Friday, September 12, 2008
100 Words: Twist (Pre-Trevor's Song Era)
There had to be something fucked up about it. Normal people didn't come off stage and crave ice cream, but then again, Trevor Wolff wasn't normal people.
Not mere ice cream. Soft serve. Or softish old-fashioned, the kind that demands constant attention and a tongue pushing it down to the bottom of the cone and wiping up what spills over the sides and down over your hands…
Mitchell liked to drag a willing girl into the shower But Trevor, he liked to wait. To make that trip and choose which you felt like: vanilla or chocolate. Or some of each.
Methinks there's more than one twist going on here, but I'm not entirely certain. You decide.
If you're new to Trevor and Mitchell, well, what took you so long to get here? Come hang out with everyone's favorite fictional band! Click on the boys' names to be taken to a character sketch page that'll tell you all you need to know and even give you extra links to see them in action.
This short piece was written for Velvet Verbosity's 100 word challenge. Come join in; it's a great writing exercise.
Not mere ice cream. Soft serve. Or softish old-fashioned, the kind that demands constant attention and a tongue pushing it down to the bottom of the cone and wiping up what spills over the sides and down over your hands…
Mitchell liked to drag a willing girl into the shower But Trevor, he liked to wait. To make that trip and choose which you felt like: vanilla or chocolate. Or some of each.
Methinks there's more than one twist going on here, but I'm not entirely certain. You decide.
If you're new to Trevor and Mitchell, well, what took you so long to get here? Come hang out with everyone's favorite fictional band! Click on the boys' names to be taken to a character sketch page that'll tell you all you need to know and even give you extra links to see them in action.
This short piece was written for Velvet Verbosity's 100 word challenge. Come join in; it's a great writing exercise.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, food, Mitchell, touring, Trevor, Velvet Verbosity
Thursday, August 28, 2008
DMH Fiction: Somewhere
"Where are we?" Scott asked, looking over Fozzy's shoulder. He pushed up his glasses even though they didn't need it.
Fozzy shrugged. "Somewhere."
"Is that somewhere near where we're supposed to be?"
Fozzy shrugged. "It's somewhere in the mountains. Are we supposed to be in the mountains?"
Lido handed Scott the map. "Are there mountains in Texas?"
"No," Scott said, wanting to grab handfuls of hair and tug until his scalp hurt. He wanted The Hatchet to come out of its blankets and chop down the mountains and get them to Texas. "We have a problem. We need to be in Texas in an hour."
"This isn't Texas," Fozzy said.
"No shit, Sherlock," Lido said. "I told you to take that right."
"We have an hour before we have to load in, and we're staring at the frickin mountains!" Scott leaned back in the seat and kicked, hoping he caught Fozzy in the butt. Idiot. How many times had he said, "Go East. Due East. We're in Arizona, so there's no way we can miss Texas"? How frickin dumb was the guy, and who the hell had stuffed him in the back seat where he wouldn't be able to see well so he could catch this mistake earlier?
"So what do we do?" Lido asked. Scott could see the panic creeping into the guy's eyes, hear it in his voice.
"Like I know?" Scott shot back. "If you'd followed the stupid map…" He grabbed it out of Lido's hand and looked at it.
No wonder. Lido had been holding it upside-down.
"I guess," Scott said, taking the deepest breath he could manage in the mountains' thin air, "we turn around and go home. And hope like hell someone'll hire us again once word about this gets out. You know it will."
"There's no way?" Fozzy asked.
"Dude, we don't even frickin know where we are!"
"Gimme that map," Fozzy said. Once it was in his hand, he carried it back to the trailer Lido's dad had loaned them for the quick trip to Texas. The Hatchet was in there, sleeping.
Scott seethed while Fozzy waited for The Hatchet to do its thing. Lido hung
his head, lit a cigarette, and tried to look cool.
Gecko just sat and stared at his hands, folded in his lap.
Scott wished he could be more like Gecko. Nothing bothered Gecko.
Including the confetti Fozzy brought back up to the front.
"Good work," Scott said. "Now how do we get home?"
For every ShapeShifter in the world, there's more than one Deadly Metal Hatchet. Hapless but well-intentioned. Talentless but with a great marketing gimmick. And hoping to make it big.
Explore more Deadly Metal Hatchet here. And be sure to leave a comment so I can return your visit, eh?
If you need a Trevor fix, there's one I posted right below this one... Come on... you know you do!
Fozzy shrugged. "Somewhere."
"Is that somewhere near where we're supposed to be?"
Fozzy shrugged. "It's somewhere in the mountains. Are we supposed to be in the mountains?"
Lido handed Scott the map. "Are there mountains in Texas?"
"No," Scott said, wanting to grab handfuls of hair and tug until his scalp hurt. He wanted The Hatchet to come out of its blankets and chop down the mountains and get them to Texas. "We have a problem. We need to be in Texas in an hour."
"This isn't Texas," Fozzy said.
"No shit, Sherlock," Lido said. "I told you to take that right."
"We have an hour before we have to load in, and we're staring at the frickin mountains!" Scott leaned back in the seat and kicked, hoping he caught Fozzy in the butt. Idiot. How many times had he said, "Go East. Due East. We're in Arizona, so there's no way we can miss Texas"? How frickin dumb was the guy, and who the hell had stuffed him in the back seat where he wouldn't be able to see well so he could catch this mistake earlier?
"So what do we do?" Lido asked. Scott could see the panic creeping into the guy's eyes, hear it in his voice.
"Like I know?" Scott shot back. "If you'd followed the stupid map…" He grabbed it out of Lido's hand and looked at it.
No wonder. Lido had been holding it upside-down.
"I guess," Scott said, taking the deepest breath he could manage in the mountains' thin air, "we turn around and go home. And hope like hell someone'll hire us again once word about this gets out. You know it will."
"There's no way?" Fozzy asked.
"Dude, we don't even frickin know where we are!"
"Gimme that map," Fozzy said. Once it was in his hand, he carried it back to the trailer Lido's dad had loaned them for the quick trip to Texas. The Hatchet was in there, sleeping.
Scott seethed while Fozzy waited for The Hatchet to do its thing. Lido hung
his head, lit a cigarette, and tried to look cool.
Gecko just sat and stared at his hands, folded in his lap.
Scott wished he could be more like Gecko. Nothing bothered Gecko.
Including the confetti Fozzy brought back up to the front.
"Good work," Scott said. "Now how do we get home?"
For every ShapeShifter in the world, there's more than one Deadly Metal Hatchet. Hapless but well-intentioned. Talentless but with a great marketing gimmick. And hoping to make it big.
Explore more Deadly Metal Hatchet here. And be sure to leave a comment so I can return your visit, eh?
If you need a Trevor fix, there's one I posted right below this one... Come on... you know you do!
Labels: creative writing, Deadly Metal Hatchet, fiction, Sunday Scribblings, touring
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Bored on the Bus (Trevor's Song Era)
They'd been on the bus for what felt like weeks. So long that they were way overdue for a day off inside of an actual hotel room -- and every single member of ShapeShifter was grossed out by the thought of how excited they were about something as sterile and isolated as a hotel room. But at this point, with only the bus or the inside of the venue to look at, a hotel seemed like the ultimate luxury.
During these stretches, it wasn't unusual for no one to talk. No one had anything to say, really. Not when you were spending exactly every waking minute with each other. Not when you'd done this dance for years.
Mitchell didn't even have much to say to Kerri, which was pretty pathetic considering they were still newlyweds. She didn't seem to care, except that she was as bored as the rest of them. So bored that she had squished herself on the couch beside him, her chin on his upraised knee. Instead of drawing, she was playing idly with the hair on his leg. He knew she wouldn't be doing it if he'd put his jeans back on, but when all you were doing was sitting on a bus, why bother with pants?
He could only take so much of Kerri's petting and stroking. It wasn't hot, it wasn't comforting. It was just damn annoying.
He lifted his leg and straightened it, moving gently so he didn't startle her onto the floor or hurt her. "Woman," he growled, "my leg is not a guitar. If you want to strum something, go find one."
With a shrug, Kerri stood up.
"What are you doing?" He knew he flailed as he sat up, but he didn't care. She'd been supposed to stop petting him, not do … whatever.
"Getting a guitar," she said carelessly, and disappeared into the bunks.
Eric and Daniel chuckled as Mitchell groaned, but Trevor nodded. "That'll teach your dumb ass," the bass player said and lit a cigarette. "You know she can't resist a challenge. Even an easy one like that."
"At least it'll give us something to do," Daniel said as Kerri came back carrying Mabel.
She sat down at the other end of Trevor's couch, facing Mitchell, and put the guitar properly on her right leg. Then she shook out her hair and straightened her back, looking to the table at Eric. Mitchell noticed how pointedly she ignored him. He tried to keep his latest groan inaudible; it would only egg her on.
"So. What do I do now?" she asked Eric, a too-bright smile plastered to her face.
Mitchell wanted to cover his own face with his hands. Anything to keep from watching this. But he couldn't look away.
"You need a pick," Eric said.
Kerri handed the guitar to Trevor, who took it with a sneer. She stood up, watching Mitchell as if she expected him to do something.
"What?" he asked as she stared down at him. Fuck, but he hated it when she smiled like that. All smug and full of herself -- and about to make him the butt of some joke, he was sure. Anyone with a shred of common sense would get up and leave before it happened, but he was stuck there, both by his own inertia and some sick need to be present.
Kerri bent down so she could reach across him, making sure she brushed her breast against his face. She dug in the change pocket of his jeans.
He refused to so much as breathe until she came up with one of the eight million or so picks they'd had made for this tour. He told himself not to panic; he still had two others in there. And maybe she'd give it back. Or, even better, make him come looking for it.
She smirked at him as she reseated herself and took Mabel back from Trevor.
"Okay," she said to Eric, "now what?"
Trevor leaned forward as Eric motioned Mitchell out of the way so he could sit across from Kerri and give her instructions. She made a show of not knowing how to hold the pick or how to use it.
Her performance set Mitchell's teeth on edge. And that was before she struck a note.
"What about my face?" she asked when Eric told her she was ready to move on to the next step.
"What about it?" Eric asked.
"Not even Asshole there can play guitar with his face," Trevor said, jerking his chin at Mitchell, who growled. Kerri didn't need to know about the time he'd tried. Hell, Mitchell wasn't srue Trevor knew about it.
Kerri took a deep, exaggerated breath. "I know that," she said. "But to watch the three of you, in order to play guitar, you also have to make faces. Like this," she said, puckering up like she'd eaten a lemon. "Or this," she said, opening her mouth and widening her eyes.
Daniel laughed.
"Oh, you're not much better, you know," Kerri said, pointing the pick at him. She stuck her tongue into her cheek and, again, let her jaw drop open.
Mitchell bit back a smile, but Eric didn't bother hiding it. Her faces were poor imitations of theirs, but they got the point across. Daniel pretended he didn't care, and Trevor was pretending he wasn't paying attention, even though his eyes flicked back and forth. He was, like always, too full of himself to give in and have a good time, especially because it was Kerri at the root of it all. Trevor couldn't stand it when she pulled shit like this -- because he wanted to be the one at the center of it.
"You know what's going to happen now?" Daniel asked, picking up Eric's cigarettes and fiddling with the pack. "We're going to get on stage tonight and obsess about our faces."
That was entirely too true.
Mitchell told himself he shouldn't care. Guitar players were supposed to make faces; the girls in the crowd ate it up. The guys thought it was the path to coolness -- and a lot of them practiced their faces more than they did their guitars even though the more you played, the more natural the faces turned. It was all part of rock and roll.
Besides, he told himself as Kerri tried to stand up, only to discover the hard way that guitars had straps for a specific reason, if this got inside his head too bad, he'd divorce the wench.
But in the meantime, at least he wasn't bored.
Has it been too long since we've had an outtake just for the fun or it, or WHAT?
If you're new around here, the best way to figure out what's up is to head over to my main website and poke around. Or click on each character's name above; that'll take you to their character sketch page on the website. You can read about everyone, or click on some of the links at the bottom of the page and be taken back here to the blog for more of the gang in action.
During these stretches, it wasn't unusual for no one to talk. No one had anything to say, really. Not when you were spending exactly every waking minute with each other. Not when you'd done this dance for years.
Mitchell didn't even have much to say to Kerri, which was pretty pathetic considering they were still newlyweds. She didn't seem to care, except that she was as bored as the rest of them. So bored that she had squished herself on the couch beside him, her chin on his upraised knee. Instead of drawing, she was playing idly with the hair on his leg. He knew she wouldn't be doing it if he'd put his jeans back on, but when all you were doing was sitting on a bus, why bother with pants?
He could only take so much of Kerri's petting and stroking. It wasn't hot, it wasn't comforting. It was just damn annoying.
He lifted his leg and straightened it, moving gently so he didn't startle her onto the floor or hurt her. "Woman," he growled, "my leg is not a guitar. If you want to strum something, go find one."
With a shrug, Kerri stood up.
"What are you doing?" He knew he flailed as he sat up, but he didn't care. She'd been supposed to stop petting him, not do … whatever.
"Getting a guitar," she said carelessly, and disappeared into the bunks.
Eric and Daniel chuckled as Mitchell groaned, but Trevor nodded. "That'll teach your dumb ass," the bass player said and lit a cigarette. "You know she can't resist a challenge. Even an easy one like that."
"At least it'll give us something to do," Daniel said as Kerri came back carrying Mabel.
She sat down at the other end of Trevor's couch, facing Mitchell, and put the guitar properly on her right leg. Then she shook out her hair and straightened her back, looking to the table at Eric. Mitchell noticed how pointedly she ignored him. He tried to keep his latest groan inaudible; it would only egg her on.
"So. What do I do now?" she asked Eric, a too-bright smile plastered to her face.
Mitchell wanted to cover his own face with his hands. Anything to keep from watching this. But he couldn't look away.
"You need a pick," Eric said.
Kerri handed the guitar to Trevor, who took it with a sneer. She stood up, watching Mitchell as if she expected him to do something.
"What?" he asked as she stared down at him. Fuck, but he hated it when she smiled like that. All smug and full of herself -- and about to make him the butt of some joke, he was sure. Anyone with a shred of common sense would get up and leave before it happened, but he was stuck there, both by his own inertia and some sick need to be present.
Kerri bent down so she could reach across him, making sure she brushed her breast against his face. She dug in the change pocket of his jeans.
He refused to so much as breathe until she came up with one of the eight million or so picks they'd had made for this tour. He told himself not to panic; he still had two others in there. And maybe she'd give it back. Or, even better, make him come looking for it.
She smirked at him as she reseated herself and took Mabel back from Trevor.
"Okay," she said to Eric, "now what?"
Trevor leaned forward as Eric motioned Mitchell out of the way so he could sit across from Kerri and give her instructions. She made a show of not knowing how to hold the pick or how to use it.
Her performance set Mitchell's teeth on edge. And that was before she struck a note.
"What about my face?" she asked when Eric told her she was ready to move on to the next step.
"What about it?" Eric asked.
"Not even Asshole there can play guitar with his face," Trevor said, jerking his chin at Mitchell, who growled. Kerri didn't need to know about the time he'd tried. Hell, Mitchell wasn't srue Trevor knew about it.
Kerri took a deep, exaggerated breath. "I know that," she said. "But to watch the three of you, in order to play guitar, you also have to make faces. Like this," she said, puckering up like she'd eaten a lemon. "Or this," she said, opening her mouth and widening her eyes.
Daniel laughed.
"Oh, you're not much better, you know," Kerri said, pointing the pick at him. She stuck her tongue into her cheek and, again, let her jaw drop open.
Mitchell bit back a smile, but Eric didn't bother hiding it. Her faces were poor imitations of theirs, but they got the point across. Daniel pretended he didn't care, and Trevor was pretending he wasn't paying attention, even though his eyes flicked back and forth. He was, like always, too full of himself to give in and have a good time, especially because it was Kerri at the root of it all. Trevor couldn't stand it when she pulled shit like this -- because he wanted to be the one at the center of it.
"You know what's going to happen now?" Daniel asked, picking up Eric's cigarettes and fiddling with the pack. "We're going to get on stage tonight and obsess about our faces."
That was entirely too true.
Mitchell told himself he shouldn't care. Guitar players were supposed to make faces; the girls in the crowd ate it up. The guys thought it was the path to coolness -- and a lot of them practiced their faces more than they did their guitars even though the more you played, the more natural the faces turned. It was all part of rock and roll.
Besides, he told himself as Kerri tried to stand up, only to discover the hard way that guitars had straps for a specific reason, if this got inside his head too bad, he'd divorce the wench.
But in the meantime, at least he wasn't bored.
Has it been too long since we've had an outtake just for the fun or it, or WHAT?
If you're new around here, the best way to figure out what's up is to head over to my main website and poke around. Or click on each character's name above; that'll take you to their character sketch page on the website. You can read about everyone, or click on some of the links at the bottom of the page and be taken back here to the blog for more of the gang in action.
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, Eric, fiction, fiction outtake, Mitchell, ShapeShifter, touring, Trevor
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Key Lime Pie (Trevor's Song era)
No Thirteen this week, as I'm off to Cub Scout Camp again this summer. As a treat, I thought I'd show you what you guys inspired, based on your responses to this Thirteen I wrote back in May. Hope you like it; there may be more to follow if you do.
Eric didn't notice it until he was on his way back to sound check. He'd just taken a bathroom break that had been long enough to make his tech feel like part of the band instead of the stand-in for the real guitarist. Stupid touring; it got to him like this every few weeks, it seemed. It got to all of them, but he swore, he got it the worst.
He stopped by the deli tray to grab a slice of turkey. That's when he noticed it, sitting on the end of the table like it didn't need to be kept cold or anything.
Mitchell was not going to be happy about it.
Eric wasn't quite out of the dressing room when the rest of the guys pushed through the door.
"Nice of you to come back," Trevor told him with one of his usual sneers. "I thought you were a member of ShapeShifter."
"I didn't really want the guy puking on stage," Mitchell told the bass player. Eric tried to get a feel for the guy's mood. Sometimes, sound check went well and mellowed Mitchell out. Sometimes, it totally sucked and the guy was a dragon. Right now, he was talkative.
"Remember what happened when that one roadie puked?" Mitchell asked. "How fucking bad it smelled? And it lasted until the end of the tour, too. No, Eric, you did the right thing, ducking out on us. We wrote a new song," the band leader said.
Eric smiled wanly and flopped down on the couch. Mitchell was in a good enough mood. Maybe he wouldn't hurt someone when he noticed it.
… or then again, maybe he would, Eric thought when Mitchell growled, "What the fuck is that?"
Eric sat up to look.
Mitchell stood in front of it, breathing so hard, his nostrils flared. "Get someone in here who can explain this," he said.
Since the four of them were alone at the moment, Daniel jumped to do it.
"Just use it for an ashtray," Trevor said, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and reaching to lead by example.
Mitchell strong-armed him out of the way.
"Well, fuck you, too," Trevor said.
"Not until we get some fucking answers," Mitchell growled. He hadn't taken his eyes off it. Eric wasn't sure he would, even though it was pretty obvious the thing wasn't going to move by itself.
Daniel came back. "They're going to find someone," he said and stood on his toes to peek over Mitchell's shoulder, as if he needed to be shielded from it. "At least this one's not green."
Mitchell growled more loudly. Daniel backed off. Even Trevor took a step back.
A few minutes passed with no one really knowing what to do. All four of them kept throwing glances at it, like they expected it to get up and come after them or something. Maybe melt, Eric decided, picking up a can of Coke from a bus tray full of melting ice. If that ice was melting, there was no way the non-green thing was in good shape.
Not like any of them would be dumb enough to eat it.
"There's a problem?" The mousy man who led Charlie, the band's tour manager, into the dressing room had seven strands of hair left at the front of his head. They'd been pulled back into a ponytail and they made the guy instantly memorable.
Charlie peeked over Mitchell's shoulder. "Whoa. That's some bad vibes." He turned to the mousy guy. "That a key lime pie?"
Mousy guy nodded. "My wife made it. She said she read in a magazine that you guys like key lime pies."
From across the room, Eric could hear Mitchell breathing. Hard. He closed his eyes and hoped the guy wasn't about to explode.
"Take it out of here," Mitchell said. It wasn't a request.
"But my wife…"
"Take it!"
"What'll I tell her?" The guy's eyes were darting everywhere, like he was about to panic.
Mitchell picked up the pie and pressed it firmly into the guy's chest. "Tell her you hope it doesn't stain. And tell her she needs to be more careful about what she reads because we fucking hate key lime pie."
He let go. Half the pie fell to the floor. The other half stuck to the guy's shirt.
"Oh," the guy said in such a small voice, it was almost a squeak.
Eric stood up. "Look," he said, "thank your wife for the pie, but explain to her that she read an article written by a reporter who has a problem with us ever since Trevor puked on him after eating a key lime pie that some fan had made."
"But my wife…"
Daniel put a hand on the guy's shoulder, looking with distaste at the custard smeared on his shirt, "Was wrong, and you got off light. We're the band. This pie was a violation of our concert rider and we could pull even more of a prima donna routine and make you very unhappy. You got off light. Hell, Charlie, give the guy a free t-shirt to wear and then call JR. We don't do shows with this joker anymore."
The mousy guy paled. "But…"
Mitchell started to laugh. "You're the promoter and you fucked up this royally? Dude, you're done. Go fucking sell real estate or something." He jerked his head toward the door and Charlie sprang into action, escorting the mousy promoter dude out of the dressing room.
Trevor and Daniel laughed. Even Mitchell relaxed enough to smile.
"The best laid plans…" Eric said and decided that pie or no, he needed to return to the bathroom.
Ahh, yes. Sometimes, it sucks to be in a band. If you're new to ShapeShifter, or if you want to read more, click on the links in each band member's name. That'll take you to that person's bio page. Once you've read the bio and gotten a bit of a background on them, you can follow the links at the bottom to read more of their adventures.
Not sure where to start?
Here are a few of my favorite ShapeShifter adventures on the road:
Backstage Party
Bean Dip #1
Bean Dip #2
Green Hair Week -- The Concert (You may need to read the whole series to really get it, but it's fun.)
If you need me for anything, I'll be back in a few days. The Tour Manager will hold the fort down while I'm gone.
Eric didn't notice it until he was on his way back to sound check. He'd just taken a bathroom break that had been long enough to make his tech feel like part of the band instead of the stand-in for the real guitarist. Stupid touring; it got to him like this every few weeks, it seemed. It got to all of them, but he swore, he got it the worst.
He stopped by the deli tray to grab a slice of turkey. That's when he noticed it, sitting on the end of the table like it didn't need to be kept cold or anything.
Mitchell was not going to be happy about it.
Eric wasn't quite out of the dressing room when the rest of the guys pushed through the door.
"Nice of you to come back," Trevor told him with one of his usual sneers. "I thought you were a member of ShapeShifter."
"I didn't really want the guy puking on stage," Mitchell told the bass player. Eric tried to get a feel for the guy's mood. Sometimes, sound check went well and mellowed Mitchell out. Sometimes, it totally sucked and the guy was a dragon. Right now, he was talkative.
"Remember what happened when that one roadie puked?" Mitchell asked. "How fucking bad it smelled? And it lasted until the end of the tour, too. No, Eric, you did the right thing, ducking out on us. We wrote a new song," the band leader said.
Eric smiled wanly and flopped down on the couch. Mitchell was in a good enough mood. Maybe he wouldn't hurt someone when he noticed it.
… or then again, maybe he would, Eric thought when Mitchell growled, "What the fuck is that?"
Eric sat up to look.
Mitchell stood in front of it, breathing so hard, his nostrils flared. "Get someone in here who can explain this," he said.
Since the four of them were alone at the moment, Daniel jumped to do it.
"Just use it for an ashtray," Trevor said, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and reaching to lead by example.
Mitchell strong-armed him out of the way.
"Well, fuck you, too," Trevor said.
"Not until we get some fucking answers," Mitchell growled. He hadn't taken his eyes off it. Eric wasn't sure he would, even though it was pretty obvious the thing wasn't going to move by itself.
Daniel came back. "They're going to find someone," he said and stood on his toes to peek over Mitchell's shoulder, as if he needed to be shielded from it. "At least this one's not green."
Mitchell growled more loudly. Daniel backed off. Even Trevor took a step back.
A few minutes passed with no one really knowing what to do. All four of them kept throwing glances at it, like they expected it to get up and come after them or something. Maybe melt, Eric decided, picking up a can of Coke from a bus tray full of melting ice. If that ice was melting, there was no way the non-green thing was in good shape.
Not like any of them would be dumb enough to eat it.
"There's a problem?" The mousy man who led Charlie, the band's tour manager, into the dressing room had seven strands of hair left at the front of his head. They'd been pulled back into a ponytail and they made the guy instantly memorable.
Charlie peeked over Mitchell's shoulder. "Whoa. That's some bad vibes." He turned to the mousy guy. "That a key lime pie?"
Mousy guy nodded. "My wife made it. She said she read in a magazine that you guys like key lime pies."
From across the room, Eric could hear Mitchell breathing. Hard. He closed his eyes and hoped the guy wasn't about to explode.
"Take it out of here," Mitchell said. It wasn't a request.
"But my wife…"
"Take it!"
"What'll I tell her?" The guy's eyes were darting everywhere, like he was about to panic.
Mitchell picked up the pie and pressed it firmly into the guy's chest. "Tell her you hope it doesn't stain. And tell her she needs to be more careful about what she reads because we fucking hate key lime pie."
He let go. Half the pie fell to the floor. The other half stuck to the guy's shirt.
"Oh," the guy said in such a small voice, it was almost a squeak.
Eric stood up. "Look," he said, "thank your wife for the pie, but explain to her that she read an article written by a reporter who has a problem with us ever since Trevor puked on him after eating a key lime pie that some fan had made."
"But my wife…"
Daniel put a hand on the guy's shoulder, looking with distaste at the custard smeared on his shirt, "Was wrong, and you got off light. We're the band. This pie was a violation of our concert rider and we could pull even more of a prima donna routine and make you very unhappy. You got off light. Hell, Charlie, give the guy a free t-shirt to wear and then call JR. We don't do shows with this joker anymore."
The mousy guy paled. "But…"
Mitchell started to laugh. "You're the promoter and you fucked up this royally? Dude, you're done. Go fucking sell real estate or something." He jerked his head toward the door and Charlie sprang into action, escorting the mousy promoter dude out of the dressing room.
Trevor and Daniel laughed. Even Mitchell relaxed enough to smile.
"The best laid plans…" Eric said and decided that pie or no, he needed to return to the bathroom.
Ahh, yes. Sometimes, it sucks to be in a band. If you're new to ShapeShifter, or if you want to read more, click on the links in each band member's name. That'll take you to that person's bio page. Once you've read the bio and gotten a bit of a background on them, you can follow the links at the bottom to read more of their adventures.
Not sure where to start?
Here are a few of my favorite ShapeShifter adventures on the road:
Backstage Party
Bean Dip #1
Bean Dip #2
Green Hair Week -- The Concert (You may need to read the whole series to really get it, but it's fun.)
If you need me for anything, I'll be back in a few days. The Tour Manager will hold the fort down while I'm gone.
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, Eric, fiction, fiction outtake, Mitchell, ShapeShifter, touring, Trevor
Friday, June 13, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Backstage with Jen
I had my head down, which had to be the dumbest thing I've ever done. I'm supposed to walk at the back of the line and make sure there aren't any stragglers. I'm supposed to be helping out. That's part of my job, part of the price that goes with the perks of all these backstage gigs. I'm supposed to be working.
Work is what I was thinking about, too, which makes this even stupider. It's been on my mind lately. Is this what I want to spend my life doing? Seriously?
When I looked up, I'd walked to the usual meet-and-greet area, right outside the band's dressing room. Only, no one was there.
This is a problem. The backstage area in this Civic Center is huge. There were only about twenty people lined up for the meet-and-greet, and twenty people can barely fill one of the corners in here. Not to mention, they can be practically anywhere. I could spend the entire night hunting for them and still be looking when the last of the production trucks pull out.
Fortunately, before I could panic, a woman came out of the band's dressing room. She wasn't much taller than me, but she was wearing these amazingly high fuck-me heels. Skinny jeans that rode so low on her hips, I knew she couldn't bend over and keep them on. And the hair. Jet black and hanging loose, halfway down her back and teasing the back of her bustier, which, o of course, laced up the front and pushed her boobs halfway up to her chin.
I don't think I need to mention she had the nails and makeup to match.
I was staring at rock and roll royalty, only I had no idea who she was. About all I can tell you is that she was not crew. Nor was she your regular, run-of-the-mill groupie. Not with that air of belonging that she had.
She frowned at me and put the backs of her hands on those skinny little hips. I could almost see her hip bones. I didn't even want to try to compare them to mine. "Hmm," she said. "Looks like you're lost."
I nodded helplessly. There were no words for her. There were no words from me at all at that moment, which wasn't the smartest thing. I should have been introducing myself to her; I had every right to be … well, at the meet-and-greet, doing my job.
"Well," she said and turned, taking her hands off her hips and motioning me forward with one, "let's go. I'll take you over there."
There was no sigh that showed she didn't want to be responsible for me. No nothing. Just straight matter-of-fact, no big deal. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was easier than letting me be in the wrong place when the band came out. They might get a big laugh out of the record label rep who had to follow the band to get to where she belonged, or they might go ballistic that I wasn't in my place. They were, after all, the band. I worked for them, and this one in particular wasn't one you pissed off or fucked around with. Not if you want to hang on to your job.
And don't you think that us local reps forget that. Once we do, we're done.
"Hey Charlie," my guide called when we'd gone around two corners and stood in a huge open space that would soon be filled with roadies pushing road trunks to their specific trucks for the trip to the next town. "I found a lost soul for you."
"I was wondering where you'd gotten to, Jen," the band's tour manager said. I touched the girl's elbow in thanks and went to stand with Charlie.
"Thanks, Val," the tour manager called as the woman strutted off.
"Val?" I echoed. Something about the name struck a chord, but I couldn't place it.
"The drummer's girlfriend?" Charlie said, giving me a look that told me I should have known this. I probably should have; when I'd started as a record rep, I'd known everything about every band on our label. I'd probably even met this woman. Hell, I'd probably talked to her at one point. Maybe even known her name back then.
After awhile in this job, names and faces start to blend together. The troublemakers and the divas, those are the ones who stand out, followed by the cool ones. My guide would be one of them now, too. She was the exact person I'd dreamed of being when I'd taken this job.
I began handing out cover flats and talking to the guests as I pulled Sharpies out of my purse, getting everyone ready for the band's appearance. Just doing my job, basically. But part of my brain wondered if this was really what I wanted to be doing the rest of my life. I'd passed the point at which I could morph into rock royalty, like I'd once dreamed of being.
I guess the question was who was I, and who did I want to be now.
You groupies may recognize Charlie and Val (and the mention of Daniel, too), but this is really Jen's piece. I'm not sure who she is, not really, except that I CAN say she's not autobiographical, as the Tour Manager asked. And while I'd like to get to know her more, I'm not sure there's a novel in her. We'll have to wait and see.
Work is what I was thinking about, too, which makes this even stupider. It's been on my mind lately. Is this what I want to spend my life doing? Seriously?
When I looked up, I'd walked to the usual meet-and-greet area, right outside the band's dressing room. Only, no one was there.
This is a problem. The backstage area in this Civic Center is huge. There were only about twenty people lined up for the meet-and-greet, and twenty people can barely fill one of the corners in here. Not to mention, they can be practically anywhere. I could spend the entire night hunting for them and still be looking when the last of the production trucks pull out.
Fortunately, before I could panic, a woman came out of the band's dressing room. She wasn't much taller than me, but she was wearing these amazingly high fuck-me heels. Skinny jeans that rode so low on her hips, I knew she couldn't bend over and keep them on. And the hair. Jet black and hanging loose, halfway down her back and teasing the back of her bustier, which, o of course, laced up the front and pushed her boobs halfway up to her chin.
I don't think I need to mention she had the nails and makeup to match.
I was staring at rock and roll royalty, only I had no idea who she was. About all I can tell you is that she was not crew. Nor was she your regular, run-of-the-mill groupie. Not with that air of belonging that she had.
She frowned at me and put the backs of her hands on those skinny little hips. I could almost see her hip bones. I didn't even want to try to compare them to mine. "Hmm," she said. "Looks like you're lost."
I nodded helplessly. There were no words for her. There were no words from me at all at that moment, which wasn't the smartest thing. I should have been introducing myself to her; I had every right to be … well, at the meet-and-greet, doing my job.
"Well," she said and turned, taking her hands off her hips and motioning me forward with one, "let's go. I'll take you over there."
There was no sigh that showed she didn't want to be responsible for me. No nothing. Just straight matter-of-fact, no big deal. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was easier than letting me be in the wrong place when the band came out. They might get a big laugh out of the record label rep who had to follow the band to get to where she belonged, or they might go ballistic that I wasn't in my place. They were, after all, the band. I worked for them, and this one in particular wasn't one you pissed off or fucked around with. Not if you want to hang on to your job.
And don't you think that us local reps forget that. Once we do, we're done.
"Hey Charlie," my guide called when we'd gone around two corners and stood in a huge open space that would soon be filled with roadies pushing road trunks to their specific trucks for the trip to the next town. "I found a lost soul for you."
"I was wondering where you'd gotten to, Jen," the band's tour manager said. I touched the girl's elbow in thanks and went to stand with Charlie.
"Thanks, Val," the tour manager called as the woman strutted off.
"Val?" I echoed. Something about the name struck a chord, but I couldn't place it.
"The drummer's girlfriend?" Charlie said, giving me a look that told me I should have known this. I probably should have; when I'd started as a record rep, I'd known everything about every band on our label. I'd probably even met this woman. Hell, I'd probably talked to her at one point. Maybe even known her name back then.
After awhile in this job, names and faces start to blend together. The troublemakers and the divas, those are the ones who stand out, followed by the cool ones. My guide would be one of them now, too. She was the exact person I'd dreamed of being when I'd taken this job.
I began handing out cover flats and talking to the guests as I pulled Sharpies out of my purse, getting everyone ready for the band's appearance. Just doing my job, basically. But part of my brain wondered if this was really what I wanted to be doing the rest of my life. I'd passed the point at which I could morph into rock royalty, like I'd once dreamed of being.
I guess the question was who was I, and who did I want to be now.
You groupies may recognize Charlie and Val (and the mention of Daniel, too), but this is really Jen's piece. I'm not sure who she is, not really, except that I CAN say she's not autobiographical, as the Tour Manager asked. And while I'd like to get to know her more, I'm not sure there's a novel in her. We'll have to wait and see.
Labels: fiction, Sunday Scribblings, touring, Val, Writer's Island
Monday, June 09, 2008
Deadly Metal Hatchet Fiction: Fozzy's Skateboard
So you came here, expecting to read about this fictional ShapeShifter band. Nope. Not today. I've been playing with this idea for the other band that's starting to test the waters here, and finally had the time/energy to get it down. If you're new to Deadly Metal Hatchet, they are a baby band -- as compared to ShapeShifter's world domination -- who are more about the Deadly Metal Hatchet, their gimmick, then they are about music. In a word, they suck. But they aren't letting that stop them.
Lido could only stare when Fozzy pulled it out of his road case. If it had been Scott or Gecko, he wouldn't have blinked or thought twice or anything like that. But this was Fozzy. He who hated having his picture taken, even when he was wearing jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Not that he had scars on his arm, but that was Fozzy for you. He'd almost died in a motorcycle accident; he was allowed to be weird about certain things.
"You for real?" Scott asked as Fozzy set it on the floor and put a foot on the deck, testing its stability.
"Yeah."
"But… Fozz…" Lido paused, not sure how to word this. Fozzy could be sensitive -- too freaking sensitive, as Scott would say -- about anything that might make any one of them bring up the motorcycle accident.
And, of course, Fozzy was glaring at him. Daring him to go there.
Lido could hear the Hatchet panting.
He held up his hands. "It's just not you, man. That's all."
Fozzy laughed that bitter, harsh laugh that made Lido cringe. It was the sound of the Hatchet and as much as Lido loved the band's gimmick, he hated when Fozzy tried to bring it into their lives like this.
"It's not me," Fozzy said and laughed again. "Like you'd fucking know."
Scott eased over so he was standing beside Lido, like he was getting ready in case Fozzy charged. Scott was really the only one who could defuse Fozzy when he got like this, but Lido wasn't so ready to hand the control over.
Without ideas of what to say next, Lido started to rethink that idea of control.
Fozzy moved his leg back and forth. The wheels made a cool sound.
"Do that again," Lido said, tilting his head to listen. When Fozzy did, he sang a few nonsense syllables along.
Scott patted Lido on the shoulder as Fozzy nodded and stepped up onto the skateboard. He wobbled immediately and jumped off -- and glared at Scott and Lido, as if he was expecting them to laugh at him.
Lido just shrugged. "Guess it takes practice."
"We've got plenty of time for that," Scott said, glancing at his watch as if it meant something. It didn't. Not really. Their tour manager would round them up when they needed to get ready to go on stage. All they had to do was find a way to kill the time between now and then.
"I know," Fozzy said. "That's why I did this." He tried the skateboard again and managed to stay on a hair longer.
Scott touched Lido's shoulder, telling him to stop staring and come along. In typical Fozzy fashion, the guy didn't want an audience.
It was enough to make you wonder why the guy had picked up the guitar in the first place. But then again, with Fozzy, most things made you wonder.
Like what you see? Want to know more about Deadly Metal Hatchet? There's not a lot yet, but if you follow this link (or the one above, the first time their name appears), it'll take you to their bio page, which links to more fiction about them. Happy reading and be sure to leave comments, even on the old posts!
Lido could only stare when Fozzy pulled it out of his road case. If it had been Scott or Gecko, he wouldn't have blinked or thought twice or anything like that. But this was Fozzy. He who hated having his picture taken, even when he was wearing jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Not that he had scars on his arm, but that was Fozzy for you. He'd almost died in a motorcycle accident; he was allowed to be weird about certain things.
"You for real?" Scott asked as Fozzy set it on the floor and put a foot on the deck, testing its stability.
"Yeah."
"But… Fozz…" Lido paused, not sure how to word this. Fozzy could be sensitive -- too freaking sensitive, as Scott would say -- about anything that might make any one of them bring up the motorcycle accident.
And, of course, Fozzy was glaring at him. Daring him to go there.
Lido could hear the Hatchet panting.
He held up his hands. "It's just not you, man. That's all."
Fozzy laughed that bitter, harsh laugh that made Lido cringe. It was the sound of the Hatchet and as much as Lido loved the band's gimmick, he hated when Fozzy tried to bring it into their lives like this.
"It's not me," Fozzy said and laughed again. "Like you'd fucking know."
Scott eased over so he was standing beside Lido, like he was getting ready in case Fozzy charged. Scott was really the only one who could defuse Fozzy when he got like this, but Lido wasn't so ready to hand the control over.
Without ideas of what to say next, Lido started to rethink that idea of control.
Fozzy moved his leg back and forth. The wheels made a cool sound.
"Do that again," Lido said, tilting his head to listen. When Fozzy did, he sang a few nonsense syllables along.
Scott patted Lido on the shoulder as Fozzy nodded and stepped up onto the skateboard. He wobbled immediately and jumped off -- and glared at Scott and Lido, as if he was expecting them to laugh at him.
Lido just shrugged. "Guess it takes practice."
"We've got plenty of time for that," Scott said, glancing at his watch as if it meant something. It didn't. Not really. Their tour manager would round them up when they needed to get ready to go on stage. All they had to do was find a way to kill the time between now and then.
"I know," Fozzy said. "That's why I did this." He tried the skateboard again and managed to stay on a hair longer.
Scott touched Lido's shoulder, telling him to stop staring and come along. In typical Fozzy fashion, the guy didn't want an audience.
It was enough to make you wonder why the guy had picked up the guitar in the first place. But then again, with Fozzy, most things made you wonder.
Like what you see? Want to know more about Deadly Metal Hatchet? There's not a lot yet, but if you follow this link (or the one above, the first time their name appears), it'll take you to their bio page, which links to more fiction about them. Happy reading and be sure to leave comments, even on the old posts!
Labels: Deadly Metal Hatchet, Poetry Train, touring, Writer's Island
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
Monday, April 14, 2008
Roadie Poet: Pyro
New tour.
Big one.
Stadiums.
Shows this big,
They're spectacles,
Not simple shows.
Vid screens,
Extra sound,
Pyro.
Band's gotta rehearse extra
So they don't step in a flashpot.
Burned to a crisp
By their own show.
Spectacle.
Whatever.
Extra rehearsal for them means
Hotel rooms for us.
A little bit easier
Before the grind begins.
Time to bum around.
Have some fun.
But watch
For those flashpots.
So we don't step in 'em.
And get
Burned
To
A
Crisp.
Big one.
Stadiums.
Shows this big,
They're spectacles,
Not simple shows.
Vid screens,
Extra sound,
Pyro.
Band's gotta rehearse extra
So they don't step in a flashpot.
Burned to a crisp
By their own show.
Spectacle.
Whatever.
Extra rehearsal for them means
Hotel rooms for us.
A little bit easier
Before the grind begins.
Time to bum around.
Have some fun.
But watch
For those flashpots.
So we don't step in 'em.
And get
Burned
To
A
Crisp.
Labels: poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, touring
Friday, April 11, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Turbulence (The Trevor's Song Era)
It was the bumps that woke Mitchell. That really sucked; he was exhausted, they were headed home, and he just couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. Except he couldn't sleep while being tossed around like this. He was stuck in this awful state, unable to do a fucking thing.
Across the aisle, Trevor had made a pillow of his denim jacket. He still slept, but then again, when Trevor wasn't acting weird lately, he was sleeping. Having him sleep went over better than trying to deal with his latest round of weird shit. If someone had to sleep, no one minded that it was Trevor doing it.
Daniel gave Mitchell a thin-lipped sort-of smile. "I was wondering when it'd get to you."
"How long's it been going on?"
"Too damn long," he said and shifted in his seat, like his legs were stiff. Mitchell doubted that was the problem; the guy probably wanted off the stupid plane. "The pilot's been on a few times. He's been trying all sorts of different altitudes, but none of them are any good. He made a few noises about turning around, but I guess they wouldn't let him."
Mitchell didn't know how to respond to that. Flying wasn't his thing. At most, it was the way to get from the US to Europe, or maybe from Riverview to New York or wherever the tour was starting. Anything more than that and he was lost.
"I just hope we get there soon," Eric said from Mitchell's other side. He'd pulled down the shade over the little window, which Mitchell didn't understand. Why ask for the window seat if you weren't going to look through the window? At least the views were cool. When you could see more than a cloud, anyway.
"Can you see anything out there?" Mitchell asked.
Just as Eric got his hand on the window shade, the plane bucked.
Eric's hand moved from the shade to the arms of his seat so fast, it was a blur. He grabbed hold -- even though Mitchell already had a good grip on the one they shared -- and turned pale. "Not really, no," he said softly.
Trevor didn't stir.
The plane calmed. Daniel gave Mitchell a weak smile. "Are we there yet?"
"Fuck, I hope so."
How perfect was this? I wrote this last weekend for the Flash Fiction Carnival, but it applies to the Writer's Island and Sunday Scribblings prompts this week, too. Really. Amazing. Smell those changing winds... Ahhh....
If you're new around here, clicking on the links in the fiction will take you back to that person's bio page. From there, you can access a bunch of other fictional posts about that particular character.
And while you're there, check out the free download!
Across the aisle, Trevor had made a pillow of his denim jacket. He still slept, but then again, when Trevor wasn't acting weird lately, he was sleeping. Having him sleep went over better than trying to deal with his latest round of weird shit. If someone had to sleep, no one minded that it was Trevor doing it.
Daniel gave Mitchell a thin-lipped sort-of smile. "I was wondering when it'd get to you."
"How long's it been going on?"
"Too damn long," he said and shifted in his seat, like his legs were stiff. Mitchell doubted that was the problem; the guy probably wanted off the stupid plane. "The pilot's been on a few times. He's been trying all sorts of different altitudes, but none of them are any good. He made a few noises about turning around, but I guess they wouldn't let him."
Mitchell didn't know how to respond to that. Flying wasn't his thing. At most, it was the way to get from the US to Europe, or maybe from Riverview to New York or wherever the tour was starting. Anything more than that and he was lost.
"I just hope we get there soon," Eric said from Mitchell's other side. He'd pulled down the shade over the little window, which Mitchell didn't understand. Why ask for the window seat if you weren't going to look through the window? At least the views were cool. When you could see more than a cloud, anyway.
"Can you see anything out there?" Mitchell asked.
Just as Eric got his hand on the window shade, the plane bucked.
Eric's hand moved from the shade to the arms of his seat so fast, it was a blur. He grabbed hold -- even though Mitchell already had a good grip on the one they shared -- and turned pale. "Not really, no," he said softly.
Trevor didn't stir.
The plane calmed. Daniel gave Mitchell a weak smile. "Are we there yet?"
"Fuck, I hope so."
How perfect was this? I wrote this last weekend for the Flash Fiction Carnival, but it applies to the Writer's Island and Sunday Scribblings prompts this week, too. Really. Amazing. Smell those changing winds... Ahhh....
If you're new around here, clicking on the links in the fiction will take you back to that person's bio page. From there, you can access a bunch of other fictional posts about that particular character.
And while you're there, check out the free download!
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, Eric, fiction, fiction outtake, Mitchell, ShapeShifter, Sunday Scribblings, touring, Trevor, Writer's Island
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
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, February 03, 2008
Byline: Chelle LaFleur -- ShapeShifter fans
Now, you may not have heard this here first, but you're hearing the truth here first. That counts for a lot in Chelle's book.
I just got off the phone with my favorite rocker, Mitchell Voss, and this is what he had to say:
For some reason, we couldn't take the bus from the hotel to the arena, so the promoter sent a limo for us. It should have been a twenty-minute drive. An hour later, our tour manager gets out of the limo and walks up the side of the road to see what's going on.
Turns out, a car broke down. They can't even move it off to the shoulder, it's the middle of rush hour. Traffic's a disaster. Our tour manager comes back to the limo and says the car's driven by three girls on their way to … you guessed it. Our show.
Trevor, Daniel, and Eric aren't stupid. They're also lonely. Or, they were.
That's right, girls and boys. Those ShapeShifter boys smelled opportunity and they didn't let anything stop them. Those girls with that broken-down car got the star treatment on their way to the show. They got to watch the show from the special VIP section with Mitchel's wife, the most amazing Kerri Voss, and they got to be the after-show party, as well.
Chelle here knows how many of us dream of this happenin' to us, even you guys out there. Like any good music reporter, I tried to find those girls and get their take on the night, but that handsome Voss man wasn't coughing up any names.
So girls, if you're out there and reading this, drop me a line, will ya? You just went and lived yourselves a dream and the rest of us, we want to know all about it.
You heard it first, and you heard it here. ShapeShifter loves their fans.
I just got off the phone with my favorite rocker, Mitchell Voss, and this is what he had to say:
For some reason, we couldn't take the bus from the hotel to the arena, so the promoter sent a limo for us. It should have been a twenty-minute drive. An hour later, our tour manager gets out of the limo and walks up the side of the road to see what's going on.
Turns out, a car broke down. They can't even move it off to the shoulder, it's the middle of rush hour. Traffic's a disaster. Our tour manager comes back to the limo and says the car's driven by three girls on their way to … you guessed it. Our show.
Trevor, Daniel, and Eric aren't stupid. They're also lonely. Or, they were.
That's right, girls and boys. Those ShapeShifter boys smelled opportunity and they didn't let anything stop them. Those girls with that broken-down car got the star treatment on their way to the show. They got to watch the show from the special VIP section with Mitchel's wife, the most amazing Kerri Voss, and they got to be the after-show party, as well.
Chelle here knows how many of us dream of this happenin' to us, even you guys out there. Like any good music reporter, I tried to find those girls and get their take on the night, but that handsome Voss man wasn't coughing up any names.
So girls, if you're out there and reading this, drop me a line, will ya? You just went and lived yourselves a dream and the rest of us, we want to know all about it.
You heard it first, and you heard it here. ShapeShifter loves their fans.
Labels: Chelle LaFleur, fiction, Mitchell, Poetry Train, ShapeShifter, touring
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Roadie Poet: Rhythm of the Road
Tour's in full swing.
No clue where we are.
One city, another
All look the same.
Inside.
Days pick up a rhythm
Bus moves with one
Rhythm drives you up the ladder
Takes you back down
Across the stage.
No clue what the sun looks like
Or if there's snow on the ground.
Who cares?
Days move with a rhythm.
Set up
Show
Tear down
Hit the road.
This is when a roadie learns
What's in his blood.
If the road is there or not.
If his blood moves
With
The rhythm of the road.
Don't forget to take a ride on the Poetry Train! Grab yourself a car while you're at it, too. The only rule is that there are no rules, so join in, why don'tcha?
No clue where we are.
One city, another
All look the same.
Inside.
Days pick up a rhythm
Bus moves with one
Rhythm drives you up the ladder
Takes you back down
Across the stage.
No clue what the sun looks like
Or if there's snow on the ground.
Who cares?
Days move with a rhythm.
Set up
Show
Tear down
Hit the road.
This is when a roadie learns
What's in his blood.
If the road is there or not.
If his blood moves
With
The rhythm of the road.
Don't forget to take a ride on the Poetry Train! Grab yourself a car while you're at it, too. The only rule is that there are no rules, so join in, why don'tcha?
Labels: Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, touring
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Roadie Poet: Musketeers of the Road
Christmas break.
Two days in a hotel.
Little box of a room.
It's a room.
Hambone and me, we don't complain.
We know better.
More's staying with us, too.
Tour's happy about that.
Saves 'em the cost of her room.
Hambone pretends to sleep.
We turn the TV on for noise.
Try to be quiet.
None of it works.
Tour rented out a room
For a crew Christmas dinner.
A bigger box of a room
But at least we're not on our own
Since we can't be home.
Me and Hambone and More, we're glad of that rented box of a room.
We're a team now,
Musketeers of the road.
It'll be hard to find tours like this
Until word gets out about us.
But so what.
Right now's what matters.
Best Christmas present we could hope for.
Me, Hambone, and More.
Musketeers of the Road.
Two days in a hotel.
Little box of a room.
It's a room.
Hambone and me, we don't complain.
We know better.
More's staying with us, too.
Tour's happy about that.
Saves 'em the cost of her room.
Hambone pretends to sleep.
We turn the TV on for noise.
Try to be quiet.
None of it works.
Tour rented out a room
For a crew Christmas dinner.
A bigger box of a room
But at least we're not on our own
Since we can't be home.
Me and Hambone and More, we're glad of that rented box of a room.
We're a team now,
Musketeers of the road.
It'll be hard to find tours like this
Until word gets out about us.
But so what.
Right now's what matters.
Best Christmas present we could hope for.
Me, Hambone, and More.
Musketeers of the Road.
Labels: poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, touring
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
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Thursday Thirteen #50 -- On the Road Again
A couple of things sparked this list this week. I spent a big chunk of Tuesday shopping online, getting the last (I hope!) things I need for my trip over New Year's. I touched base with a friend who used to work in the music biz and whose husband still does, and they always make me think of bands on the road (in fact, the last time I saw him was here in Pittsburgh, when he blew through). And I'm trying to figure out how many nights I want to stay in the hotel downtown during the Romantic Times Convention, and how many nights I want to return to the quiet and semi-sanity of family life.
Put all of that together and we get...
Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
Who is Kerri Voss and why does she need to worry about what to bring on the road? Who's this fish she married? And what about that Trevor guy?
Click here to get some answers. Or hang out here more often and learn it all first-hand.
Put all of that together and we get...
 |
1. Comfy shoes to stand around in all day. 2. Another pair, just in case something happens to the first. 3. A warm-up jacket for the days when one room is warm, the hallway's cold, and the side of the stage is something else entirely. 4. A stack of sketch pads and a bunch of pencils -- and a hand-held pencil sharpener that can be slid into a jeans pocket and yanked out when needed. 5. Jeans, jeans, and more jeans. 6. Sweats, just in case. 7. Extra toothbrushes, because they have a habit of staying behind in hotels. 8. Tank tops and athletic shorts to sleep in/lounge around the bus in during the warmer months. 9. A little black dress, hose, and heels 10. a bathing suit because she married, as Trevor likes to say, a fish. 11. The makeup kit from her days with the drag queens, for use on whoever falls asleep at the party first. 12. Old hair ribbons, to sneak up on Trevor and tie into his waist-length hair 13. Sharpies, of course. Everyone on the road needs Sharpies. |
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants
Who is Kerri Voss and why does she need to worry about what to bring on the road? Who's this fish she married? And what about that Trevor guy?
Click here to get some answers. Or hang out here more often and learn it all first-hand.
Labels: Kerri, meme, Thursday Thirteen, touring
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
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Monday Poetry Train: Wearing Pink
I'm taking a break from drawing names and matching them up with prizes from the Summer's Hidden Treasures contest. A bit too much weekend put me a bit behind schedule, so stay tuned for news of the winners. In the meantime, here's a visit with our Roadie Poet.
Wearing Pink
New girl at the sound board.
She's in pink.
Pink.
Hambone says she's new.
I say she's someone's girl.
'cause crew,
We know
you don't wear pink.
Black's the roadie's color
Maybe white,
If it's a shirt for the local crew
Who'll be invisible by showtime.
Maybe white.
Maybe.
Near showtime,
Hambone chases me down.
I'm gaffing the last of the stage.
Shoulda been done hours ago.
Fucking local crew.
Hambone points her out.
Not in pink no more.
Wearing black.
Sitting at the sound board.
She bounces,
All excited like,
And Hambone hands me twenty.
Sure enough,
Come morning,
Another girl's in her spot.
This one's
Wearing pink, too.
Wearing Pink
New girl at the sound board.
She's in pink.
Pink.
Hambone says she's new.
I say she's someone's girl.
'cause crew,
We know
you don't wear pink.
Black's the roadie's color
Maybe white,
If it's a shirt for the local crew
Who'll be invisible by showtime.
Maybe white.
Maybe.
Near showtime,
Hambone chases me down.
I'm gaffing the last of the stage.
Shoulda been done hours ago.
Fucking local crew.
Hambone points her out.
Not in pink no more.
Wearing black.
Sitting at the sound board.
She bounces,
All excited like,
And Hambone hands me twenty.
Sure enough,
Come morning,
Another girl's in her spot.
This one's
Wearing pink, too.
Labels: poem, Poetry Train, Roadie Poet, touring
