that meant anything; Trevor and Mitchell would ignore promises Daniel made her. They didn't care. Worst of all, they'd look at this disaster she'd made and laugh. This was one of those things they'd never let her live down.
Val looked out the window, just to be safe. Both Mitchell's Bronco and Trevor's ugly-assed motorcycle were gone. Not that letting Daniel near it would be any easier.
"Let's see it," Daniel said again as he entered the kitchen.
Val burst into tears.
The cake had been supposed to look like a Southern Plantation -- the sort of place that Val wanted to marry Daniel in, if getting married was ever something that seemed the right thing to do. But the end result hardly looked like the idyllic setting for a romantic wedding between two people who'd been together for so long, they didn't know what it was like to be apart.
"Well," Daniel said, folding his arms across his chest and cupping his elbows with his fingers. "We could always throw it in a bowl, pour some rum over it, throw in some whipped cream, and … what else do we do to your other cakes?"
"I wanted this one to be great!" she wailed.
Daniel turned his back on the cake just as the front porch finished sagging. It fell lazily to the side, right on top of what was supposed to have been some sort of shrub. He held Val by the waist, not pulling her too close.
"What's great," he said, "is that you tried." Very slowly and deliberately, he kissed the tip of her nose. "We both know that dessert is the one area you may never master. But you tried it anyway, and it'll taste just fine." He pulled back a bit and eyed her. "Won't it?"
She shrugged.
With another kiss, this time on her lips, Daniel sent her off so he could turn the mess into something edible. Val knew that once he had, he'd proclaim it a shame to not share, and while Val was working up menus, he'd call Mitchell and Kerri and invite them over for dinner.
Best of all, there'd be nothing for anyone to make fun of. Maybe the whole thing could be forgotten. Maybe she'd learn and not bother with any dessert more ambitious than chocolate chip cookies.
But most probably, she'd try again.
This was inspired by this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: Experimenting. For more Val, check out Soy Sauce, Beached Whales, and Val's Tantrum. Oh, and Smoke Break. How could I forget Smoke Break?
Don't forget to ride the Poetry Train!
She tried not to panic. "Are you alone?"
"I promised you I would be," he said. As if that meant anything; Trevor and Mitchell would ignore promises Daniel made her. They didn't care. Worst of all, they'd look at this disaster she'd made and laugh. This was one of those things they'd never let her live down.
Val looked out the window, just to be safe. Both Mitchell's Bronco and Trevor's ugly-assed motorcycle were gone. Not that letting Daniel near it would be any easier.
"Let's see it," Daniel said again as he entered the kitchen.
Val burst into tears.
The cake had been supposed to look like a Southern Plantation -- the sort of place that Val wanted to marry Daniel in, if getting married was ever something that seemed the right thing to do. But the end result hardly looked like the idyllic setting for a romantic wedding between two people who'd been together for so long, they didn't know what it was like to be apart.
"Well," Daniel said, folding his arms across his chest and cupping his elbows with his fingers. "We could always throw it in a bowl, pour some rum over it, throw in some whipped cream, and … what else do we do to your other cakes?"
"I wanted this one to be great!" she wailed.
Daniel turned his back on the cake just as the front porch finished sagging. It fell lazily to the side, right on top of what was supposed to have been some sort of shrub. He held Val by the waist, not pulling her too close.
"What's great," he said, "is that you tried." Very slowly and deliberately, he kissed the tip of her nose. "We both know that dessert is the one area you may never master. But you tried it anyway, and it'll taste just fine." He pulled back a bit and eyed her. "Won't it?"
She shrugged.
With another kiss, this time on her lips, Daniel sent her off so he could turn the mess into something edible. Val knew that once he had, he'd proclaim it a shame to not share, and while Val was working up menus, he'd call Mitchell and Kerri and invite them over for dinner.
Best of all, there'd be nothing for anyone to make fun of. Maybe the whole thing could be forgotten. Maybe she'd learn and not bother with any dessert more ambitious than chocolate chip cookies.
But most probably, she'd try again.
This was inspired by this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: Experimenting. For more Val, check out Soy Sauce, Beached Whales, and Val's Tantrum. Oh, and Smoke Break. How could I forget Smoke Break?
Don't forget to ride the Poetry Train!
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, fiction, food, outtake, Poetry Train, Val
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Leaving (Pre-Trevor's Song Era)
"The problem," Kerri said, pausing to catch her breath and glare at her brother, "is that she wants me to be Cinderella. But I'm nobody's servant!"
"Maybe there's a way…"
"No, Stevie. Do you hear me? No." She pulled her favorite Steelers sweatshirt off the hanger and folded it carefully, hugging it to her chest. Maybe when she returned, she'd have the upper hand. She'd have some sort of power over that woman, and she wouldn't have to spend all her time and energy fucking around, the way things had always been, up to this point.
Maybe she'd even be spoken to in a civil manner, just like that woman always insisted on. "What goes around comes around," Kerri thought as she stuffed the sweatshirt into her bag, refusing to care when it came unfolded. Everything else had come undone. That's why she was packing.
It was hard to believe she was thinking so clearly. She hadn't been when she and Jason had been interrupted, down in his basement. Then again, it was hard to think clearly when your clothes were off and your legs were wrapped around someone's waist and all your thoughts were about how you wished the rubber would stop finding all the dry spots -- and then suddenly, there she was, face blank, mouth open like fresh roadkill. As if Kerri could have possibly gotten that lucky. That woman would never be roadkill. She was too fucking mean to die.
Amazing what an hour could do. Kerri had the bus schedule to Riverview, had her duffle bag already full of the things she couldn't leave behind, and was ready to start in on the things she'd want Stevie to send her later on. The rest…
It would probably get thrown out. Kerri knew that, but owning up to that fact wasn't so easy.
Yet that was how it was with her. Really, Cinderella wasn't a stretch, except there was no step to this mother. There weren't step-sisters, either, who were her rivals. Nope, this was all about Mom and daughter. Not even adopted daughter. Born of the woman who hated her.
Getting out of town would be a relief.
Kerri fantasized about it for a minute. Her own place. All the art she wanted, and classes to make her better. A job, sure, but jobs weren't so bad. It sort of sucked that she had to leave the garden center now instead of at the end of summer like she'd planned, but these things happened. Maybe she'd even find someone better than Jason, which wouldn't be too hard since she was pretty much only with Jason for the sex.
"What time do we have to leave?"
Kerri glanced at the door to her bedroom. "The sooner, the better. You know Dad'll start in soon."
"Yeah, but …"
Kerri arched an eyebrow at him and reached for her alarm clock.
"He's not as mean," Stevie said, ducking his chin to his chest and mumbling. Like this was something he had to be ashamed of.
Well, Kerri thought, not anymore. She was eighteen, she had a partial scholarship to the art school of her choice, and she had enough cash to take a bus to Riverview and find a place to live. A place where she'd be left alone.
A place where she'd finally be able to do something right, for the first time in her life.
****
This is our first look at Kerri before she moved to Riverview and before she met Mitchell, which happened years after the move. Already, she's very much the woman she becomes.
Once again, this is my Poetry Train and Weekend Wordsmith rolled into one. Good thing the Poetry Train has no rules; I'd go nuts.
At any rate, this was partially inspired by the Wordsmith prompt, but also partially by the discussion we've been having in the comment trail in my BTT: Heroine post, about strong women. I'm still working on ideas of how we can band together, girls. If you've got any, drop me a line.
"Maybe there's a way…"
"No, Stevie. Do you hear me? No." She pulled her favorite Steelers sweatshirt off the hanger and folded it carefully, hugging it to her chest. Maybe when she returned, she'd have the upper hand. She'd have some sort of power over that woman, and she wouldn't have to spend all her time and energy fucking around, the way things had always been, up to this point.
Maybe she'd even be spoken to in a civil manner, just like that woman always insisted on. "What goes around comes around," Kerri thought as she stuffed the sweatshirt into her bag, refusing to care when it came unfolded. Everything else had come undone. That's why she was packing.
It was hard to believe she was thinking so clearly. She hadn't been when she and Jason had been interrupted, down in his basement. Then again, it was hard to think clearly when your clothes were off and your legs were wrapped around someone's waist and all your thoughts were about how you wished the rubber would stop finding all the dry spots -- and then suddenly, there she was, face blank, mouth open like fresh roadkill. As if Kerri could have possibly gotten that lucky. That woman would never be roadkill. She was too fucking mean to die.
Amazing what an hour could do. Kerri had the bus schedule to Riverview, had her duffle bag already full of the things she couldn't leave behind, and was ready to start in on the things she'd want Stevie to send her later on. The rest…
It would probably get thrown out. Kerri knew that, but owning up to that fact wasn't so easy.
Yet that was how it was with her. Really, Cinderella wasn't a stretch, except there was no step to this mother. There weren't step-sisters, either, who were her rivals. Nope, this was all about Mom and daughter. Not even adopted daughter. Born of the woman who hated her.
Getting out of town would be a relief.
Kerri fantasized about it for a minute. Her own place. All the art she wanted, and classes to make her better. A job, sure, but jobs weren't so bad. It sort of sucked that she had to leave the garden center now instead of at the end of summer like she'd planned, but these things happened. Maybe she'd even find someone better than Jason, which wouldn't be too hard since she was pretty much only with Jason for the sex.
"What time do we have to leave?"
Kerri glanced at the door to her bedroom. "The sooner, the better. You know Dad'll start in soon."
"Yeah, but …"
Kerri arched an eyebrow at him and reached for her alarm clock.
"He's not as mean," Stevie said, ducking his chin to his chest and mumbling. Like this was something he had to be ashamed of.
Well, Kerri thought, not anymore. She was eighteen, she had a partial scholarship to the art school of her choice, and she had enough cash to take a bus to Riverview and find a place to live. A place where she'd be left alone.
A place where she'd finally be able to do something right, for the first time in her life.
****
This is our first look at Kerri before she moved to Riverview and before she met Mitchell, which happened years after the move. Already, she's very much the woman she becomes.
Once again, this is my Poetry Train and Weekend Wordsmith rolled into one. Good thing the Poetry Train has no rules; I'd go nuts.
At any rate, this was partially inspired by the Wordsmith prompt, but also partially by the discussion we've been having in the comment trail in my BTT: Heroine post, about strong women. I'm still working on ideas of how we can band together, girls. If you've got any, drop me a line.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Kerri, outtake, Poetry Train, Weekend Wordsmith
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Pam's Perfume
This post is R-rated!! Come back later if you're under 18, please!
So we're there in my bed, me and Trevor Wolff, and he sniffs the back of my knee. I die; it's like being touched with that feather he likes so much.
"What the fuck is this?" he asks, sitting back on his heels and giving me this look like I've totally let him down or something. It's almost enough to ruin the whole moment or something.
I prop myself up on my elbows and stare at him. I have no idea what's wrong.
"You girls are supposed to go all weak at the knees," he says. He's pouting and it's cute.
"Oh, I am," I tell him. I can barely get the words out, in fact.
"Yeah, well, you smell like flowers back there. What the fuck's that about?"
I shrug. Come on. The guy's got to know about perfumes and body sprays. It's not like I'm the first girl he's ever met.
"You really think it's a turn-on?" he asks.
"It turns me on," I tell him, shimmying a bit so the girls shake. My leg, still propped up on his shoulder, does too. It rubs against his ear and he shakes his head like it's annoyed him.
He gets annoyed way too easy.
"And what turns you on should turn me on?" he asks and turns away, holding my leg as he lets it down. I'm bummed; this probably means the end of it, but he lights up and turns back. "I hate to break it to you girls, but us guys like you girls to smell like you. Yeah, that natural smell you're always trying to cover up. Now that, that is a turn-on." He nods like it's all settled and I've learned my lesson and won't ever put perfume behind my knees again.
"It's a horrid smell," I tell him, and he grins.
And I'm not going to tell you what happened next, but it was proof that he didn't mind the perfume so much.
As for wearing it next time… well, catching up with him tonight wasn't exactly planned, and I'm not dumb enough to change the way I live my life for him.
For Mitchell, maybe I would, yeah. But not for Trevor.
This weekend's Weekend Wordsmith prompt was the unneeded puzzle piece. This seemed to fit -- at least in my little brain.
Want more of Pam? Forgotten who she is? Click on this link and it'll take you to her bio page and links to other, older posts.
No Sunday Best this week. Sorry for that; I was too busy with the family. And the agent hunting. And the writing. And the...
So we're there in my bed, me and Trevor Wolff, and he sniffs the back of my knee. I die; it's like being touched with that feather he likes so much.
"What the fuck is this?" he asks, sitting back on his heels and giving me this look like I've totally let him down or something. It's almost enough to ruin the whole moment or something.
I prop myself up on my elbows and stare at him. I have no idea what's wrong.
"You girls are supposed to go all weak at the knees," he says. He's pouting and it's cute.
"Oh, I am," I tell him. I can barely get the words out, in fact.
"Yeah, well, you smell like flowers back there. What the fuck's that about?"
I shrug. Come on. The guy's got to know about perfumes and body sprays. It's not like I'm the first girl he's ever met.
"You really think it's a turn-on?" he asks.
"It turns me on," I tell him, shimmying a bit so the girls shake. My leg, still propped up on his shoulder, does too. It rubs against his ear and he shakes his head like it's annoyed him.
He gets annoyed way too easy.
"And what turns you on should turn me on?" he asks and turns away, holding my leg as he lets it down. I'm bummed; this probably means the end of it, but he lights up and turns back. "I hate to break it to you girls, but us guys like you girls to smell like you. Yeah, that natural smell you're always trying to cover up. Now that, that is a turn-on." He nods like it's all settled and I've learned my lesson and won't ever put perfume behind my knees again.
"It's a horrid smell," I tell him, and he grins.
And I'm not going to tell you what happened next, but it was proof that he didn't mind the perfume so much.
As for wearing it next time… well, catching up with him tonight wasn't exactly planned, and I'm not dumb enough to change the way I live my life for him.
For Mitchell, maybe I would, yeah. But not for Trevor.
This weekend's Weekend Wordsmith prompt was the unneeded puzzle piece. This seemed to fit -- at least in my little brain.
Want more of Pam? Forgotten who she is? Click on this link and it'll take you to her bio page and links to other, older posts.
No Sunday Best this week. Sorry for that; I was too busy with the family. And the agent hunting. And the writing. And the...
Labels: creative writing, fiction, outtake, Pam, Poetry Train, Trevor, Weekend Wordsmith
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Time Travel? (The Trevor's Song Era)
The movie ended. The band and Kerri sat, unmoving, staring at the tiny screen as the credits rolled into black.
"Wow," Daniel said at last.
"No shit." Mitchell dropped the handful of Kerri's hair he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "That was … some intense shit."
"So," Eric said from his spot down by Mitchell and Kerri's feet, "if you could travel through time, where would you go?" He stood up and fiddled with the TV suspended over Trevor.
"I'd go be the famous Daniel. Daniel in the Lion's Den."
Mitchell tipped his head backwards, trying to see the drummer. The only thing in view was the roof of the bus. "Didn't he die or something?"
"Eventually, yeah, but who cares? The story's immortal," Daniel said before Eric could jump in and correct things. Or, worse, preach.
"So's ShapeShifter."
Eric cocked his head like he had to consider that. "But Daniel's story was worthy of immortality because he was pious. Why are we worthy of immortality?"
"Because we're ShapeShifter," Mitchell said. Like they needed to ask?
"Time travel, M," Kerri said. "Where would you go?"
He didn't need to think about it. "I'd go work with Les Paul in the early days. I'd be a guitar master."
"Some say you already are," she said.
"Yeah, but I'd be more of one. I'd be more than just a player."
She looked at him and rolled her eyes.
"Me, I'd go back and meet Jesus," Eric said.
Mitchell hoped no one would ask the guitarist to elaborate. Every now and then, the guy went on these religious tears; clearly, the movie had awoken a new one in him. He'd have to make sure their copy of the flick disappeared somewhere. Maybe some fan would want it.
"What about you, Rusty?" the supposedly-sleeping Trevor asked. "Want to go back and be the hot, passionate woman who made Van Gogh cut his ear off? Want to inspire someone to do something even dumber?"
"Do you have any idea," Kerri started, vibrating with a sudden passion that Mitchell hadn't expected, "how women artists were treated back then? If -- and that's a huge if -- they were allowed to paint, they were outcasts. Usually, they were told to forget about any ambitions they had for themselves. Go be a wife, they were told. Have babies. Run a house. Be invisible."
Mitchell grabbed at her as she stood. He wasn't sure which was worse, a religious sermon from Eric or a rant from his wife.
"So what the fuck do you think I'd gain from going back in time?" Kerri shrugged off Mitchell's hands and stepped away, closer to Trevor. Who still hadn't opened his eyes or moved. "Do you really think I'm dumb enough to think that this isn't the best time in world history to be a woman? Do you really think I'd trade in everything I've got for that?"
"For a day?" Eric said. "Just one day, Kerri, and then you could come back."
"I'm not going to work with Les Paul for just one day!"
"Mitchell, please. And no, Eric, I wouldn't, and don't start in on that bit about how I'll better appreciate the here and now. I appreciate it plenty, believe me."
"Funny," Trevor said. "I thought you only appreciated Mitchell."
Kerri left the front lounge at about the same instant that Mitchell lunged for Trevor. There'd be no sleeping for the bass player for awhile yet. Which was, of course, why Trevor had put on the whole sleep show in the first place.
But it didn't change the outcome.
How many prompts can one piece of fiction cover? We've got Sunday Scribblings, Writer's Island and, of course, Rhian's Poetry Train. No Weekend Wordsmith this week; the prompt wasn't for me.
"Wow," Daniel said at last.
"No shit." Mitchell dropped the handful of Kerri's hair he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "That was … some intense shit."
"So," Eric said from his spot down by Mitchell and Kerri's feet, "if you could travel through time, where would you go?" He stood up and fiddled with the TV suspended over Trevor.
"I'd go be the famous Daniel. Daniel in the Lion's Den."
Mitchell tipped his head backwards, trying to see the drummer. The only thing in view was the roof of the bus. "Didn't he die or something?"
"Eventually, yeah, but who cares? The story's immortal," Daniel said before Eric could jump in and correct things. Or, worse, preach.
"So's ShapeShifter."
Eric cocked his head like he had to consider that. "But Daniel's story was worthy of immortality because he was pious. Why are we worthy of immortality?"
"Because we're ShapeShifter," Mitchell said. Like they needed to ask?
"Time travel, M," Kerri said. "Where would you go?"
He didn't need to think about it. "I'd go work with Les Paul in the early days. I'd be a guitar master."
"Some say you already are," she said.
"Yeah, but I'd be more of one. I'd be more than just a player."
She looked at him and rolled her eyes.
"Me, I'd go back and meet Jesus," Eric said.
Mitchell hoped no one would ask the guitarist to elaborate. Every now and then, the guy went on these religious tears; clearly, the movie had awoken a new one in him. He'd have to make sure their copy of the flick disappeared somewhere. Maybe some fan would want it.
"What about you, Rusty?" the supposedly-sleeping Trevor asked. "Want to go back and be the hot, passionate woman who made Van Gogh cut his ear off? Want to inspire someone to do something even dumber?"
"Do you have any idea," Kerri started, vibrating with a sudden passion that Mitchell hadn't expected, "how women artists were treated back then? If -- and that's a huge if -- they were allowed to paint, they were outcasts. Usually, they were told to forget about any ambitions they had for themselves. Go be a wife, they were told. Have babies. Run a house. Be invisible."
Mitchell grabbed at her as she stood. He wasn't sure which was worse, a religious sermon from Eric or a rant from his wife.
"So what the fuck do you think I'd gain from going back in time?" Kerri shrugged off Mitchell's hands and stepped away, closer to Trevor. Who still hadn't opened his eyes or moved. "Do you really think I'm dumb enough to think that this isn't the best time in world history to be a woman? Do you really think I'd trade in everything I've got for that?"
"For a day?" Eric said. "Just one day, Kerri, and then you could come back."
"I'm not going to work with Les Paul for just one day!"
"Mitchell, please. And no, Eric, I wouldn't, and don't start in on that bit about how I'll better appreciate the here and now. I appreciate it plenty, believe me."
"Funny," Trevor said. "I thought you only appreciated Mitchell."
Kerri left the front lounge at about the same instant that Mitchell lunged for Trevor. There'd be no sleeping for the bass player for awhile yet. Which was, of course, why Trevor had put on the whole sleep show in the first place.
But it didn't change the outcome.
How many prompts can one piece of fiction cover? We've got Sunday Scribblings, Writer's Island and, of course, Rhian's Poetry Train. No Weekend Wordsmith this week; the prompt wasn't for me.
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, Eric, fiction, Kerri, Mitchell, outtake, Poetry Train, ShapeShifter, touring, Trevor
Monday, February 11, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Hot
I don't know how many of you guys read Edittorrent and their neat blog. All you writers, you should be.
But anyway, someone other than me offered up the first three lines of a manuscript for their comments and a discussion ensued. A question arose: how can you create heat visually? Short of just posting a picture of Mitchell, this is what I wound up with. While it doesn't fully answer the question, I like it. Hope you do, too.
Mitchell slid his sunglasses into place and waited for Charlie's nod. The first car had left without him and Daniel when Charlie had decided to play Papa Tour Manager and order them back upstairs to change into shorts. Now, they were stuck waiting for a lift.
The same car pulled up, easily recognizable by its sun-faded red, and Mitchell went outside first, understanding immediately why Daniel kept dawdling. It was like walking into a wall of heat, a studded one that attacked every pore on his face so that they constricted, more parched than the worst hangover. He was suddenly all too aware of every single last eyebrow hair -- including the ones the makeup people had waxed off three weeks ago for that damn photo shoot. And he swore the cleft in his chin got deeper as it, too, sought the shade of his sunglasses.
His arms were instantly slick with sweat that didn't cool, the small of his back turned into a puddle, and his legs tried doing the same shrinking thing as his face. His lips felt like dried-out glue: fragile, brittle, and broken.
All in the two steps it took to get into the car's front seat.
"Holy fuck," he said, leaning toward the vent and adjusting it so it blew directly on his face. He gasped at its nominal coolness, alerted to the fact that he hadn't been able to breathe at all while out there. "You live here?" he asked the driver, lifting his sunglasses so they'd stop sliding away. Fuckers just might dangle from his ears if he wasn't careful.
Daniel and Charlie slid into the back seat. Daniel pulled a ponytail holder out of his pocket and peeled his curls away from his face.
"M, want one?"
Mitchell slid his hand underneath his hair and encountered a swamp. It wasn't a bad idea, but who knew who'd see him? No one had ever seen him with his hair off his face. Maybe Kerri, but if she did, she was the one who'd shoved it away.
"I think I want to be in Europe already," Mitchell said, leaning away from the air and angling it more toward the back seat. "We are idiots for touring the States in the summer."
"We'll be there in two weeks."
"If we don't fucking melt first."
"Is it supposed to cool off by showtime?" Daniel asked.
Mitchell reached for his lip balm and looked over his shoulder at Charlie. Who was squirming.
It was going to be a brutal show, Mitchell thought. One of those nights where he took the stage in shoes, shorts, and guitar and spent most of the two hours wishing he could take even more off. At least he'd be slick with sweat and his skin wouldn't try to shrivel up again. That had sucked.
And they still had to get out of the car and into the backstage area.
Talk about things that sucked.
But anyway, someone other than me offered up the first three lines of a manuscript for their comments and a discussion ensued. A question arose: how can you create heat visually? Short of just posting a picture of Mitchell, this is what I wound up with. While it doesn't fully answer the question, I like it. Hope you do, too.
Mitchell slid his sunglasses into place and waited for Charlie's nod. The first car had left without him and Daniel when Charlie had decided to play Papa Tour Manager and order them back upstairs to change into shorts. Now, they were stuck waiting for a lift.
The same car pulled up, easily recognizable by its sun-faded red, and Mitchell went outside first, understanding immediately why Daniel kept dawdling. It was like walking into a wall of heat, a studded one that attacked every pore on his face so that they constricted, more parched than the worst hangover. He was suddenly all too aware of every single last eyebrow hair -- including the ones the makeup people had waxed off three weeks ago for that damn photo shoot. And he swore the cleft in his chin got deeper as it, too, sought the shade of his sunglasses.
His arms were instantly slick with sweat that didn't cool, the small of his back turned into a puddle, and his legs tried doing the same shrinking thing as his face. His lips felt like dried-out glue: fragile, brittle, and broken.
All in the two steps it took to get into the car's front seat.
"Holy fuck," he said, leaning toward the vent and adjusting it so it blew directly on his face. He gasped at its nominal coolness, alerted to the fact that he hadn't been able to breathe at all while out there. "You live here?" he asked the driver, lifting his sunglasses so they'd stop sliding away. Fuckers just might dangle from his ears if he wasn't careful.
Daniel and Charlie slid into the back seat. Daniel pulled a ponytail holder out of his pocket and peeled his curls away from his face.
"M, want one?"
Mitchell slid his hand underneath his hair and encountered a swamp. It wasn't a bad idea, but who knew who'd see him? No one had ever seen him with his hair off his face. Maybe Kerri, but if she did, she was the one who'd shoved it away.
"I think I want to be in Europe already," Mitchell said, leaning away from the air and angling it more toward the back seat. "We are idiots for touring the States in the summer."
"We'll be there in two weeks."
"If we don't fucking melt first."
"Is it supposed to cool off by showtime?" Daniel asked.
Mitchell reached for his lip balm and looked over his shoulder at Charlie. Who was squirming.
It was going to be a brutal show, Mitchell thought. One of those nights where he took the stage in shoes, shorts, and guitar and spent most of the two hours wishing he could take even more off. At least he'd be slick with sweat and his skin wouldn't try to shrivel up again. That had sucked.
And they still had to get out of the car and into the backstage area.
Talk about things that sucked.
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, touring
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Chicken Scratch (the Early Years)
Another one inspired by the Weekend Wordsmith prompt, and posted in time for the Poetry Train. As always, if you're new here and need some background about who is who, click on the names the first time they appear and you'll be magically transported to a bio page. Just don't forget to come back!
Mitchell was whistling when he got home after his guitar lesson; whistling was better than dancing, even though that's more what he felt like. Since he'd graduated from lessons with Randy, things had been a million times better. Now when he and Trevor hung out down by the river and dreamed of making it big, he believed they'd get there, all right.
He stopped in the kitchen, snagged the bag of potato chips sitting on the kitchen table, kissed Ma on the cheek, and headed upstairs.
Ma called after him, "Get your homework done!"
"That's where I'm going!" He put his back to the door, tenderly put the bag of potato chips under his arm, and shoved against the broken latch.
He turned around, stopped whistling, and dropped both his guitar and the potato chips.
Trevor was sitting at Mitchell's desk. Well, it was supposed to be their desk now that they shared the room, but Trevor refused to use it. Something about being too cool for desks and homework and if the jackasses at school didn't agree, they could throw him out already and save them all the daily hassle of chasing him out of the john when he needed a smoke.
"What'd Ma bribe you with?" Mitchell asked, lunging for his guitar. It didn't matter that he had it in a hard case, it still might have been damaged.
"Nothing," Trevor said and held up Mitchell's civics notebook. The page was covered in what looked like chicken scratch.
Mitchell set the guitar gently down on his bed and went for a closer look at Trevor's masterpiece. It looked even more like chicken scratch. He told Trevor so.
"Good."
"Good?" Mitchell handed the notebook back and turned to his guitar, determined he'd actually look it over this time. No more distractions.
"Yes, good," Trevor said with that sniff Mitchell knew all too well. "Have you seen one single rock star with an autograph you can make out?"
Mitchell didn't bother to answer. No more distractions, he reminded himself.
"Of course you haven't," Trevor half-yelled, jumping to his feet and tipping the chair over backwards. "There aren't any! And I'll be damned if I'll be the first."
"Why not? After all," Mitchell added with a sniff that mocked the ones Trevor handed out so freely, "you're Trevor Fucking Wolff. You can't be like everyone else."
"Well, this time, I can be." Trevor hugged the notebook to his chest. "Do you know how long it took me to write this messy? Fucking hours."
Mitchell looked up from the guitar. "Shoulda spent that on your bass. You might actually get good."
Trevor sneered and fixed the chair. "Here, golden boy," he said. "Maybe I'll go work on that." He stalked out of the room, trying to slam it shut as he went. Between the broken latch and the fix Mitchell's dad had put on it, the door just bounced back open.
In the hallway, Trevor kicked the wall. Ma yelled at him for it.
Whatever, Mitchell figured, so long as he had the desk back so he could get his homework done -- once he was sure the guitar was okay. Trevor might not get any better on bass, so it was up to him to carry them both.
Maybe later, Trevor would show him ways to change his own autograph. Make it cooler. Which meant harder to read.
Chicken scratch, the handwriting of the rock star.
Mitchell grinned. That had a good ring to it.
Eeek. This is major rough draft. But it's an outtake and that's the idea. One day, I'll clean these puppies up and let you take them home and sleep with them. Just don't call them George.
Mitchell was whistling when he got home after his guitar lesson; whistling was better than dancing, even though that's more what he felt like. Since he'd graduated from lessons with Randy, things had been a million times better. Now when he and Trevor hung out down by the river and dreamed of making it big, he believed they'd get there, all right.
He stopped in the kitchen, snagged the bag of potato chips sitting on the kitchen table, kissed Ma on the cheek, and headed upstairs.
Ma called after him, "Get your homework done!"
"That's where I'm going!" He put his back to the door, tenderly put the bag of potato chips under his arm, and shoved against the broken latch.
He turned around, stopped whistling, and dropped both his guitar and the potato chips.
Trevor was sitting at Mitchell's desk. Well, it was supposed to be their desk now that they shared the room, but Trevor refused to use it. Something about being too cool for desks and homework and if the jackasses at school didn't agree, they could throw him out already and save them all the daily hassle of chasing him out of the john when he needed a smoke.
"What'd Ma bribe you with?" Mitchell asked, lunging for his guitar. It didn't matter that he had it in a hard case, it still might have been damaged.
"Nothing," Trevor said and held up Mitchell's civics notebook. The page was covered in what looked like chicken scratch.
Mitchell set the guitar gently down on his bed and went for a closer look at Trevor's masterpiece. It looked even more like chicken scratch. He told Trevor so.
"Good."
"Good?" Mitchell handed the notebook back and turned to his guitar, determined he'd actually look it over this time. No more distractions.
"Yes, good," Trevor said with that sniff Mitchell knew all too well. "Have you seen one single rock star with an autograph you can make out?"
Mitchell didn't bother to answer. No more distractions, he reminded himself.
"Of course you haven't," Trevor half-yelled, jumping to his feet and tipping the chair over backwards. "There aren't any! And I'll be damned if I'll be the first."
"Why not? After all," Mitchell added with a sniff that mocked the ones Trevor handed out so freely, "you're Trevor Fucking Wolff. You can't be like everyone else."
"Well, this time, I can be." Trevor hugged the notebook to his chest. "Do you know how long it took me to write this messy? Fucking hours."
Mitchell looked up from the guitar. "Shoulda spent that on your bass. You might actually get good."
Trevor sneered and fixed the chair. "Here, golden boy," he said. "Maybe I'll go work on that." He stalked out of the room, trying to slam it shut as he went. Between the broken latch and the fix Mitchell's dad had put on it, the door just bounced back open.
In the hallway, Trevor kicked the wall. Ma yelled at him for it.
Whatever, Mitchell figured, so long as he had the desk back so he could get his homework done -- once he was sure the guitar was okay. Trevor might not get any better on bass, so it was up to him to carry them both.
Maybe later, Trevor would show him ways to change his own autograph. Make it cooler. Which meant harder to read.
Chicken scratch, the handwriting of the rock star.
Mitchell grinned. That had a good ring to it.
Eeek. This is major rough draft. But it's an outtake and that's the idea. One day, I'll clean these puppies up and let you take them home and sleep with them. Just don't call them George.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, Poetry Train, Trevor
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Show Day
Been following the saga of Springer? Why not?
Since it's the Monday of Hanukkah, that means it's the day of the now annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration, a fund-raiser thrown by our friends in the fictional band ShapeShifter. Read on; links to catch up will be at the bottom.
Mitchell rolled over and stretched, unsurpised that Kerri was already gone. She liked to get up at what she called normal hours. He, of course, kept a rock star's hours.
That meant it was noon, or near enough to it to count. Five hours until he had to be at the venue, and tonight was a doozy of a show. The second annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration. Fifty wanna-bes up on stage with the band, tripping on everything, fucking with his and Eric's foot pedals, trying to steal their picks.
Amazing that last year, it had been a shitload of fun.
Most of the credit for that had to go to the stage crew who'd stepped up and worked without pay -- like they'd be doing this year, too. The band had found some nice ways to say thanks, even going so far for a few of the thicker skulls as to make calls directly to get them some extra work. Mitchell had heard that one had found his calling and was sticking around as a cotton tech. Not bad for someone who hadn't seemed able to tell a size three-x from a small.
Mitchell finished stretching and got up. No need to shower on a show day. No need to do much, really, on a show day. Just press, and that had all been done already. There'd be no more until things wrapped up early tomorrow morning. Then it'd be three solid days of talking about how it had gone.
Kerri wasn't in the kitchen. When he finished two toasted bagels with cream cheese and strawberry jelly, an orange, and a handful of potato chips, Mitchell poked his head in the garage, but both Kerri's Jeep and bike were there. That meant she was probably up in her studio; Mitchell wondered if she'd want some company.
He grabbed his new guitar by the neck and carried it up to the third floor. "Hey."
She looked up from her artist table thingie. "Hey, yourself. Getting pysched?"
He shrugged. "Too early for that." It would be a great night; too many people had too much to prove for it to be any other way. The wanna-bes who'd be jamming with the band were all trying to be good enough to get the band's attention. The crew and club staff would all be tying to earn jobs with the band. The fans had to prove they were the band's best fans. Everyone would be at their best, and that alone would make it a great night.
He reminded himself it was too early to think about it. Thinking would only get him up for what was to come, too, and there was no way he could maintain that level of adrenaline for five hours. Better to be mellow now and let it kick in when they got to the club.
"Are you going to stand there all day?"
He shrugged. What else did he have to do with himself? He sure as shit wasn't going to go down into his little room and focus on band shit.
Kerri sighed, and he knew that was a signal to sit down in his usual chair by the window and make some music for her to work by. Quietly, so he didn't break her concentration, but after this many years with her, he knew what the rules were. Besides, fun things often happened when he distracted her.
Still, though, five couldn't arrive fast enough, and then things would get rolling. Because it was a benefit, it'd be crazy and chaotic and barely in control, and it'd make these five hours seem like paradise.
The whole idea for the Musical Hanukkah Celebration began here. Springer's story began here and continues here. And here are more facts about the event.
Since it's the Monday of Hanukkah, that means it's the day of the now annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration, a fund-raiser thrown by our friends in the fictional band ShapeShifter. Read on; links to catch up will be at the bottom.
Mitchell rolled over and stretched, unsurpised that Kerri was already gone. She liked to get up at what she called normal hours. He, of course, kept a rock star's hours.
That meant it was noon, or near enough to it to count. Five hours until he had to be at the venue, and tonight was a doozy of a show. The second annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration. Fifty wanna-bes up on stage with the band, tripping on everything, fucking with his and Eric's foot pedals, trying to steal their picks.
Amazing that last year, it had been a shitload of fun.
Most of the credit for that had to go to the stage crew who'd stepped up and worked without pay -- like they'd be doing this year, too. The band had found some nice ways to say thanks, even going so far for a few of the thicker skulls as to make calls directly to get them some extra work. Mitchell had heard that one had found his calling and was sticking around as a cotton tech. Not bad for someone who hadn't seemed able to tell a size three-x from a small.
Mitchell finished stretching and got up. No need to shower on a show day. No need to do much, really, on a show day. Just press, and that had all been done already. There'd be no more until things wrapped up early tomorrow morning. Then it'd be three solid days of talking about how it had gone.
Kerri wasn't in the kitchen. When he finished two toasted bagels with cream cheese and strawberry jelly, an orange, and a handful of potato chips, Mitchell poked his head in the garage, but both Kerri's Jeep and bike were there. That meant she was probably up in her studio; Mitchell wondered if she'd want some company.
He grabbed his new guitar by the neck and carried it up to the third floor. "Hey."
She looked up from her artist table thingie. "Hey, yourself. Getting pysched?"
He shrugged. "Too early for that." It would be a great night; too many people had too much to prove for it to be any other way. The wanna-bes who'd be jamming with the band were all trying to be good enough to get the band's attention. The crew and club staff would all be tying to earn jobs with the band. The fans had to prove they were the band's best fans. Everyone would be at their best, and that alone would make it a great night.
He reminded himself it was too early to think about it. Thinking would only get him up for what was to come, too, and there was no way he could maintain that level of adrenaline for five hours. Better to be mellow now and let it kick in when they got to the club.
"Are you going to stand there all day?"
He shrugged. What else did he have to do with himself? He sure as shit wasn't going to go down into his little room and focus on band shit.
Kerri sighed, and he knew that was a signal to sit down in his usual chair by the window and make some music for her to work by. Quietly, so he didn't break her concentration, but after this many years with her, he knew what the rules were. Besides, fun things often happened when he distracted her.
Still, though, five couldn't arrive fast enough, and then things would get rolling. Because it was a benefit, it'd be crazy and chaotic and barely in control, and it'd make these five hours seem like paradise.
The whole idea for the Musical Hanukkah Celebration began here. Springer's story began here and continues here. And here are more facts about the event.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Kerri, Mitchell, Musical Hanukkah Celebration, outtake, Poetry Train
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Dents (The Springer Saga)
If you missed the start of the saga, go here. For more details about the Musical Hanukkah Celebration, go here or here. And if you want to know what comes next, stick around...
Springer froze. That had just not happened. That cop had not hit him.
And of course, since it was a cop and cops were never wrong, it'd all be Springer's fault, even though he'd been doing nothing wrong, just sitting at a red light, behind another car. At least he hadn't hit that other car.
The cop was out of his car, looking at the damage. Springer didn't know what to do, since this was a cop involved. Cops hated it when you got out of your car. They tasered you and shit.
Then the cop was back in his car, on the radio. And his lights were on, too.
Springer groaned. He'd finally earned that last thirty bucks for the show. He'd even gotten lucky and won the lottery and was going to jam with the band. He needed to be home practicing, getting as good as he could get in a few days so that when he hit the stage with ShapeShifter, Eric would notice how good he was and offer to help him out. Give him pointers and shit.
And now… he'd have all these stupid repairs. As if working overnights for time and a half hadn't been hard enough, now he'd have to do more of it. Months of it. Time and a half sounded good until you realized it was only three bucks more an hour, and most of that went to Uncle Sam.
The cop came over to him. "Pull over in that parking lot," he said, and left just as fast.
Springer wondered if he smelled bad or something. He pulled the car to the parking lot the cop had pointed at and waited.
He closed his eyes and tried to think of what it would be like to be on that stage on Monday. It was the only way he could get through this without going ballistic. He couldn't afford to get tasered. Not with the show so close.
As I said, stay tuned for more 'cause the concert itself is coming up on Monday night. (Just a reminder, this is all fiction!!) However, if you'd like to spread some Hanukkah love, check this:
Simonne at All Tips And Tricks is having a group writing project asking…’What is Your Best Blogging Achievement?’ You can see the entries here. I vote for Shelly to win. You should, too.
Springer froze. That had just not happened. That cop had not hit him.
And of course, since it was a cop and cops were never wrong, it'd all be Springer's fault, even though he'd been doing nothing wrong, just sitting at a red light, behind another car. At least he hadn't hit that other car.
The cop was out of his car, looking at the damage. Springer didn't know what to do, since this was a cop involved. Cops hated it when you got out of your car. They tasered you and shit.
Then the cop was back in his car, on the radio. And his lights were on, too.
Springer groaned. He'd finally earned that last thirty bucks for the show. He'd even gotten lucky and won the lottery and was going to jam with the band. He needed to be home practicing, getting as good as he could get in a few days so that when he hit the stage with ShapeShifter, Eric would notice how good he was and offer to help him out. Give him pointers and shit.
And now… he'd have all these stupid repairs. As if working overnights for time and a half hadn't been hard enough, now he'd have to do more of it. Months of it. Time and a half sounded good until you realized it was only three bucks more an hour, and most of that went to Uncle Sam.
The cop came over to him. "Pull over in that parking lot," he said, and left just as fast.
Springer wondered if he smelled bad or something. He pulled the car to the parking lot the cop had pointed at and waited.
He closed his eyes and tried to think of what it would be like to be on that stage on Monday. It was the only way he could get through this without going ballistic. He couldn't afford to get tasered. Not with the show so close.
As I said, stay tuned for more 'cause the concert itself is coming up on Monday night. (Just a reminder, this is all fiction!!) However, if you'd like to spread some Hanukkah love, check this:
Simonne at All Tips And Tricks is having a group writing project asking…’What is Your Best Blogging Achievement?’ You can see the entries here. I vote for Shelly to win. You should, too.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Musical Hanukkah Celebration, outtake, Riverview USA, Springer
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Letter G (the early days)
"R," Trevor said.
Mitchell looked up from his guitar. "The fuck?"
"R."
Mitchell growled.
Trevor gave an exaggerated sigh. "The prompt this week at that Writer's Island place Susan likes to hang out on. It's," he took a deep breath and waved his fingers near his face. "The Letter," he said in a voice that was supposed to be spooky.
"Oh," Mitchell said. He looked down again, then gave Trevor one of those looks that would have been through his bangs if the guy was dumb enough to have any. "I like G," he said, and strummed the chord.
Trevor considered. Gs were good. G marked the spot. G wasn't a grade. Yeah, there was lots to like about G. And it wasn't like he was attached to R in any way, shape, form, or sound. In fact, R was usually Mitchell's sound. The one he made when he growled.
"Yeah," he said at last. "G's good."
Mitchell smirked and Trevor realized what he'd said. Good. It fucking started with … G. So did almost every other phrase Trevor could think of. Go figure. Goddamn. Geez. Girl. Give me. Guitars.
Trevor turned his back on Mitchell and reached for a cigarette. Count on the asshole there to come up with a better letter than he could. Maybe that's what made them such a … successful team. M took Trevor's ideas and ran with them.
Trevor tried to tell himself that meant his ideas didn't suck.
Gigantically.
Yep, a bonus excerpt this week! What can I say, I was inspired. In fact, I wrote a few more outtakes over the weekend and now my file of stuff for this here blog is about to burst. Stay tuned for all of it...
Mitchell looked up from his guitar. "The fuck?"
"R."
Mitchell growled.
Trevor gave an exaggerated sigh. "The prompt this week at that Writer's Island place Susan likes to hang out on. It's," he took a deep breath and waved his fingers near his face. "The Letter," he said in a voice that was supposed to be spooky.
"Oh," Mitchell said. He looked down again, then gave Trevor one of those looks that would have been through his bangs if the guy was dumb enough to have any. "I like G," he said, and strummed the chord.
Trevor considered. Gs were good. G marked the spot. G wasn't a grade. Yeah, there was lots to like about G. And it wasn't like he was attached to R in any way, shape, form, or sound. In fact, R was usually Mitchell's sound. The one he made when he growled.
"Yeah," he said at last. "G's good."
Mitchell smirked and Trevor realized what he'd said. Good. It fucking started with … G. So did almost every other phrase Trevor could think of. Go figure. Goddamn. Geez. Girl. Give me. Guitars.
Trevor turned his back on Mitchell and reached for a cigarette. Count on the asshole there to come up with a better letter than he could. Maybe that's what made them such a … successful team. M took Trevor's ideas and ran with them.
Trevor tried to tell himself that meant his ideas didn't suck.
Gigantically.
Yep, a bonus excerpt this week! What can I say, I was inspired. In fact, I wrote a few more outtakes over the weekend and now my file of stuff for this here blog is about to burst. Stay tuned for all of it...
Labels: fiction, Mitchell, outtake, Trevor, Writer's Island
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Beached Whales (post Trevor's Song Era)
Kerri set down the dishtowel she was using to dry Val's good china with, handed the last plate over, and walked into the family room. Daniel and Mitchell were being awfully quiet for two men who'd been all hyped about the big game.
She walked down the two steps into the sunken room and took in the scene.
The boys lay head-to-head on the L-shaped sectional. Mitchell had one leg thrown over the back of the couch; Daniel had one foot on the floor. Both men had extended their other leg, Daniel's foot dangling off the edge of the beige leather couch.
Kerri chuckled as she noticed that they both hadn't just unbuttoned their pants after that feast; they'd undone their flies, too.
"Hey, Val?" she drawled.
Mitchell's head shot up and he slitted his eyes as if shooting poison at her. She smiled; he knew her tone of voice all too well.
"Yeah?" Val asked, wiping her hands on her hot pink dishtowel and crossing the kitchen to join Kerri. She stopped on the stair behind Kerri, one knee bent, the same hip jutted out in a classic model's pose.
"Where'd you find the beached whales?"
"Wholesale district. Imported from Japan; they were cheap."
Daniel burped. Mitchell smirked and put his head back down.
Kerri shook her head. "Waste of good veal, if you ask me. Whale stuffing ought to be cheap."
"Actually, I think it's the highest praise a chef can get," Val said, tossing the dishtowel over her shoulder and pulling her hip back in line with the other. "When you can turn two grown men into beached whales, you know your cooking's good."
"Or that food on the road is that bad," Daniel said. "Really, Val, come out and be our caterer."
She winked at Kerri. As if there was any way to pry Val out of her house. "If I do," she said, "will you change the name of the band to Beached Whales?"
"We may have to," Mitchell said and, at last, burped.
The curtains fluttered, and Val and Kerri exchanged amused smiles as they went back to putting the plates away.
Want more? Click on the characters' names and be transported a quick character sketch, along with links to more fiction featuring Daniel, Val, Kerri, and Mitchell. And don't forget to take a ride on Rhian's Poetry Train!
She walked down the two steps into the sunken room and took in the scene.
The boys lay head-to-head on the L-shaped sectional. Mitchell had one leg thrown over the back of the couch; Daniel had one foot on the floor. Both men had extended their other leg, Daniel's foot dangling off the edge of the beige leather couch.
Kerri chuckled as she noticed that they both hadn't just unbuttoned their pants after that feast; they'd undone their flies, too.
"Hey, Val?" she drawled.
Mitchell's head shot up and he slitted his eyes as if shooting poison at her. She smiled; he knew her tone of voice all too well.
"Yeah?" Val asked, wiping her hands on her hot pink dishtowel and crossing the kitchen to join Kerri. She stopped on the stair behind Kerri, one knee bent, the same hip jutted out in a classic model's pose.
"Where'd you find the beached whales?"
"Wholesale district. Imported from Japan; they were cheap."
Daniel burped. Mitchell smirked and put his head back down.
Kerri shook her head. "Waste of good veal, if you ask me. Whale stuffing ought to be cheap."
"Actually, I think it's the highest praise a chef can get," Val said, tossing the dishtowel over her shoulder and pulling her hip back in line with the other. "When you can turn two grown men into beached whales, you know your cooking's good."
"Or that food on the road is that bad," Daniel said. "Really, Val, come out and be our caterer."
She winked at Kerri. As if there was any way to pry Val out of her house. "If I do," she said, "will you change the name of the band to Beached Whales?"
"We may have to," Mitchell said and, at last, burped.
The curtains fluttered, and Val and Kerri exchanged amused smiles as they went back to putting the plates away.
Want more? Click on the characters' names and be transported a quick character sketch, along with links to more fiction featuring Daniel, Val, Kerri, and Mitchell. And don't forget to take a ride on Rhian's Poetry Train!
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, fiction, Kerri, Mitchell, outtake, Poetry Train, Val
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Susan's Inside Writing: Friendship
The prompt this week at Writer's Island was Friendship. No problem, I thought. I'll post something with Trevor and Mitchell playing off each other.
My first thought was Smoke Break. Problem was, that's mostly Trevor and Val, with Mitchell coming in at the end.
No, I thought. I want a real exchange between the boys. After all, I describe them as being as close as brothers.
Maybe Flags? That's a good one, but maybe... just maybe you had to have some more background on who these guys are and why they are dreaming like this.
Quitting? This was a good one, where Trevor has just quit school and Mitchell comes to find out why. No, I thought. It's too rant-laden. I wanted something more... gentle, I guess. Some quiet moment between the boys.
That meant that Mitchell's Ears and Naked were both right out, too. As was The Time Before Dinner.
I didn't want to resort to the Thursday Thirteen I'd written; that's a list. A good one, but...
Oh, the choices seemed endless -- and endlessly wrong.
I finally went with Eric's Flu, figuring that at least the guys were trying to show friendship toward Eric, even if they're sort of clueless about how.
But... what do you guys think? Was that the best choice, or should I have dug around a bit more? Can you think of something better?
And is Camille right? Do I have enough outtakes published here to collect into their own volume and put out there for my groupies to collect?
My first thought was Smoke Break. Problem was, that's mostly Trevor and Val, with Mitchell coming in at the end.
No, I thought. I want a real exchange between the boys. After all, I describe them as being as close as brothers.
Maybe Flags? That's a good one, but maybe... just maybe you had to have some more background on who these guys are and why they are dreaming like this.
Quitting? This was a good one, where Trevor has just quit school and Mitchell comes to find out why. No, I thought. It's too rant-laden. I wanted something more... gentle, I guess. Some quiet moment between the boys.
That meant that Mitchell's Ears and Naked were both right out, too. As was The Time Before Dinner.
I didn't want to resort to the Thursday Thirteen I'd written; that's a list. A good one, but...
Oh, the choices seemed endless -- and endlessly wrong.
I finally went with Eric's Flu, figuring that at least the guys were trying to show friendship toward Eric, even if they're sort of clueless about how.
But... what do you guys think? Was that the best choice, or should I have dug around a bit more? Can you think of something better?
And is Camille right? Do I have enough outtakes published here to collect into their own volume and put out there for my groupies to collect?
Labels: outtake, Susan's Inside Writing
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Hands (Trevor's Song Era)
A bit of scene-setting here: This outtake takes place during the early chapters of Trevor's Song. It's not essential to the story, so you won't find a hint of it there. This is strictly backstory. Yet when you finally get to close the back cover (and scream in frustration at me over the ending), and you come back to this outtake, it'll all click. I promise.
It was stupid, she knew, but when Mitchell reached for her hands, Kerri pulled them away and tried to stuff them somewhere he couldn't find them. Unfortunately, other than her pockets and behind her back, any place her hands went, the rest of her had to follow.
"C'mon," he said and tried again. "They're supposed to be paint-covered, Ker. It's what you do."
Reluctantly, she let him take her hands, both of them, in his. Palm up, he started to raise the left to his mouth.
He stopped an inch away.
"I know," Kerri sighed. "Turpentine, paint… It's not the world's biggest turn-on."
Mitchell stroked her palm with his nose.
"A woman's hands are supposed to be soft," she said. "Pampered. Or else calloused from all the hard, honest work she does to keep her family afloat. Not…"
"Not?" he asked, his lips barely touching that same palm.
She turned her face up toward the ceiling and let herself drown in the sensation.
He didn't linger long. "You know," he said, slowly easing her hand, still in his, back to her side. Every bit as slowly, he pulled both hands from hers.
She shivered, feeling suddenly alone. Cold.
"Mine aren't much better." He picked up her right hand and tapped the back of it with the fingertips of his left. "A guy's not supposed to be like this." He turned his hand over, claw-like, fingertips exposed. "Shit, Ker, I've got fucking string marks in 'em. On top of callouses a mile deep."
She smiled, not needing to see them. "What a pair we are." Taking his right hand, she massaged it gently at the third knuckle.
He closed his eyes, his breath coming hard. "Ker…"
"No," she said, not sure why or what it meant.
His free hand caught hers. As she massaged, he nibbled her fingertips.
And she knew he'd meant it. He loved her, paint and all.
Did you get to visit with Trevor over the weekend? Scroll down if you missed him! And remember, clicking on the link in the characters' names will take you to their bio pages -- and a list of links to more outtakes featuring them. Have fun!
It was stupid, she knew, but when Mitchell reached for her hands, Kerri pulled them away and tried to stuff them somewhere he couldn't find them. Unfortunately, other than her pockets and behind her back, any place her hands went, the rest of her had to follow.
"C'mon," he said and tried again. "They're supposed to be paint-covered, Ker. It's what you do."
Reluctantly, she let him take her hands, both of them, in his. Palm up, he started to raise the left to his mouth.
He stopped an inch away.
"I know," Kerri sighed. "Turpentine, paint… It's not the world's biggest turn-on."
Mitchell stroked her palm with his nose.
"A woman's hands are supposed to be soft," she said. "Pampered. Or else calloused from all the hard, honest work she does to keep her family afloat. Not…"
"Not?" he asked, his lips barely touching that same palm.
She turned her face up toward the ceiling and let herself drown in the sensation.
He didn't linger long. "You know," he said, slowly easing her hand, still in his, back to her side. Every bit as slowly, he pulled both hands from hers.
She shivered, feeling suddenly alone. Cold.
"Mine aren't much better." He picked up her right hand and tapped the back of it with the fingertips of his left. "A guy's not supposed to be like this." He turned his hand over, claw-like, fingertips exposed. "Shit, Ker, I've got fucking string marks in 'em. On top of callouses a mile deep."
She smiled, not needing to see them. "What a pair we are." Taking his right hand, she massaged it gently at the third knuckle.
He closed his eyes, his breath coming hard. "Ker…"
"No," she said, not sure why or what it meant.
His free hand caught hers. As she massaged, he nibbled her fingertips.
And she knew he'd meant it. He loved her, paint and all.
Did you get to visit with Trevor over the weekend? Scroll down if you missed him! And remember, clicking on the link in the characters' names will take you to their bio pages -- and a list of links to more outtakes featuring them. Have fun!
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Kerri, love, Mitchell, outtake, Poetry Train
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Anonymous (Deadly Metal Hatchet)
I'll post links to past Deadly Metal Hatchet pieces, as this may be a bit of a jolt for those of you used to Trevor and his antics. The Hatchet is a young, up-and-coming band made up of four guys: Fozzy, Lido, Gecko, and Scott. They have a gimmick: the Deadly Metal Hatchet they are named after.
At any rate, as Halloween approaches, many of us are turning our thoughts to scary things. Here's one for you, and I'm not talking about what the Hatchet gets up to.
Days like this were too nice to be inside. And it wasn't like they could smoke inside anyway; those new rules about smoking were made by assholes in suits. Scott wished Fozzy could turn the Hatchet loose on them and the other upright and moral folk who'd decided that smoking was evil. Man, the world would have a few hundred million less assholes if he could.
The four of them were sitting on the curb outside the club, laminates on, blending in. Everyone else who milled around wore cargo shorts and black t-shirts, too. They were just four more guys sitting there, catching a smoke, not talking, soaking in the day and the nicotine rush.
"So what're we gonna play tonight?" Gecko asked.
Fozzy shook his head. "Too early to do setlist."
"Why are we wasting time with this talk again?" Scott asked. He sat back and adjusted his shorts. "We do the same fricken set for every same fricken show. Why don't we just own up to that already and quit with the stupid setlist discussions?"
Fozzy screwed his face up. "It's not like we have more than twelve songs in the first place."
"…and time to play ten of 'em. Why don't we ever play those last two?" Gecko asked. He ground out his cigarette on the curb beside him.
As he reached for the can of Coke he'd brought outside with him, two long-haired guys approached. They wore the code: black t-shirts, dirty flannel shirts thrown over top, cargo shorts, workboots left unlaced. "Hey, man, know where we can find Deadly Metal Hatchet?"
Gecko and Fozzy exchanged uneasy looks. Lido cleared his throat.
"Yeah," the other guy said. "We want to hang with the Hatchet. We figure that when they make it big, we'll be able to tell everyone we knew 'em when."
Scott adjusted his shorts again; maybe it was time to find a laundromat already. "Got any clue who you're looking for?"
The first guy, the one in the dingy red flannel, shifted his weight. "Deadly Metal Hatchet."
"Yeah, we know," Scott said. "But do you know what they look like?"
Red Flannel shifted his weight again. "Don't they wear shirts with the Hatchet on 'em?"
Gecko smothered a laugh with his fist. Fozzy looked around. No one, band nor crew, was wearing anything with the Hatchet on it. Except their laminates, but then again, every person involved with the tour wore one of those.
"So," the guy in the brown flannel said, "know where we can find 'em?"
"How can you be fans if you don't know what they look like?" Scott asked.
The kid in red shrugged. "We're not fans. Not really."
"We think they suck," the kid in brown said. "But one day, they'll get big and we'll be able to say we hung with them."
Scott covered his face with his hand. Fozzy stood up; Lido jumped to his feet and the two went inside.
"Should we?" Gecko asked. "I mean, the band may not like it."
"Fuck the band," Scott said, wondering what the fricken hell he was saying. "They don't need losers like you two."
He and Gecko walked inside, shaking their heads.
"You join a fricken band to get noticed," Scott said in the safety of the
band's dressing room. "Not to get told you suck."
"At least they think we'll be someone," Lido said.
"Dude, we already are," Fozzy said. He ripped a sign off the wall and started drawing.
In short time, the Hatchet had gone to work on two guys in flannel: one red, one brown.
The members of Deadly Metal Hatchet cheered.
Some past links with the Hatchet:
Intro
Thirteen Hatchet Victims
Chelle and the Hatchet
At any rate, as Halloween approaches, many of us are turning our thoughts to scary things. Here's one for you, and I'm not talking about what the Hatchet gets up to.
Days like this were too nice to be inside. And it wasn't like they could smoke inside anyway; those new rules about smoking were made by assholes in suits. Scott wished Fozzy could turn the Hatchet loose on them and the other upright and moral folk who'd decided that smoking was evil. Man, the world would have a few hundred million less assholes if he could.
The four of them were sitting on the curb outside the club, laminates on, blending in. Everyone else who milled around wore cargo shorts and black t-shirts, too. They were just four more guys sitting there, catching a smoke, not talking, soaking in the day and the nicotine rush.
"So what're we gonna play tonight?" Gecko asked.
Fozzy shook his head. "Too early to do setlist."
"Why are we wasting time with this talk again?" Scott asked. He sat back and adjusted his shorts. "We do the same fricken set for every same fricken show. Why don't we just own up to that already and quit with the stupid setlist discussions?"
Fozzy screwed his face up. "It's not like we have more than twelve songs in the first place."
"…and time to play ten of 'em. Why don't we ever play those last two?" Gecko asked. He ground out his cigarette on the curb beside him.
As he reached for the can of Coke he'd brought outside with him, two long-haired guys approached. They wore the code: black t-shirts, dirty flannel shirts thrown over top, cargo shorts, workboots left unlaced. "Hey, man, know where we can find Deadly Metal Hatchet?"
Gecko and Fozzy exchanged uneasy looks. Lido cleared his throat.
"Yeah," the other guy said. "We want to hang with the Hatchet. We figure that when they make it big, we'll be able to tell everyone we knew 'em when."
Scott adjusted his shorts again; maybe it was time to find a laundromat already. "Got any clue who you're looking for?"
The first guy, the one in the dingy red flannel, shifted his weight. "Deadly Metal Hatchet."
"Yeah, we know," Scott said. "But do you know what they look like?"
Red Flannel shifted his weight again. "Don't they wear shirts with the Hatchet on 'em?"
Gecko smothered a laugh with his fist. Fozzy looked around. No one, band nor crew, was wearing anything with the Hatchet on it. Except their laminates, but then again, every person involved with the tour wore one of those.
"So," the guy in the brown flannel said, "know where we can find 'em?"
"How can you be fans if you don't know what they look like?" Scott asked.
The kid in red shrugged. "We're not fans. Not really."
"We think they suck," the kid in brown said. "But one day, they'll get big and we'll be able to say we hung with them."
Scott covered his face with his hand. Fozzy stood up; Lido jumped to his feet and the two went inside.
"Should we?" Gecko asked. "I mean, the band may not like it."
"Fuck the band," Scott said, wondering what the fricken hell he was saying. "They don't need losers like you two."
He and Gecko walked inside, shaking their heads.
"You join a fricken band to get noticed," Scott said in the safety of the
band's dressing room. "Not to get told you suck."
"At least they think we'll be someone," Lido said.
"Dude, we already are," Fozzy said. He ripped a sign off the wall and started drawing.
In short time, the Hatchet had gone to work on two guys in flannel: one red, one brown.
The members of Deadly Metal Hatchet cheered.
Some past links with the Hatchet:
Intro
Thirteen Hatchet Victims
Chelle and the Hatchet
Labels: Deadly Metal Hatchet, fans, fiction, outtake, Poetry Train, touring
Monday, October 15, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Breakfast (Trevor's Song Era)
Warning: today's outtake was brought to us by the letter B and involves abuse of clothing. And ShapeShifter's Mitchell Voss -- but that's not new..
It wasn't unusual for the bus to pull up to the hotel, for Charlie to go inside and get everyone's room keys, and then wake the band up and send them to their rooms to finish their night's rest. Usually, it was hard to get to sleep in a bed that wasn't rolling down some freeway. After all, they'd spent how many hours in a bed that'd been doing exactly that?
Trevor liked to break up the time between bus and bed with a third -- better -- word that started with the letter B: breakfast. Especially now that they were staying in places that would lay out these huge buffets and clear the plates while he went fucking nuts and crammed as much down his gullet as he could. Sleeping on a gut full of free food was paradise. Even your dreams were better when your belly was stuffed. And Trevor Wolff had good dreams in the first place.
Sure enough, this place had the free breakfast thing going. "One hour left," Charlie told him in that solemn, Charlie way.
Problem was, he didn't want to go alone. Eating by yourself was … stupid. So Trevor stretched, lit a cigarette, and waited for the daily soap opera that was better known as Waking Mitchell.
At last, the big idiot came out from the bunks, yawning, stretching, and scratching his chest. He wasn't fully awake yet, which was a good thing, as far as Trevor was concerned. Conversation would be kept to a minimum, which meant they'd be able to eat more food in less time. Time which was ticking away; less than an hour before the free buffet ended.
"Gimme the room key," Mitchell mumbled, holding out a hand, his eyes barely open.
Charlie grabbed his hand and shoved it aside. "Put some clothes on."
Trevor snickered. It'd have been more fun if Charlie hadn't interfered, but then again, he liked Charlie well enough. Letting Mitchell wander into a hotel in nothing but those gross boxer-things Rusty made him wear would probably mean a new tour manager for ShapeShifter. Not in Trevor's best interests.
Mitchell shuffled back to the bunks, presumably for some jeans. Maybe even shoes, Trevor thought with a giggle he could barely keep in.
When Mitchell came back, his shirt was slung over his shoulder, his eyes were a little more open, and his jeans were buttoned and zipped, but his shoes weren't tied. And he had Rusty with him, too.
That was almost enough to make Trevor lose his appetite.
"Hungry?" he asked the lovebirds as innocently as he could.
Mitchell nodded, zombie-like. Rusty just stood there, looking confused, like she usually did. She probably thought he was up to something but really, all he wanted was breakfast. Bagels, bacon, maybe even a banana.
He led the way into the hotel lobby, ignoring the stares. He was used to them: a bunch of long-hairs trekking through a pretty okay joint. It scared the respectable folk. Made them think the world was going bad, that they had to scramble to a hotel higher up the snob rating in order to be safe. Little did they know that ShapeShifter was planning on being right there with them.
Either Charlie had scared the fans away or else the band had shown up at the hotel before they were expected, because while the guests curled their upper lips at them, no one rushed over for an autograph or to just say hello. Sadly, there weren't any girls who could convince Trevor to skip breakfast. Or better yet, come along as his guest and then help him get properly good and sleepy afterward.
Mitchell didn't seem to care. "Which way?" he asked, squinting at the signs. Trevor sighed. Next thing you knew, the big idiot would show up with glasses, and how un-rock-and-roll was that?
"Over here," he said with a sigh, wondering why Rusty didn't take charge. She usually could be counted on to do that sort of crap. Maybe she was still expecting a prank.
It was almost a shame to disappoint.
Count on Mitchell to come through, though. As they walked into the hotel restaurant, the fine odor of bacon reaching Trevor's twitching nose, the hostess stopped them. "Umm, sir?" she said, looking up at Mitchell like she knew he could morph into a dragon at any second.
"Problem?" he asked, puffing up his chest and slipping into Rock Star mode.
"When we say that shirts are required in the dining room, we generally mean that they need to be worn, not tossed over your shoulder."
"Huh?" Mitchell asked as Trevor dissolved into laughter, losing it all the more when he realized that Rusty had been waiting for exactly this. Shit, she was good at setting M up. Better than he was, sad to say.
Rusty was the one who picked up Mitchell's shirt and held it out. "Don't gross out the guests before lunch, okay?"
"Why didn't someone say something?" Mitchell asked. Trevor stared in fascination as the idiot actually blushed. So bad, it spread to his chest.
No wonder people wanted those parts covered, Trevor thought.
"Why didn't you just get dressed?" Trevor asked him. "You put everything else on."
"No, not everything," Rusty said and pulled at the leg of Mitchell's jeans.
Sure enough, the big idiot had skipped the socks.
Want more of Trevor and Mitchell?
Brotherly Love
Buying Chicken
Flags
And if you're not entirely certain who's who after all that, click on their names in any of the entries to read their bios. That should bring you up to speed.
It wasn't unusual for the bus to pull up to the hotel, for Charlie to go inside and get everyone's room keys, and then wake the band up and send them to their rooms to finish their night's rest. Usually, it was hard to get to sleep in a bed that wasn't rolling down some freeway. After all, they'd spent how many hours in a bed that'd been doing exactly that?
Trevor liked to break up the time between bus and bed with a third -- better -- word that started with the letter B: breakfast. Especially now that they were staying in places that would lay out these huge buffets and clear the plates while he went fucking nuts and crammed as much down his gullet as he could. Sleeping on a gut full of free food was paradise. Even your dreams were better when your belly was stuffed. And Trevor Wolff had good dreams in the first place.
Sure enough, this place had the free breakfast thing going. "One hour left," Charlie told him in that solemn, Charlie way.
Problem was, he didn't want to go alone. Eating by yourself was … stupid. So Trevor stretched, lit a cigarette, and waited for the daily soap opera that was better known as Waking Mitchell.
At last, the big idiot came out from the bunks, yawning, stretching, and scratching his chest. He wasn't fully awake yet, which was a good thing, as far as Trevor was concerned. Conversation would be kept to a minimum, which meant they'd be able to eat more food in less time. Time which was ticking away; less than an hour before the free buffet ended.
"Gimme the room key," Mitchell mumbled, holding out a hand, his eyes barely open.
Charlie grabbed his hand and shoved it aside. "Put some clothes on."
Trevor snickered. It'd have been more fun if Charlie hadn't interfered, but then again, he liked Charlie well enough. Letting Mitchell wander into a hotel in nothing but those gross boxer-things Rusty made him wear would probably mean a new tour manager for ShapeShifter. Not in Trevor's best interests.
Mitchell shuffled back to the bunks, presumably for some jeans. Maybe even shoes, Trevor thought with a giggle he could barely keep in.
When Mitchell came back, his shirt was slung over his shoulder, his eyes were a little more open, and his jeans were buttoned and zipped, but his shoes weren't tied. And he had Rusty with him, too.
That was almost enough to make Trevor lose his appetite.
"Hungry?" he asked the lovebirds as innocently as he could.
Mitchell nodded, zombie-like. Rusty just stood there, looking confused, like she usually did. She probably thought he was up to something but really, all he wanted was breakfast. Bagels, bacon, maybe even a banana.
He led the way into the hotel lobby, ignoring the stares. He was used to them: a bunch of long-hairs trekking through a pretty okay joint. It scared the respectable folk. Made them think the world was going bad, that they had to scramble to a hotel higher up the snob rating in order to be safe. Little did they know that ShapeShifter was planning on being right there with them.
Either Charlie had scared the fans away or else the band had shown up at the hotel before they were expected, because while the guests curled their upper lips at them, no one rushed over for an autograph or to just say hello. Sadly, there weren't any girls who could convince Trevor to skip breakfast. Or better yet, come along as his guest and then help him get properly good and sleepy afterward.
Mitchell didn't seem to care. "Which way?" he asked, squinting at the signs. Trevor sighed. Next thing you knew, the big idiot would show up with glasses, and how un-rock-and-roll was that?
"Over here," he said with a sigh, wondering why Rusty didn't take charge. She usually could be counted on to do that sort of crap. Maybe she was still expecting a prank.
It was almost a shame to disappoint.
Count on Mitchell to come through, though. As they walked into the hotel restaurant, the fine odor of bacon reaching Trevor's twitching nose, the hostess stopped them. "Umm, sir?" she said, looking up at Mitchell like she knew he could morph into a dragon at any second.
"Problem?" he asked, puffing up his chest and slipping into Rock Star mode.
"When we say that shirts are required in the dining room, we generally mean that they need to be worn, not tossed over your shoulder."
"Huh?" Mitchell asked as Trevor dissolved into laughter, losing it all the more when he realized that Rusty had been waiting for exactly this. Shit, she was good at setting M up. Better than he was, sad to say.
Rusty was the one who picked up Mitchell's shirt and held it out. "Don't gross out the guests before lunch, okay?"
"Why didn't someone say something?" Mitchell asked. Trevor stared in fascination as the idiot actually blushed. So bad, it spread to his chest.
No wonder people wanted those parts covered, Trevor thought.
"Why didn't you just get dressed?" Trevor asked him. "You put everything else on."
"No, not everything," Rusty said and pulled at the leg of Mitchell's jeans.
Sure enough, the big idiot had skipped the socks.
Want more of Trevor and Mitchell?
Brotherly Love
Buying Chicken
Flags
And if you're not entirely certain who's who after all that, click on their names in any of the entries to read their bios. That should bring you up to speed.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Kerri, Mitchell, outtake, Poetry Train, touring, Trevor
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Oreos (The Early Years)
What happens when you take the Poetry Train, the Weekend Wordsmith prompt, and a few hours to let ideas marinate? Read on...
Oreos
Usually, Trevor hated Eric's girls. The guitarist liked them full of innocence and stars in their eyes, still able to believe that good things in life happened all the time. Eric liked girls who were like Mitchell had been before Trevor had and fixed him. Sadly, Eric wouldn't let him near his girls. They couldn't get some Trevor-fixing.
But this girl, this Patsy chick, was different. For one thing, she was a little bit older than Eric's usual girls -- she might have even been over the age of twenty. And while she was still pretty star-struck, every now and then, that glimmer would fade and Trevor could see the tiniest bit of a backbone. Maybe even some cynicism.
Of all of Eric's girls, this one had the most potential.
She caught up to them as they were assembling in the hotel lobby, bags in tow, ready to head over to the venue for sound check. "Do you guys need me to pick up anything?" she asked. Trevor closed his eyes; she had the smoothest Southern drawl. It reminded him of some of those old movies he'd watch late at night when the high from the show hadn't worn off yet.
"You could pick me up," Trevor said, bracing himself for some physical commentary from Mitchell. The girl was, after all, Eric's.
"I was thinking," she said, "of anything you might need from the grocery, for the bus." She screwed up her face, like she was sorting through possibilities. "Staple things, like toothpaste. Maybe someone left their comb behind, or needs some Pop Tarts. That sort of thing."
"That's not as much fun as I am," Trevor said, still waiting for Mitchell. The big idiot only hid a chuckle behind a glower; the guy was not in a good mood. Which was why Trevor kept waiting for the guy to smack him.
"Maybe," the girl said, sounding so vanilla and boring, Trevor immediately lost interest.
"Oreos," Daniel said suddenly. "Four packs of 'em."
"Done," she said. She kissed Eric and left.
Oh yeah, Trevor thought, watching her ass puff up each side of her skirt as she strode out of the lobby, her backless shoes flapping against the soles of her feet in a way that made him hard. A woman on a mission's a hot creature, indeed. Even if she was boring and vanilla and maybe not so far from Eric's usual gaggle of innocents.
She showed up near the end of soundcheck, one of those cutie tote bags in one hand. Trevor hoped the Oreos were in there; until Daniel had said the word, he hadn't thought much about the simple comfort of a store-bought cookie. Maybe he ought to tell Daniel or Mitchell to add cookies to their catering rider.
"I can't stay," she said when Eric jumped down off the stage and removed the four packages of Oreos from the cutie tote bag. "I got called in to work to cover for someone. I'll make the show, though." She gave him a kiss that was more of a peck than anything romantic and was gone just that fast.
Good thing, Trevor thought, as the guys stampeded for the dressing room and barricaded the door shut. If Charlie, their tour manager, found out about the Oreos, he'd be there. As if feeding the tour manager was on the list of band duties.
Eric was one of those geeks who unscrewed the cookie and licked the filling out. Daniel nibbled at them slowly, almost sucking on them. Trevor liked to take his own sweet time with them, the way you'd handle a really exceptional woman.
And then there was Mitchell. The big idiot stuck them in his mouth whole, chewed, and swallowed just enough to have room for the next. He snarfed an entire package in the time Trevor ate ten cookies. You'd have thought the guy was being starved or something and this was his first meal after being released from some cage he'd been kept in.
He stood up, flapping at his gold t-shirt to get the crumbs off. How he managed to get full of crumbs when he didn't take a bite of the stupid cookies was beyond Trevor, but that was Mitchell for you.
Trevor silently counted down from five. He noticed that Daniel was counting along with him, equally as silent, although the drummer's lips were moving.
When they hit one, Mitchell let out a burp that shook the entire room. It was one of those that came from somewhere so deep, it was surprising that the guy's guts didn't come up with it. Good thing it stayed down: Trevor didn't want to see half-chewed Oreo come up.
"Know what I need now?" Mitchell asked the guys.
"Milk," they all answered in unison.
Trevor shook his head. "We are so fucking pathetic, it's scary."
Mitchell grinned and winked. "Just so that door's locked, no one needs to know. Who's got a few extra?"
Trevor hugged the remains of his Oreos to his chest. "Go find your own girl who'll buy you some," he said. Eric and Daniel quickly agreed.
Mitchell shrugged and slipped out of the dressing room. In search of milk, in search of more cookies… Trevor didn't know. He didn't particularly care, either. Just so long as the big idiot stayed out of his stash.
Oreos
Usually, Trevor hated Eric's girls. The guitarist liked them full of innocence and stars in their eyes, still able to believe that good things in life happened all the time. Eric liked girls who were like Mitchell had been before Trevor had and fixed him. Sadly, Eric wouldn't let him near his girls. They couldn't get some Trevor-fixing.
But this girl, this Patsy chick, was different. For one thing, she was a little bit older than Eric's usual girls -- she might have even been over the age of twenty. And while she was still pretty star-struck, every now and then, that glimmer would fade and Trevor could see the tiniest bit of a backbone. Maybe even some cynicism.
Of all of Eric's girls, this one had the most potential.
She caught up to them as they were assembling in the hotel lobby, bags in tow, ready to head over to the venue for sound check. "Do you guys need me to pick up anything?" she asked. Trevor closed his eyes; she had the smoothest Southern drawl. It reminded him of some of those old movies he'd watch late at night when the high from the show hadn't worn off yet.
"You could pick me up," Trevor said, bracing himself for some physical commentary from Mitchell. The girl was, after all, Eric's.
"I was thinking," she said, "of anything you might need from the grocery, for the bus." She screwed up her face, like she was sorting through possibilities. "Staple things, like toothpaste. Maybe someone left their comb behind, or needs some Pop Tarts. That sort of thing."
"That's not as much fun as I am," Trevor said, still waiting for Mitchell. The big idiot only hid a chuckle behind a glower; the guy was not in a good mood. Which was why Trevor kept waiting for the guy to smack him.
"Maybe," the girl said, sounding so vanilla and boring, Trevor immediately lost interest.
"Oreos," Daniel said suddenly. "Four packs of 'em."
"Done," she said. She kissed Eric and left.
Oh yeah, Trevor thought, watching her ass puff up each side of her skirt as she strode out of the lobby, her backless shoes flapping against the soles of her feet in a way that made him hard. A woman on a mission's a hot creature, indeed. Even if she was boring and vanilla and maybe not so far from Eric's usual gaggle of innocents.
She showed up near the end of soundcheck, one of those cutie tote bags in one hand. Trevor hoped the Oreos were in there; until Daniel had said the word, he hadn't thought much about the simple comfort of a store-bought cookie. Maybe he ought to tell Daniel or Mitchell to add cookies to their catering rider.
"I can't stay," she said when Eric jumped down off the stage and removed the four packages of Oreos from the cutie tote bag. "I got called in to work to cover for someone. I'll make the show, though." She gave him a kiss that was more of a peck than anything romantic and was gone just that fast.
Good thing, Trevor thought, as the guys stampeded for the dressing room and barricaded the door shut. If Charlie, their tour manager, found out about the Oreos, he'd be there. As if feeding the tour manager was on the list of band duties.
Eric was one of those geeks who unscrewed the cookie and licked the filling out. Daniel nibbled at them slowly, almost sucking on them. Trevor liked to take his own sweet time with them, the way you'd handle a really exceptional woman.
And then there was Mitchell. The big idiot stuck them in his mouth whole, chewed, and swallowed just enough to have room for the next. He snarfed an entire package in the time Trevor ate ten cookies. You'd have thought the guy was being starved or something and this was his first meal after being released from some cage he'd been kept in.
He stood up, flapping at his gold t-shirt to get the crumbs off. How he managed to get full of crumbs when he didn't take a bite of the stupid cookies was beyond Trevor, but that was Mitchell for you.
Trevor silently counted down from five. He noticed that Daniel was counting along with him, equally as silent, although the drummer's lips were moving.
When they hit one, Mitchell let out a burp that shook the entire room. It was one of those that came from somewhere so deep, it was surprising that the guy's guts didn't come up with it. Good thing it stayed down: Trevor didn't want to see half-chewed Oreo come up.
"Know what I need now?" Mitchell asked the guys.
"Milk," they all answered in unison.
Trevor shook his head. "We are so fucking pathetic, it's scary."
Mitchell grinned and winked. "Just so that door's locked, no one needs to know. Who's got a few extra?"
Trevor hugged the remains of his Oreos to his chest. "Go find your own girl who'll buy you some," he said. Eric and Daniel quickly agreed.
Mitchell shrugged and slipped out of the dressing room. In search of milk, in search of more cookies… Trevor didn't know. He didn't particularly care, either. Just so long as the big idiot stayed out of his stash.
Labels: creative writing, food, outtake, Poetry Train, touring, Trevor
