West of Mars -- the Meet and Greet

When Kerri woke, Mitchell was still busy with his Midnight Blue ESP. She wasn't sure what time he'd brought it up to their bedroom; she only remembered that it had been after three when she'd last looked at the clock, and the room had only held one guitar: the acoustic that was always there for middle-of-the-night inspirations.

In fact when Kerri had made that last time check, Mitchell had been as exhausted as she was, not bothering to pull the sheets back into place and barely noticing when she'd accidentally kneed him as she'd tried to get comfortable.

It was ten now, she saw when she lifted her head out of the pillows she'd had to use when he'd taken his shoulder back. Late for her, and she had a million things yet to do. Even though Michelle had started coming daily to clean, Kerri believed there was no reason to ask her to deal with the empty beer bottles in the TV room. Likewise, Kerri herself would strip the bed -- once Mitchell got his ass off it.

"Have you slept at all?" she asked him, sitting up and kissing his right shoulder.

He shook his head no, his mouth counting beats or mouthing chord changes or lyrics; Kerri wasn't sure which. Experience had taught her it was one of the three and until the notebook on his nightstand was full with a million scratch-outs and then a final, impossible-to-read song, he wasn't moving, saying, or possibly even thinking.

Such was life with a musician.

Kerri planted another kiss on his shoulder and brushed at the ends of his hair, laying so temptingly right above her lips, and got up to face the day.



Hope you're inspired by the Debut a Debut contest and are getting ready; we'll open for entries next week, February 12!

Labels: creative writing, fiction, Kerri, Mitchell, outtake, short story

"A shower cap? You want me to wear a fucking shower cap?"

Amy glanced around, wondering if the walls were shaking. For a little brother, Mitchell sure could thunder. "It beats corned beef," she pointed out.

"At least we could laugh about that!"

"Are you leaving this room?" she asked him, hands on hips. "I'm right here if anyone knocks. I won't let them see you," she promised even though under normal circumstances, if someone did knock, she'd shove him out into the hall and lock the door behind him.

This wasn't a normal circumstance, and they both knew it. Not if Mitchell had actually coughed up the cash to fly her down here to fix it.

At some point, she'd make sure that he paid for this with more than his wallet. But right now, Amy needed to restore his hair. The band could only ban photographers for so long, and they all knew that fans always managed, somehow, to sneak cameras in. Word would get out, if it hadn't already.

This could become legend.

Mitchell thrust the shower cap at her. "You fucking wear it. I'm sick of looking like a freak."

"You should see yourself right now," Amy told him. His hair was piled on top of his head like a turban, drips of mayonnaise-colored conditioner had spattered his bare arms and chest, and for some reason known only to him, he'd tucked a towel into the waistband of his jeans, as if to keep them clean. "You know, Mom wanted me to take pictures."

"You told her?"

Amy wanted to laugh at his scared look. Mitchell, ever the little boy who was terrified of being caught -- even when he'd been bad on purpose. "Of course I told Mom about it," she said. "I needed a ride to the airport, remember?"

He covered his face with his hands and stomped in a circle, moaning "no" over and over again. Amy actually felt a little sorry for him.

"C'mere and let's get this on you," she said, taking the clear plastic cap from him. "At least it's not pink."

He let her sit him down in a chair and put the shower cap on. "Let the warmth of your head penetrate the conditioner," she sing-songed, moving her hands over his head in what felt like a mystical way.

"I'm not sure if you're telling me I have a hot head or you're making some sex joke," he said, reburying his face in his hands, his elbows propped on his thighs.

Amy stopped, considering. "Both, probably. Speaking of sex, are any of you guys having trouble peeing yet? I picked up supplies just in case…"

Mitchell growled. Amy grinned at her little brother. He'd always been the one who'd made people smile, no matter what he'd done and how angry he'd made them. He'd always been the one people had been drawn to.

And now, Amy told herself, he was paying the price for it. A few less excited girls, toting beer and pizza money into the hotel's pool, slipping twenties to hotel management to keep them looking the other way… When she'd gotten to the hotel and rescued Mitchell from the room he shared with Trevor, the bass player had told her they hadn't spent a dime of their own money over the entire three days. In fact, Trevor had bragged, they'd come out a hundred bucks on top.

Yeah, Amy thought, sometimes it sucked being such a people magnet.

"Hey, Aim?" Mitchell said, his voice muffled by his hands.

"What's up, Pipsqueak?"

"Thanks."

Labels: creative writing, fiction, Green Hair Week, outtake, short story

The last person Mitchell wanted to talk to about this was Trevor. But Trevor was his roommate, and Daniel and Eric were off in their room, probably with girls. Which meant Mitchell couldn't just go knocking. Even if the interruption would be welcome -- which there was no way in Hell it would be -- Mitchell didn't want anyone outside the band to see the green too closely. Not that he wanted the guys to see the green, but he was stuck on that one.

"What else can we try?" he asked Trevor morosely.

Trevor held up the slice of pizza he was chowing on. "Anchovies? I'm still hungry."

"You hate anchovies, asshole," Mitchell said and flopped on his back on his bed. "And why the fuck would they work if nothing else has?"

"I still think you ought to cut it," Trevor said around a mouthful of the meatball pizza he'd special ordered, shamelessly using the ShapeShifter name to get what he wanted. For free, too, that fucker.

"Just shave it all," Trevor said. Mitchell could imagine his usual I'm-up-to-no-good expression. "It's hardly a chick magnet all green, but I hear chicks dig stubble. That could work for you for awhile."

Mitchell didn't even bother to snort. Trevor could shave his own damn head if he wanted to know about girls and stubble. But he was Mitchell Voss. He had an image to maintain as a long-haired rock god.

Which meant he had to get the blonde back.

Groaning, he reached for the phone. "Name your price," he said to the person who answered. "But you've got to get your ass over here and get the green out of my hair."

"What did you do now?" she asked.

"Are you gonna come, or not?"

"Are you going to pay for this?"

"Repeatedly," he sighed. But yeah, he'd pay for her flight down. There was no way she could get there if he didn't.

"I'll call you back when I book the flight."

Mitchell hung up and covered his face with his hands for a long minute, than sat up and lit a cigarette. Trevor was finishing the last piece of pizza. He'd eaten the whole thing by himself.

"Drastic measures?" Trevor asked, smacking his lips and flicking some leftover sauce off his fingers. It splattered on the wall.

"As drastic as it gets."

"Good." Trevor stood up and burped. He looked over at Mitchell. "I'm tired of your mopey ass. It's too big a world to spend it hiding in a hotel."

"We could go swimming," Mitchell told him.

Trevor laughed. "There's hope for you yet, asshole."

"Cut my hair off while I'm sleeping tonight and there won't be any hope for you," Mitchell tossed back. Knowing that help was on the way made him feel that much better.

Labels: creative writing, fiction, Green Hair Week, novel excerpt, outtake, short story

Mitchell was still waking up on the bus, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and scratching it off his chest, when he staggered into to the front lounge.

Trevor took one look at him and screeched, dropping his cigarette into the ashtray.

"What the fuck?" Mitchell asked, squinting at his band. He was, like it was any surprise, the last one up. Even Charlie the tour manager was sitting in the front lounge, pretending to read a magazine.

"Your head," Daniel said.

Mitchell scrubbed at his beard. He'd been too lazy after the show the night before to shave; he figured that blanket fuzz or feathers were stuck in it. Again.

"Your hair," Eric said. "It … how'd it get worse overnight?"

"It didn't," Daniel said, starting to smirk.

Trevor choked on his laughter. "Hey, dumb fuck," he said to Mitchell, who lifted his chin but still couldn't get his eyes the whole way open.

"Get out of the sun," Trevor said. "Man, I know plenty of girls who wouldn't stand on a street corner with hair that color."

"What are we going to do about it?" Eric asked.

"Bleach it?" Daniel suggested.

"Cut it off!" Trevor crowed.

"Same thing," the tour manager said, not looking up from his magazine. "I'll make some calls, see if we can find some beauty shop who'll fix you up."

Trevor snickered. "I want to see M in curlers!"

Mitchell growled at him and sunk into the bench seat behind the table. "If word about this gets out…"

Daniel played with one of his curls. "That's a good point. Maybe we should see if we can fix this, ourselves, first."

"How?" Eric asked.

Daniel opened the mini-fridge and looked inside. "I'm sure we can find something."

Labels: creative writing, fiction, Green Hair Week, novel excerpt, outtake, short story

Mitchell glared at the crowd. "What's the matter with you pussies?" he sneered.

He could feel the band holding its breath behind him. Like they hadn't expected him to do this.

"You guys are acting like my head's green or something."

Trevor cracked up, laughing so hard, he doubled over, his unbuttoned shirt brushing against the strings of his bass so that it, too, had a comment to make.

The crowd, though, was stunned almost into silence. After a long pause, they roared.

"That's been taken care of," Mitchell told Eric and hit the opening chord for the next song.

Labels: creative writing, fiction, Green Hair Week, novel excerpt, outtake, short story

No one noticed it until just before showtime. "Uhh… Mitchell?" Eric asked, standing over the band leader and peering down at his head.

"What?" Mitchell growled. His hangover was proving more stubborn than he'd anticipated and he'd already chugged the four quarts of orange juice that the band's tour rider specified -- and sent out a runner for two more. That meant, he was sure, he'd get halfway through the half-hour set and have to piss. Hopefully, there'd be a bathroom nearby. If not, he'd be decorating the venue.

Not that he'd never done that before.

Eric was touching his head, picking at his hair. Angrily, he swatted the lead guitarist away. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Your hair." Eric swallowed audibly. Mitchell, through the throbbing head and now the heartburn from all that orange juice, decided to let him say whatever it was that he was scared to. Then he'd kill him.

"It's … green."

Mitchell turned away and grabbed the nearest lock of past-his-shoulders hair. As he held it up, he could see it -- and it wasn't as faint as he'd hoped. "Fuck," he groaned, drawing the word out so that it was more a sound than an actual word.

"Three days in a pool, blondie," Trevor giggled, coming over for a look.

Mitchell very deliberately placed a fist in Trevor's gut and shoved him away. "Lemon juice," he ordered, looking around. They had lemon juice, he was sure of it, because Daniel put it in his tea.

The drummer hustled to hand over the little plastic lemon. Mitchell grabbed it and leaned over one of the sinks in the dressing room's bathroom, squirting the juice straight on his head and working it through his hair, trying to get it to bleach back to almost-white. Fucking stupid color for hair, he thought as he squirted and rubbed, squirted and rubbed.

Eric followed and helped. "Dans, send for more when you see a runner!" he called.

"Just steal some from the crew," Trevor said. He was leaning against the doorframe, watching as if this was better than anything he'd ever seen.

Then again, this being Trevor, it probably was. At least until the next greatest thing came along.

"Is it working?" Mitchell asked, the fumes making his eyes water. "My neck can't take much more."

"Uhh… no," Eric said. "And M, I hate to tell you this, but …"

"Spit it out."

"It's really green."

"Holy shit!" Daniel said, coming in the bathroom and poking at Mitchell's head. "How'd you make it worse?"

Mitchell jerked up so fast, he cracked his head on the faucet. He let out a wordless yowl and jumped up and down, a hand clapped to his wet hair, until the first jolt of pain faded.

Daniel clapped him on the shoulder as he left the bathroom, hopefully on the trail of more lemon juice. "Better fix it fast," the drummer said.

Mitchell stared at his reflection. He didn't need to get close to the mirror to see it. Green. His hair was green. He looked like a fucking polar bear at the height of summer, except even polar bears had some white left to them. He couldn't say the same. Not really. Not without exaggerating wildly.

Trevor, bent over at the waist and holding his gut, broke into peals of laughter.

"Trev, shut the fuck up. You're not helping," Mitchell told him, fighting a wave of panic. They had a show to do…

"FUCK!" Daniel roared, storming into the bathroom. "Charlie just came in. Dudes, we're on!"

They froze, giving each other terrified looks. They were about to take the stage, and their frontman, the one person everyone looked at, had very wet, very green long hair.

And the hot stage lights would probably only help one of those two problems.

Labels: creative writing, fiction, Green Hair Week, novel excerpt, outtake, short story

The show was over for the night; they'd kicked ass -- for a change, so Mitchell hadn't worried much when their tour manager had asked him to be fast about showering so they could have a few quick words. He'd been expecting to hear that JR, the band's manager, had set up a headlining tour. Instead, he came back to the dressing room with the next-best news he could think of.

"Guys, get this," he said with one of those grins that should have told them trouble was ahead. "Charlie just told me that Jim Shields changed the schedule."

"Again?" Eric groaned. He was bent over, tying his Doc Martens; his voice was muffled.

"Yeah, but this is good. He wants to take three days off after the Phoenix gig so he can go explore some of the power centers and shit in Sedona. As his opening act, we get three days off!"

"Power centers?" Eric arched an eyebrow.

"I heard his dick could use some energy," Trevor said. He was laying on his back on the couch the promoter had brought in, one foot on the floor, the other flung over the back of the couch. Mitchell wasn't entirely certain what he was doing with his hands -- or why there weren't any girls around. They were ShapeShifter; there were always girls around.

"Three days off," Mitchell said again. "Hello? Three days."

Daniel grinned at him. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

It still seemed too good to be true. "A place that's warm enough for an outdoor pool and three days with nothing to do but have us some fun? Fuck yeah, I'm thinking what you are!"

"Outdoor pool?" Trevor asked. He propped himself up on his elbows and gave Mitchell one of those looks that meant he was plotting something.

Mitchell didn't know his grin could get any bigger, but somehow, it did. "I told Charlie to make sure the hotel has all-night lighting out there and they know where to direct the pizza delivery guys. I, for one, am not leaving unless the cops make me. And even then, I'll be back!"

Daniel laughed. "I'm right there with you, bro."

"Eric? Trev?" Mitchell looked at them. As if they'd miss this.

The bigger question was who'd remember it.

Labels: creative writing, fiction, Green Hair Week, novel excerpt, outtake, short story

Patterson sent Sonya home with the car. "I'll wait for the boys."

"Will there be room?" she asked. She was tired, Patterson could tell; the night had drained her. If what he had to say to his son wasn't so important, he wouldn't be doing this, asking her to drive herself home without him. But catching Mitchell before he'd had a chance to sleep on the night's show was essential. It was entirely possible that he'd wake up in the morning, the entire disaster behind him and no replacement for the guitar forthcoming. It'd be as far behind him as baseball was. And while Patterson hadn't minded when baseball had gone away, privately he thought that his son had a future in music.

At the very least, the boy had invested enough into it: piano lessons, guitar lessons, voice lessons, lessons in music theory and music composition. Some of it he'd taught himself, some he'd learned from books, some he'd mowed lawns to be able to afford. Mitchell had shown that sort of work ethic with the baseball thing, but he'd been ten and so shy, working hard had been the perfect way to hide that. Now, though, Patterson was watching this band bring his son out of that shell. What was emerging was quite the young man: smart, loyal, driven, a planner, a businessman, and just plain good to be around.

The show tonight had been a disaster, there was no sugar-coating it. From the lead singer who fell off the stage and broke his guitar to the drummer putting a stick through the head of his snare and not having a backup handy to the lighting and the sound, there was only one good thing that could be said: not many people had been there. Patterson had counted about twenty, including himself and Sonya.

Trevor was, of course, grinning like the night had gone perfectly. For all that boy had been through, Trevor never stopped seeking the joy in life; it was that quality that Patterson had noticed the first time Amy had brought him home. It was that unfailing optimism that had led Patterson to take custody rather than let him face jail time.

Mitchell, though, was the opposite. Head down, shoulders slumped. It wasn't unreasonable to think that there'd be no more band come morning. Maybe it wasn't unreasonable to think there was currently mo more band.

"Son," Patterson said, trying to be gentle and not startle the boy.

It didn't work. Mitchell's head shot up and his eyes widened. "Oh, hi, Dad," he said when he recovered. He grimaced. "You going to rub it in?"

"No," Patterson said slowly, tilting his head at the empty spot on the bumper of his Bronco. As Mitchell sat, Patterson noticed Trevor hovering, just within earshot.

Well, Patterson figured, this would be good for Trevor to hear, too. "Even if I could make it sound good, I wouldn't. You needed a night like this," he said. "You needed to know what it feels like to fall on your face."

"What?" Mitchell half-rose to his feet, then caught himself, as if he was suddenly aware of who he was speaking to.

"You can't succeed without tasting failure," Patterson said. "If you never fail, you never get to find out what you're made of. So. What are you made of, Mitchell?"

Mitchell shook his head, his hair shaking and dancing, somehow as dejected as the boy.

Trevor tossed his own hair over his shoulder and lit a cigarette as he watched.

"Are you tough enough to suck tonight up, learn what you can, and move forward? Or is the band over now that you broke your guitar?"

"What am I supposed to play? You can't be a guitar player without a guitar."

"True," Patterson said. "Is that the only problem?"

Mitchell cocked his head as he thought. Patterson waited him out. "Yeah," the boy finally said. "I think so." He grimaced. "I've been trying to save up for another one, but it's not doing so well. I had to dig into it to pay for the latest run of t-shirts."

"Not taking your investment back out?"

Mitchell shook his head. "I figured it was worth it. Didn't think this sort of thing would happen."

"But it did, so where do you go from here?"

The boy grimaced. "I figure out how to get a new guitar."

"We'll steal you one if we need to," Trevor said with a shrug. "Sorry, Dad. You didn't hear that."

"That's true. I didn't." Patterson paused, noticing that Trevor had started to fade into the shadows. He wondered if Trevor was smoking something more than a cigarette; it wouldn't be the first time he'd tempted fate -- and the local cops.

Mitchell turned to Patterson. "I want this."

"This?"

"The band. A new guitar. Hell, a better guitar."

"Fame, fortune, and all the rest?"

Mitchell grinned at his father. "You betcha."

"Then, son," Patterson said, turning to him. "You know what it's going to take to get there."

"Yeah," Mitchell said, wiping a hand over his face. "A shitload of work." He stood up and fumbled in his pocket. "I'd better get busy. Trev, you ready?"

"To do what?" Trevor eyed Mitchell and looked ready to bolt. Patterson bit back a smile. Getting that particular boy to do anything he didn't want to was impossible; Patterson knew this first-hand.

"Go home and get some sleep," Mitchell said, possibly the only thing that Trevor wouldn't rebel against just for the sake of rebelling. "We need to find me a new guitar."

Patterson held out his hand, palm up. "I'll drive. You two can start plotting."

With a grin that said it all, Mitchell handed over the keys.



A note from Susan: This is a particularly good outtake for the day, as it seems I've been nominated for A Top Ten Writer's Blog! Talk about a good time to post an outtake that makes a statement; believe me, it wasn't planned this way. Karma's funny sometimes.

Any support you guys can throw my way will be most appreciated!

Labels: creative writing, fiction, outtake, short story

(with apologies to Cheesy)


Mitchell kicked the pizza box out of the way and, with a burp that shook the room, stretched out his legs on the coffee table. It bowed under his weight.

"M, man," Daniel said wonderingly. He picked up a drum stick and scratched his back with it. "You just ate the whole thing. I thought you weren't going to do that anymore."

"I wasn't," Mitchell slurred. He laid his head back on the grimy dressing-room couch. "But I wasn't gonna drink this much anymore, either." He burped again.

Trevor held up a hand, all five fingers splayed. Slowly, he dropped each finger in turn, starting with the index finger. Just as he tucked his thumb in, Mitchell sprinted for the bathroom.

"Death by cheese," Eric laughed.

"Should we save the box as a reminder for next time?" Daniel asked.

"Dumb fuck," Trevor said, shaking his head and, for a few minutes there, feeling in tune with Daniel and Eric.

Labels: creative writing, fiction, outtake, short story, Trevor

It was one of those autumn days that made everyone love being in Riverview, even Trevor. The air was so clear, it seemed every vein in every leaf stood out and could be seen from miles away. It was the sort of day when you believed that nothing bad could happen and when you spent the day laying down by the river with your best friend and daydreaming, nothing bad could happen.

"A flag," Trevor said, his head nestled comfortably in his hands, his feet crossed at the ankle. A cigarette clung to his lip, comfortably, like being with the idiot felt.

"What the fuck?" Mitchell asked, pulling his one ankle underneath his opposite leg. Fucker could sit like that for hours, all knotted up, especially if he had a guitar with him. Which he didn't; too afraid of dropping it in the river and watching it get swept to God-knew-where.

"A flag," he repeated. "A ShapeShifter flag. For our fans to pledge their love and shit to. You know… one nation, all for one, buy even our shitty records and defend them to the fans who can think… a flag."

Mitchell eyed him. Trevor shrugged and uncrossed one arm, peeling his cigarette off his lip. "A flag?" the big idiot repeated. "Why not something easier, like t-shirts? I bet they cost less to make and we'd sell more."

At that, Trevor had to sit up. "I'm not talking of something for them. This is about us."

"It's all about us," Mitchell reminded him, reaching for Trevor's cigarette.

Trevor pulled it away. "Get your own, fucker."

"I'm out."

Trev grinned. "What? Spend all your allowance money again?"

"No," Mitchell answered in the same taunting voice that Trevor had just used. "That girl last night ripped my last pack off and I haven't had time to get more."

Trevor nodded. "You have lousy taste in girls."

"I bet she'd stand naked under that flag of yours."

"Okay, not so lousy." He handed the cigarette over. "But a flag." He let his eyes unfocus. "United Fans of ShapeShifter. I like it."

"You're a dork," Mitchell said.

Trevor glanced at him, unsurprised to see the wheels in the idiot's own brain turning.

Labels: creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, short story, Trevor