Monday, April 24, 2006
Fiction Outtake: The Time Before Dinner (The Early Days)
Patterson had called to say he was due home sooner than originally expected, so Sonya was absorbed in getting dinner together when it all began. She felt rushed; she'd spent the day helping a friend try to make sense of a temporary bookkeeper's disaster, and Sonya and her friend had quit for the day still wondering if they were seeing the numbers correctly. She had brought some of the paperwork home for Patterson to look over; while he wasn't a figures sort of man, he was sure to know some at the office who were.
With all of that on her mind, it wasn't surprising that she barely paid attention when Mitchell and Trevor slunk through the kitchen, an unfamiliar girl between them. And she was too focused on defrosting the ground beef to dwell on the fact that Trevor was alone when he returned to the kitchen and asked, with his fake innocent air, if he could help.
Sonya handed Trevor a knife and the onion she'd been trying to chop while she rummaged in the vegetable bin for the broccoli. The boy went to work without complaining, but again, she was too wrapped up in the idea of dinner to think much about that anomaly, either. It was just a relief to have the extra set of willing hands.
When Amy screeched, she jumped three feet, taking the skillet with her. Mostly defrosted ground beef and unevenly chopped onion splattered her arms; Sonya banged the pan back on its burner. "Amy Christina, this had better be life-or-death!"
"Mom! You have got to see what Mitchell's doing now!" Amy rushed into the kitchen, her face as pale as her hair. She chewed worriedly on her lower lip and gestured over her shoulder with an unusual urgency.
Trevor's snicker stuck in Sonya's brain and she turned to him, considering.
"Let me go see," she said calmly, reaching for a kitchen towel to wipe her hands and arms off with. "You tend the meat," she told Amy and crossed the family room and up the three stairs to the sleeping wing of the house, her daughter's protests about cooking falling on uncaring ears.
Carefully, quietly, she opened the door to the boys' room, and peeked inside. Mitchell and the girl were wrapped around each other, mostly covered by the bedsheets, his hair hiding both their faces.
She cleared her throat.
Mitchell's head jerked around, his eyes wide and scared, his mouth open in surprise. The girl bit back a guilty and panicked sound as Mitchell said, "Ma!" He started to scrabble at the sheets, pulling them up closer around himself and his girl, trying to soothe her at the same time.
Sonya couldn't stop the smile at the sight of her son's swollen lips -- and devotion to someone he'd probably never met before, knowing Trevor. "If your friend would like to stay for dinner, just let me know and I'll set an extra place," she said and closed the door again.
She didn't need to press her ear to the door to hear their sighs of relief. But she did need a minute to lean against the wall and laugh. That little scene was something she knew Trevor had been working on for a few weeks now and while she supposed that as a mother, she ought to be yelling at her youngest for having sex under her roof, she and Patterson were liberal enough to know their home was the best choice. Lord only knew the sort of places Trevor would drag Mitchell to next time if she made a fuss now.
Trevor, on the other hand… Amy, too.
Sonya pushed herself away from the wall beside Mitchell's door, gritting her teeth. Trevor had set Amy up for that intrusion; of that, she had no doubt. It was probably the only reason why Trevor had brought Mitchell and his friend back to the house.
Regardless of whether or not she'd been set up, Amy knew better than to go into the boys' room without knocking first. A closed door meant something in the Voss household, regardless of what lies Trevor had told her. Just as other families had inviolable rules about who did what chore on what day, the Voss family had rules about what a closed door meant.
Amy and Trevor were arguing in the kitchen, probably about what had just transpired. And something was starting to smell overcooked.
That needed to be dealt with before Patterson got home. Time was running short and now Sonya wasn't exactly certain how many she'd be cooking for. While she doubted the girl would stay, Mitchell could very well want some time to himself. A boy didn't lose his virginity every day, and a boy as sensitive as Mitchell was bound to need the time to make sense of what he'd just done.
Amy and Trevor, on the other hand… Yes, Sonya told herself as she straightened the hem of her shirt. Something was starting to smell overcooked in that kitchen of hers, all right.
With all of that on her mind, it wasn't surprising that she barely paid attention when Mitchell and Trevor slunk through the kitchen, an unfamiliar girl between them. And she was too focused on defrosting the ground beef to dwell on the fact that Trevor was alone when he returned to the kitchen and asked, with his fake innocent air, if he could help.
Sonya handed Trevor a knife and the onion she'd been trying to chop while she rummaged in the vegetable bin for the broccoli. The boy went to work without complaining, but again, she was too wrapped up in the idea of dinner to think much about that anomaly, either. It was just a relief to have the extra set of willing hands.
When Amy screeched, she jumped three feet, taking the skillet with her. Mostly defrosted ground beef and unevenly chopped onion splattered her arms; Sonya banged the pan back on its burner. "Amy Christina, this had better be life-or-death!"
"Mom! You have got to see what Mitchell's doing now!" Amy rushed into the kitchen, her face as pale as her hair. She chewed worriedly on her lower lip and gestured over her shoulder with an unusual urgency.
Trevor's snicker stuck in Sonya's brain and she turned to him, considering.
"Let me go see," she said calmly, reaching for a kitchen towel to wipe her hands and arms off with. "You tend the meat," she told Amy and crossed the family room and up the three stairs to the sleeping wing of the house, her daughter's protests about cooking falling on uncaring ears.
Carefully, quietly, she opened the door to the boys' room, and peeked inside. Mitchell and the girl were wrapped around each other, mostly covered by the bedsheets, his hair hiding both their faces.
She cleared her throat.
Mitchell's head jerked around, his eyes wide and scared, his mouth open in surprise. The girl bit back a guilty and panicked sound as Mitchell said, "Ma!" He started to scrabble at the sheets, pulling them up closer around himself and his girl, trying to soothe her at the same time.
Sonya couldn't stop the smile at the sight of her son's swollen lips -- and devotion to someone he'd probably never met before, knowing Trevor. "If your friend would like to stay for dinner, just let me know and I'll set an extra place," she said and closed the door again.
She didn't need to press her ear to the door to hear their sighs of relief. But she did need a minute to lean against the wall and laugh. That little scene was something she knew Trevor had been working on for a few weeks now and while she supposed that as a mother, she ought to be yelling at her youngest for having sex under her roof, she and Patterson were liberal enough to know their home was the best choice. Lord only knew the sort of places Trevor would drag Mitchell to next time if she made a fuss now.
Trevor, on the other hand… Amy, too.
Sonya pushed herself away from the wall beside Mitchell's door, gritting her teeth. Trevor had set Amy up for that intrusion; of that, she had no doubt. It was probably the only reason why Trevor had brought Mitchell and his friend back to the house.
Regardless of whether or not she'd been set up, Amy knew better than to go into the boys' room without knocking first. A closed door meant something in the Voss household, regardless of what lies Trevor had told her. Just as other families had inviolable rules about who did what chore on what day, the Voss family had rules about what a closed door meant.
Amy and Trevor were arguing in the kitchen, probably about what had just transpired. And something was starting to smell overcooked.
That needed to be dealt with before Patterson got home. Time was running short and now Sonya wasn't exactly certain how many she'd be cooking for. While she doubted the girl would stay, Mitchell could very well want some time to himself. A boy didn't lose his virginity every day, and a boy as sensitive as Mitchell was bound to need the time to make sense of what he'd just done.
Amy and Trevor, on the other hand… Yes, Sonya told herself as she straightened the hem of her shirt. Something was starting to smell overcooked in that kitchen of hers, all right.
Labels: Amy, creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, Sonya, Trevor
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Thursday Thirteen #29 -- What's in Daniel and Val's kitchen?
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| In keeping with the theme I began two weeks ago, when we looked at Mitchell and Kerri's kitchen and its contents, this week, let's take a look at Daniel and Val's kitchen. For those of you too lazy to follow the links, Daniel is ShapeShifter's drummer and Val, his long-time girlfriend who trained as a chef but quit the restaurant business when it got too much. Look for a new outtake featuring Daniel, Val, and their kitchen over the weekend. And for you meme lovers, another one I'll let the band answer. 1. A sourdough starter 2. a windowsill herb garden (that overflows onto the patio, in ever-expanding pots) 3. A wide variety of teas 4. Phone numbers for three butchers 5. ten kinds of chocolate and/or cocoa, not counting hidden candy bars 6. A variety of wines, ports, and other highbrow alcoholic delicacies that you wouldn't expect a rock star to know a thing about. Mostly, he doesn't. Val, however, does. She's not a rock star, so your expectation here was met perfectly. 7. Locally produced clover honey 8. chick peas, tahini, lemons (for juicing), and garlic 9. Phone numbers and schedules for the local CSA 10. Ping's Soy Sauce. Lots of it. 11. Bodacious Sauce. Not quite as much of it. 12. organic cranberry granola bars (Daniel's favorites. Eric's too, come to think about it) 13. One of those undercounter TVs that's hooked up to the cable in case Daniel starts to go through CNN withdrawal. And because the voting's not closed yet... And if you've missed it somehow, Just a reminder... go vote for me!     Yes, I'm totally going to torture you with this until the voting closes on May 22. So go vote, will ya? If you've already voted, why not register under another e-mail address? You'll get to vote again that way! |
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
Labels: Blogger's Choice Award, Bodacious Sauce, Daniel, kitchen, meme, Soy Sauce Story, Thursday Thirteen, Val
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Thursday Thirteen #27 -- What's in the kitchen?
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| Last week, I created Mitchell and Kerri's farmhouse for you, but didn't do it totally Cribs style, by showing you what's in their refrigerator. By popular demand... not just their fridge, but foods found in their pantry, as well. Here you go. 1. orange juice, beer, and Mountain Dew (Mitchell's drinks of choice, in order of preference, by and large) 2. pancake mix (This is important in the opening chapter of Trevor's Song.) 3. coffee (Yeah, Kerri goes for it when M's not around.) 4. brownie mix, as seen here 5. apples, oranges, grapes, and pears 6. Dragon Food -- a box of catfood that Kerri recovered and that she uses to threaten him with when he shapeshifts from his usual, mild-mannered self into the dragon his fans know and love. 7. jarred mushrooms, as seen here 8. Salad fixings -- varieties of lettuce, bell peppers, cucumber, carrots, broccoli, celery, cauliflower. Most of these make convenient snack foods, too. 9. bread that Val made by hand (no bread machine for her) and gave Kerri, who'd just finished the loaf she'd put in her bread machine. (You think an artist has time to knead dough?) 10. six kinds of balsamic vinegar, as seen here 11. random sketch pads and pencils that Kerri leaves places -- the pantry, the kitchen table, the counters 12. potato chips (ever notice how Mitchell's always eating them? They also have a part in the current WIP.) 13. ice cream, chocolate sauce, and other things that leave the sheets a disaster but are darn fun at the time. And because the voting's not closed yet... And if you've missed it somehow, Just a reminder... go vote for me! Yes, I'm totally going to torture you with this until the voting closes on May 22. So go vote, will ya? If you've already voted, why not register under another e-mail address? You'll get to vote again that way! |
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
Labels: Kerri, kitchen, meme, Mitchell, Thursday Thirteen
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Thursday Thirteen #30 -- Take a Tour of Trevor's ... uhh.. kitchen?
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| Thirteen things resembling food -- sort of -- in Trevor's kitchen 1. Mold that even Sonya Voss can't remove during her periodic cleaning sessions. 2. an empty pack of cigarettes 3. overflowing ashtrays 4. a beer or two in the fridge for company 5. ketchup for take-out fries 6. A mountain of napkins from take-out places including Big Buck's Best Barbecue, Harry's Hoagies, and the ice cream stand on the way to Daniel's house and the band's practice space. 7. matchbooks from the bar below his apartment, Moon Shadows, and All Access. 8. Hostess Cupcakes 9. empty pizza boxes, one of which contains a really old, half-finished piece of pizza. Trevor had considered auctioning it off at a show, but Mitchell refused. It's been here so long, it's like a mascot. 10. A backup carburetor for the Vincent that he built himself and may or may not blow up if he tries to use it. 11. A jar of chunky peanut butter with a knife sticking out of it. The knife makes it easier to grab a mouthful on the way out the door. 12. Rolling papers 13. Coupons to Lyric's shop. |
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
Labels: kitchen, meme, Thursday Thirteen, Trevor
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Thursday Thirteen #26 -- Farming the Home
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| A few weeks back, we took a closer look at Mitchell's desk and the stuff on it. Last week, we were pondering the issue of rock stars and their names. One thing I've always wanted my fiction to stress is the way in which my rock stars are normal people. Sure, not all of the stars in real life are normal (and not all of the stars I create here at the Meet-and-Greet or in book-length fiction will be), but it's more fun to relate to real people who are living our dreams than it is to try to relate to some diva who clubs her assistants with her cell phone -- and then makes them go buy her a new one. When I first envisioned Kerri and Mitchell, I couldn't see them -- Mitchell especially -- living in one of those houses featured on MTV's Cribs. So I created the farm house. Here you go. A glimpse inside (not very Cribs-style, I'm afraid, but if you really want a look inside their refrigerator, ask. It could be fun.)... 1. It used to belong to Mitchell's parents' friend Wayne. 2. Wayne sold it to Mitchell for, effectively, peanuts. 3. The house sits on 3 acres on top of a rather steep hill. 4. The land below it used to be farmed, back when Riverview was first founded. It wasn't particularly good farmland, and was more valuable for its proximity to the growing downtown. 5. The other houses on the street are owned by corporate executives and other rich types (including a few of the Riverview Otter baseball players). 6. When Mitchell bought the house, an old barn remained behind the garage. It was Kerri's idea to convert the barn into a guest wing that they'd attach to the house. One bedroom for each band member. 7. The kitchen still had a rustic feel and needed to be modernized. Val designed it, and as a wedding gift, stocked it with everything Mitchell and Kerri could possibly need -- and a lot they don't. (Like Mitchell, who hates coffee, would use an espresso machine?) 8. The attic had already been turned into living space; maid's quarters, to be exact. Mitchell converted it to studio space for Kerri and chopped holes in the roof to install skylights. 9. Wayne had fenced the property, so his dogs could run loose. Mitchell and Kerri decided that would make good fan control. 10. In what had once been a formal parlor, Kerri painted a life-size likeness of the band on the longest wall. The rest of the room is treated as a trophy room, and the room is rarely used. 11. Mitchell and Kerri had the original hardwood refinished. It is in the TV room, kitchen, and front entry. 12. Kerri hates the front entry; it's too dark and the steps are too close to the front door. Even painting the walls a bright yellow didn't help open it up. 13. Mitchell's office is part of the old-barn addition. It's his retreat and the only reason he can stand doing most of the business stuff the band demands of him. And because the voting's not closed yet... And if you've missed it somehow, Just a reminder... go vote for me! Yes, I'm totally going to torture you with this until the voting closes on May 22. So go vote, will ya? If you've already voted, why not register under another e-mail address? You'll get to vote again that way! |
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
Labels: Blogger's Choice Award, Kerri, meme, Mitchell, Thursday Thirteen
Friday, February 15, 2008
Giving You... State of the Onion
I love giving books away, especially when they are companions to a new review I wrote for Front Street Reviews. But I especially love doing it when it's a book I want to keep, but that I want to spread the word about even more.
This time, it's Julie Hyzy's State of the Onion, a great entry into a new mystery series. Come on into the secure world of the White House Kitchen. Just be prepared for mayhem, chaos, backstabbing and a murder or two -- thankfully not inside the kitchen. Join White House Assistant Chef Olivia Paras as she tries really hard not to meddle in an affair she finds herself smack in the middle of.
Go on and read my review over at Front Street Reviews. See why I liked this book so much. Then come on back and enter your name to win my reviewer's copy. Please note; this is an advance reader copy. If you don't know what that means, Google it. Decide if this is the sort of book you want in your collection; some people are totally opposed to ARCs. I hope you're not one of them.
Here's the fine print:
1. Contest is open to anyone in the universe. Hey, when you live West of Mars, you gotta think this way. Anyone includes past winners. However, it does not include meanies or spammers. Or Trevor, but I'm not so sure he reads, anyway.
2. In the comments on this post, leave your name and some form of contact -- either an e-mail or a web address that'll take me to a way to reach you. If you don't do this, I can't give you the book.
3. On Saturday morning, February 16, I'll let my kids pick a winner and I'll contact that lucky soul by e-mail. So make sure you leave me contact information!!!
Gotta thank the Blue Ribbon Bloggers, Laura Williams, my Thirteener friend QTPies, The Parenting Diaries, A Book Blogger's Diary, and Prizey for helping spread the word!
This time, it's Julie Hyzy's State of the Onion, a great entry into a new mystery series. Come on into the secure world of the White House Kitchen. Just be prepared for mayhem, chaos, backstabbing and a murder or two -- thankfully not inside the kitchen. Join White House Assistant Chef Olivia Paras as she tries really hard not to meddle in an affair she finds herself smack in the middle of.
Go on and read my review over at Front Street Reviews. See why I liked this book so much. Then come on back and enter your name to win my reviewer's copy. Please note; this is an advance reader copy. If you don't know what that means, Google it. Decide if this is the sort of book you want in your collection; some people are totally opposed to ARCs. I hope you're not one of them.
Here's the fine print:
1. Contest is open to anyone in the universe. Hey, when you live West of Mars, you gotta think this way. Anyone includes past winners. However, it does not include meanies or spammers. Or Trevor, but I'm not so sure he reads, anyway.
2. In the comments on this post, leave your name and some form of contact -- either an e-mail or a web address that'll take me to a way to reach you. If you don't do this, I can't give you the book.
3. On Saturday morning, February 16, I'll let my kids pick a winner and I'll contact that lucky soul by e-mail. So make sure you leave me contact information!!!
Gotta thank the Blue Ribbon Bloggers, Laura Williams, my Thirteener friend QTPies, The Parenting Diaries, A Book Blogger's Diary, and Prizey for helping spread the word!
Labels: books, contest, Front Street Reviews, Julie Hyzy, prizes
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Chicken Scratch (the Early Years)
Another one inspired by the Weekend Wordsmith prompt, and posted in time for the Poetry Train. As always, if you're new here and need some background about who is who, click on the names the first time they appear and you'll be magically transported to a bio page. Just don't forget to come back!
Mitchell was whistling when he got home after his guitar lesson; whistling was better than dancing, even though that's more what he felt like. Since he'd graduated from lessons with Randy, things had been a million times better. Now when he and Trevor hung out down by the river and dreamed of making it big, he believed they'd get there, all right.
He stopped in the kitchen, snagged the bag of potato chips sitting on the kitchen table, kissed Ma on the cheek, and headed upstairs.
Ma called after him, "Get your homework done!"
"That's where I'm going!" He put his back to the door, tenderly put the bag of potato chips under his arm, and shoved against the broken latch.
He turned around, stopped whistling, and dropped both his guitar and the potato chips.
Trevor was sitting at Mitchell's desk. Well, it was supposed to be their desk now that they shared the room, but Trevor refused to use it. Something about being too cool for desks and homework and if the jackasses at school didn't agree, they could throw him out already and save them all the daily hassle of chasing him out of the john when he needed a smoke.
"What'd Ma bribe you with?" Mitchell asked, lunging for his guitar. It didn't matter that he had it in a hard case, it still might have been damaged.
"Nothing," Trevor said and held up Mitchell's civics notebook. The page was covered in what looked like chicken scratch.
Mitchell set the guitar gently down on his bed and went for a closer look at Trevor's masterpiece. It looked even more like chicken scratch. He told Trevor so.
"Good."
"Good?" Mitchell handed the notebook back and turned to his guitar, determined he'd actually look it over this time. No more distractions.
"Yes, good," Trevor said with that sniff Mitchell knew all too well. "Have you seen one single rock star with an autograph you can make out?"
Mitchell didn't bother to answer. No more distractions, he reminded himself.
"Of course you haven't," Trevor half-yelled, jumping to his feet and tipping the chair over backwards. "There aren't any! And I'll be damned if I'll be the first."
"Why not? After all," Mitchell added with a sniff that mocked the ones Trevor handed out so freely, "you're Trevor Fucking Wolff. You can't be like everyone else."
"Well, this time, I can be." Trevor hugged the notebook to his chest. "Do you know how long it took me to write this messy? Fucking hours."
Mitchell looked up from the guitar. "Shoulda spent that on your bass. You might actually get good."
Trevor sneered and fixed the chair. "Here, golden boy," he said. "Maybe I'll go work on that." He stalked out of the room, trying to slam it shut as he went. Between the broken latch and the fix Mitchell's dad had put on it, the door just bounced back open.
In the hallway, Trevor kicked the wall. Ma yelled at him for it.
Whatever, Mitchell figured, so long as he had the desk back so he could get his homework done -- once he was sure the guitar was okay. Trevor might not get any better on bass, so it was up to him to carry them both.
Maybe later, Trevor would show him ways to change his own autograph. Make it cooler. Which meant harder to read.
Chicken scratch, the handwriting of the rock star.
Mitchell grinned. That had a good ring to it.
Eeek. This is major rough draft. But it's an outtake and that's the idea. One day, I'll clean these puppies up and let you take them home and sleep with them. Just don't call them George.
Mitchell was whistling when he got home after his guitar lesson; whistling was better than dancing, even though that's more what he felt like. Since he'd graduated from lessons with Randy, things had been a million times better. Now when he and Trevor hung out down by the river and dreamed of making it big, he believed they'd get there, all right.
He stopped in the kitchen, snagged the bag of potato chips sitting on the kitchen table, kissed Ma on the cheek, and headed upstairs.
Ma called after him, "Get your homework done!"
"That's where I'm going!" He put his back to the door, tenderly put the bag of potato chips under his arm, and shoved against the broken latch.
He turned around, stopped whistling, and dropped both his guitar and the potato chips.
Trevor was sitting at Mitchell's desk. Well, it was supposed to be their desk now that they shared the room, but Trevor refused to use it. Something about being too cool for desks and homework and if the jackasses at school didn't agree, they could throw him out already and save them all the daily hassle of chasing him out of the john when he needed a smoke.
"What'd Ma bribe you with?" Mitchell asked, lunging for his guitar. It didn't matter that he had it in a hard case, it still might have been damaged.
"Nothing," Trevor said and held up Mitchell's civics notebook. The page was covered in what looked like chicken scratch.
Mitchell set the guitar gently down on his bed and went for a closer look at Trevor's masterpiece. It looked even more like chicken scratch. He told Trevor so.
"Good."
"Good?" Mitchell handed the notebook back and turned to his guitar, determined he'd actually look it over this time. No more distractions.
"Yes, good," Trevor said with that sniff Mitchell knew all too well. "Have you seen one single rock star with an autograph you can make out?"
Mitchell didn't bother to answer. No more distractions, he reminded himself.
"Of course you haven't," Trevor half-yelled, jumping to his feet and tipping the chair over backwards. "There aren't any! And I'll be damned if I'll be the first."
"Why not? After all," Mitchell added with a sniff that mocked the ones Trevor handed out so freely, "you're Trevor Fucking Wolff. You can't be like everyone else."
"Well, this time, I can be." Trevor hugged the notebook to his chest. "Do you know how long it took me to write this messy? Fucking hours."
Mitchell looked up from the guitar. "Shoulda spent that on your bass. You might actually get good."
Trevor sneered and fixed the chair. "Here, golden boy," he said. "Maybe I'll go work on that." He stalked out of the room, trying to slam it shut as he went. Between the broken latch and the fix Mitchell's dad had put on it, the door just bounced back open.
In the hallway, Trevor kicked the wall. Ma yelled at him for it.
Whatever, Mitchell figured, so long as he had the desk back so he could get his homework done -- once he was sure the guitar was okay. Trevor might not get any better on bass, so it was up to him to carry them both.
Maybe later, Trevor would show him ways to change his own autograph. Make it cooler. Which meant harder to read.
Chicken scratch, the handwriting of the rock star.
Mitchell grinned. That had a good ring to it.
Eeek. This is major rough draft. But it's an outtake and that's the idea. One day, I'll clean these puppies up and let you take them home and sleep with them. Just don't call them George.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, Poetry Train, Trevor
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Mitchell fiction: Interview
From an excerpt of an interview with ShapeShifter's Mitchell Voss…
Voss leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Exactly," he said. "Our music is ferocious. It's supposed to be. Otherwise, it wouldn't be the release it is."
Music as a release. It's a concept that has lost steam over the years, replaced by the phenomenon of self-mutilation. But it's a concept Voss holds to.
"We all need that release. We all need something that takes us outside ourself and, in a way, soothes us. Something that when we come back to ourselves, things are okay again and the problems are manageable."
What sort of problems can someone like Voss have? After all, the man's an international superstar. He's got security to keep overeager fans away. He's got people to take out the kitchen trash at the mere snap of his fingers.
"That'd be nice," he says. "I f----- hate taking the trash out. My parents used to make me do it just because they knew how much I hated it. They'd tell me to suck it up and remember that every beautiful thing has its hidden, ugly side. And then they'd launch into this lecture about being lazy and the importance of doing chores around the house and how if I hate it that much, I'll understand how wonderful it is to have kids of my own and blah blah blah… Suddenly, the idea of taking out the trash becomes appealing!"
Still, Voss doesn't smile. The famous frown deepens. "It doesn't matter who you are or how you earn your way in the world. We all have those times when we need to break free of being polite and let it all hang out. Our fans get that. That's part of what makes the bond they have with us so strong. We're leading the way, almost. Showing them how to cut loose and let it all out. Come along with us and get the s--- out of your system for the length of a song, a CD, a show. You'll feel better afterward."
Yep, it's fiction. But it's fun to show off my journalistically trained chops every now and then!
Voss leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Exactly," he said. "Our music is ferocious. It's supposed to be. Otherwise, it wouldn't be the release it is."
Music as a release. It's a concept that has lost steam over the years, replaced by the phenomenon of self-mutilation. But it's a concept Voss holds to.
"We all need that release. We all need something that takes us outside ourself and, in a way, soothes us. Something that when we come back to ourselves, things are okay again and the problems are manageable."
What sort of problems can someone like Voss have? After all, the man's an international superstar. He's got security to keep overeager fans away. He's got people to take out the kitchen trash at the mere snap of his fingers.
"That'd be nice," he says. "I f----- hate taking the trash out. My parents used to make me do it just because they knew how much I hated it. They'd tell me to suck it up and remember that every beautiful thing has its hidden, ugly side. And then they'd launch into this lecture about being lazy and the importance of doing chores around the house and how if I hate it that much, I'll understand how wonderful it is to have kids of my own and blah blah blah… Suddenly, the idea of taking out the trash becomes appealing!"
Still, Voss doesn't smile. The famous frown deepens. "It doesn't matter who you are or how you earn your way in the world. We all have those times when we need to break free of being polite and let it all hang out. Our fans get that. That's part of what makes the bond they have with us so strong. We're leading the way, almost. Showing them how to cut loose and let it all out. Come along with us and get the s--- out of your system for the length of a song, a CD, a show. You'll feel better afterward."
Yep, it's fiction. But it's fun to show off my journalistically trained chops every now and then!
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, Poetry Train, Writer's Island
Friday, May 18, 2007
Susan's Inside Writing: Feeling Good About Things
Check out what my friend Breeni is up to!
Click HERE.
Other odds and ends:
1. The promised outtake featuring Val and her kitchen, to tie into this week's Thursday Thirteen, is still forthcoming. But you all need to see the interview before I bury it under fiction. *grin*
2. Details on the summer reading contest are starting to come together. Be prepared to join in by the end of June.
3. I'm up to more than just a summer reading contest. Stay tuned; we'll make a small difference in the world together.
4. I did a good peanut gallery impersonation the other day and won the "most creative" award for it. Check it out.
5. It's a really cool feeling when you're standing with a small group of people and before you can break into the conversation to introduce yourself, literary agent Jenny Rappaport reads your name tag and says, "Oh, Susan! Hi!" You'd think we're old friends. Given how much we have in common, separated at birth might be more like it.
There it is, folks. The power of blogging at work.
Click HERE.
Other odds and ends:
1. The promised outtake featuring Val and her kitchen, to tie into this week's Thursday Thirteen, is still forthcoming. But you all need to see the interview before I bury it under fiction. *grin*
2. Details on the summer reading contest are starting to come together. Be prepared to join in by the end of June.
3. I'm up to more than just a summer reading contest. Stay tuned; we'll make a small difference in the world together.
4. I did a good peanut gallery impersonation the other day and won the "most creative" award for it. Check it out.
5. It's a really cool feeling when you're standing with a small group of people and before you can break into the conversation to introduce yourself, literary agent Jenny Rappaport reads your name tag and says, "Oh, Susan! Hi!" You'd think we're old friends. Given how much we have in common, separated at birth might be more like it.
There it is, folks. The power of blogging at work.
Labels: Breeni Books, contest, Inside Writing, interview
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Beached Whales (post Trevor's Song Era)
Kerri set down the dishtowel she was using to dry Val's good china with, handed the last plate over, and walked into the family room. Daniel and Mitchell were being awfully quiet for two men who'd been all hyped about the big game.
She walked down the two steps into the sunken room and took in the scene.
The boys lay head-to-head on the L-shaped sectional. Mitchell had one leg thrown over the back of the couch; Daniel had one foot on the floor. Both men had extended their other leg, Daniel's foot dangling off the edge of the beige leather couch.
Kerri chuckled as she noticed that they both hadn't just unbuttoned their pants after that feast; they'd undone their flies, too.
"Hey, Val?" she drawled.
Mitchell's head shot up and he slitted his eyes as if shooting poison at her. She smiled; he knew her tone of voice all too well.
"Yeah?" Val asked, wiping her hands on her hot pink dishtowel and crossing the kitchen to join Kerri. She stopped on the stair behind Kerri, one knee bent, the same hip jutted out in a classic model's pose.
"Where'd you find the beached whales?"
"Wholesale district. Imported from Japan; they were cheap."
Daniel burped. Mitchell smirked and put his head back down.
Kerri shook her head. "Waste of good veal, if you ask me. Whale stuffing ought to be cheap."
"Actually, I think it's the highest praise a chef can get," Val said, tossing the dishtowel over her shoulder and pulling her hip back in line with the other. "When you can turn two grown men into beached whales, you know your cooking's good."
"Or that food on the road is that bad," Daniel said. "Really, Val, come out and be our caterer."
She winked at Kerri. As if there was any way to pry Val out of her house. "If I do," she said, "will you change the name of the band to Beached Whales?"
"We may have to," Mitchell said and, at last, burped.
The curtains fluttered, and Val and Kerri exchanged amused smiles as they went back to putting the plates away.
Want more? Click on the characters' names and be transported a quick character sketch, along with links to more fiction featuring Daniel, Val, Kerri, and Mitchell. And don't forget to take a ride on Rhian's Poetry Train!
She walked down the two steps into the sunken room and took in the scene.
The boys lay head-to-head on the L-shaped sectional. Mitchell had one leg thrown over the back of the couch; Daniel had one foot on the floor. Both men had extended their other leg, Daniel's foot dangling off the edge of the beige leather couch.
Kerri chuckled as she noticed that they both hadn't just unbuttoned their pants after that feast; they'd undone their flies, too.
"Hey, Val?" she drawled.
Mitchell's head shot up and he slitted his eyes as if shooting poison at her. She smiled; he knew her tone of voice all too well.
"Yeah?" Val asked, wiping her hands on her hot pink dishtowel and crossing the kitchen to join Kerri. She stopped on the stair behind Kerri, one knee bent, the same hip jutted out in a classic model's pose.
"Where'd you find the beached whales?"
"Wholesale district. Imported from Japan; they were cheap."
Daniel burped. Mitchell smirked and put his head back down.
Kerri shook her head. "Waste of good veal, if you ask me. Whale stuffing ought to be cheap."
"Actually, I think it's the highest praise a chef can get," Val said, tossing the dishtowel over her shoulder and pulling her hip back in line with the other. "When you can turn two grown men into beached whales, you know your cooking's good."
"Or that food on the road is that bad," Daniel said. "Really, Val, come out and be our caterer."
She winked at Kerri. As if there was any way to pry Val out of her house. "If I do," she said, "will you change the name of the band to Beached Whales?"
"We may have to," Mitchell said and, at last, burped.
The curtains fluttered, and Val and Kerri exchanged amused smiles as they went back to putting the plates away.
Want more? Click on the characters' names and be transported a quick character sketch, along with links to more fiction featuring Daniel, Val, Kerri, and Mitchell. And don't forget to take a ride on Rhian's Poetry Train!
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, fiction, Kerri, Mitchell, outtake, Poetry Train, Val
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Val's Cake (Trevor's Song era... or beyond)
"Okay, Val! Let's see it!" Daniel called when he got home from practice, not that he'd had far to go, since the practice space was in their back yard.
She tried not to panic. "Are you alone?"
"I promised you I would be," he said. As if that meant anything; Trevor and Mitchell would ignore promises Daniel made her. They didn't care. Worst of all, they'd look at this disaster she'd made and laugh. This was one of those things they'd never let her live down.
Val looked out the window, just to be safe. Both Mitchell's Bronco and Trevor's ugly-assed motorcycle were gone. Not that letting Daniel near it would be any easier.
"Let's see it," Daniel said again as he entered the kitchen.
Val burst into tears.
The cake had been supposed to look like a Southern Plantation -- the sort of place that Val wanted to marry Daniel in, if getting married was ever something that seemed the right thing to do. But the end result hardly looked like the idyllic setting for a romantic wedding between two people who'd been together for so long, they didn't know what it was like to be apart.
"Well," Daniel said, folding his arms across his chest and cupping his elbows with his fingers. "We could always throw it in a bowl, pour some rum over it, throw in some whipped cream, and … what else do we do to your other cakes?"
"I wanted this one to be great!" she wailed.
Daniel turned his back on the cake just as the front porch finished sagging. It fell lazily to the side, right on top of what was supposed to have been some sort of shrub. He held Val by the waist, not pulling her too close.
"What's great," he said, "is that you tried." Very slowly and deliberately, he kissed the tip of her nose. "We both know that dessert is the one area you may never master. But you tried it anyway, and it'll taste just fine." He pulled back a bit and eyed her. "Won't it?"
She shrugged.
With another kiss, this time on her lips, Daniel sent her off so he could turn the mess into something edible. Val knew that once he had, he'd proclaim it a shame to not share, and while Val was working up menus, he'd call Mitchell and Kerri and invite them over for dinner.
Best of all, there'd be nothing for anyone to make fun of. Maybe the whole thing could be forgotten. Maybe she'd learn and not bother with any dessert more ambitious than chocolate chip cookies.
But most probably, she'd try again.
This was inspired by this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: Experimenting. For more Val, check out Soy Sauce, Beached Whales, and Val's Tantrum. Oh, and Smoke Break. How could I forget Smoke Break?
Don't forget to ride the Poetry Train!
She tried not to panic. "Are you alone?"
"I promised you I would be," he said. As if that meant anything; Trevor and Mitchell would ignore promises Daniel made her. They didn't care. Worst of all, they'd look at this disaster she'd made and laugh. This was one of those things they'd never let her live down.
Val looked out the window, just to be safe. Both Mitchell's Bronco and Trevor's ugly-assed motorcycle were gone. Not that letting Daniel near it would be any easier.
"Let's see it," Daniel said again as he entered the kitchen.
Val burst into tears.
The cake had been supposed to look like a Southern Plantation -- the sort of place that Val wanted to marry Daniel in, if getting married was ever something that seemed the right thing to do. But the end result hardly looked like the idyllic setting for a romantic wedding between two people who'd been together for so long, they didn't know what it was like to be apart.
"Well," Daniel said, folding his arms across his chest and cupping his elbows with his fingers. "We could always throw it in a bowl, pour some rum over it, throw in some whipped cream, and … what else do we do to your other cakes?"
"I wanted this one to be great!" she wailed.
Daniel turned his back on the cake just as the front porch finished sagging. It fell lazily to the side, right on top of what was supposed to have been some sort of shrub. He held Val by the waist, not pulling her too close.
"What's great," he said, "is that you tried." Very slowly and deliberately, he kissed the tip of her nose. "We both know that dessert is the one area you may never master. But you tried it anyway, and it'll taste just fine." He pulled back a bit and eyed her. "Won't it?"
She shrugged.
With another kiss, this time on her lips, Daniel sent her off so he could turn the mess into something edible. Val knew that once he had, he'd proclaim it a shame to not share, and while Val was working up menus, he'd call Mitchell and Kerri and invite them over for dinner.
Best of all, there'd be nothing for anyone to make fun of. Maybe the whole thing could be forgotten. Maybe she'd learn and not bother with any dessert more ambitious than chocolate chip cookies.
But most probably, she'd try again.
This was inspired by this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt: Experimenting. For more Val, check out Soy Sauce, Beached Whales, and Val's Tantrum. Oh, and Smoke Break. How could I forget Smoke Break?
Don't forget to ride the Poetry Train!
Labels: creative writing, Daniel, fiction, food, outtake, Poetry Train, Val
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Roadie Poet: Stranger
Got home just now.
The start of a month off the road.
I need sleep
Clean clothes
Good food.
In that order.
My key fits in the lock.
Everything inside looks the same:
Shelf for mail
The dent in the bannister from when I kicked it with a steel-toed boot.
Don't ask.
In the living room
In front of the TV
In the recliner I bought Mom with my first tour's pay
Isn't Mom.
It's some guy.
In blue plaid flannel pants.
Black socks.
Brown slippers with no backs.
Not a lot of hair.
Glasses.
I look into the kitchen.
There's Mom's cookbooks
Mom's pots
Mom's teapot.
No Mom.
Just this guy.
"Hey," he says to me.
"You must be RP."
"Who're you?" I say to him.
"Does Mom know you're here?"
He laughs.
Stands up.
Shoves his hand at me.
I stare at it.
Mom shows up then.
Dressed in a flimsy robe.
Surprised to see me.
Her second kid.
Like I'm forgettable.
She gives me food.
Takes my laundry.
Sends me to bed.
In that order.
I don't complain.
I needed all three.
Especially sleep.
I'm awake.
Never thought I'd need earplugs at home.
Maybe
I can find
A tour
That'll keep me busy
For a month.
I don't really need
Sleep
Food
Or clothes.
In any order.
Aww, man! Poor RP; his mom's got a boyfriend! There's more to this saga, so stay tuned. In the meantime, why not check out other friends who've done some Sunday Scribblings?
The start of a month off the road.
I need sleep
Clean clothes
Good food.
In that order.
My key fits in the lock.
Everything inside looks the same:
Shelf for mail
The dent in the bannister from when I kicked it with a steel-toed boot.
Don't ask.
In the living room
In front of the TV
In the recliner I bought Mom with my first tour's pay
Isn't Mom.
It's some guy.
In blue plaid flannel pants.
Black socks.
Brown slippers with no backs.
Not a lot of hair.
Glasses.
I look into the kitchen.
There's Mom's cookbooks
Mom's pots
Mom's teapot.
No Mom.
Just this guy.
"Hey," he says to me.
"You must be RP."
"Who're you?" I say to him.
"Does Mom know you're here?"
He laughs.
Stands up.
Shoves his hand at me.
I stare at it.
Mom shows up then.
Dressed in a flimsy robe.
Surprised to see me.
Her second kid.
Like I'm forgettable.
She gives me food.
Takes my laundry.
Sends me to bed.
In that order.
I don't complain.
I needed all three.
Especially sleep.
I'm awake.
Never thought I'd need earplugs at home.
Maybe
I can find
A tour
That'll keep me busy
For a month.
I don't really need
Sleep
Food
Or clothes.
In any order.
Aww, man! Poor RP; his mom's got a boyfriend! There's more to this saga, so stay tuned. In the meantime, why not check out other friends who've done some Sunday Scribblings?
Labels: poem, Roadie Poet, Sunday Scribblings
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Thursday Thirteen #36 -- Thirteen Thirteens
Carol at Thursday Thirteen asked us to help celebrate 100 weeks of thirteening by listing our favorite Thirteens.
Last weekend, I asked you guys which you liked best. Taking that into account, here's my list of the best Thirteens that concern ShapeShifter. And let me tell you, I think the only thing harder than going back over 35 Thirteens to find a limited number would be picking out my favorite outtakes. Please don't make me do that next.
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
Have you picked out your book(s) for the Summer's Hidden Treasure contest?
Happy Fourth, everyone! I will be late with rounds; we are sleeping out at the Science Center tonight. Let's hope it doesn't rain on our fireworks.
Last weekend, I asked you guys which you liked best. Taking that into account, here's my list of the best Thirteens that concern ShapeShifter. And let me tell you, I think the only thing harder than going back over 35 Thirteens to find a limited number would be picking out my favorite outtakes. Please don't make me do that next.
 |
| 1. Green Hair Week. I loved this one not just because of what's in it, but because this was the first multi-day story arc. 2. Tour of Riverview I still refer back to this one a lot, but that's because it's an important one! Not as funny as most, but important nonetheless. 3. Mitchell and Kerri's Farm house Many of you guys responded to this one. I'm not sure why, unless you really dug the fact that these rock stars live as normally as the rest of us. 4. Trevor's Kitchen 'Nuff said. 5. Halloween. I think many, if not most of you, came on board after this inaugural Thirteen was posted. You're missing a good one. 6. Loving and Hating the Holidays Some good, some bad, a lot of fun... 7. The Special Hanukkah Edition The ladies of Riverview rip it up. 8. The Balancing Meme The guys show why ShapeShifter rules the Earth. Or at least a journalist or two. 9. Mitchell's Desk Many of you connected to this one. It's a spot whose mental image is particularly clear to me. 10. Valentine's Day The boys get their say. 11. The Aftermath of the Earring Debacle I know the picture wasn't great, but couldn't you ooh and ahh over my earrings? 12. St. Patrick's Day Adventures Boys... And lastly... 13. Mabel How can you resist a guitar with this sort of history? |
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
Have you picked out your book(s) for the Summer's Hidden Treasure contest?
Happy Fourth, everyone! I will be late with rounds; we are sleeping out at the Science Center tonight. Let's hope it doesn't rain on our fireworks.
Labels: meme, Thursday Thirteen
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Sunday Best: Cool Sh*t
Yeah, I know. I put the asterik in there... makes me sick, too, but every now and then, you gotta conform.
Anyway, I've been meaning to bring these two things to your attention for too long now. Long enough that I'm tired of The Tour Manager closing my Firefox window and the open tabs along with it. And it's Sunday. Seems like a good time to bring you a Sunday Best.
First off, we have a very cute set of cookie cutter and six cookie recipes from the folks at Punk Rock Kitchen. While this is sort of pink and definitely missing the biting social commentary that characterizes punk rock, it's still a lot of fun. I'd definitely give this as a birthday present to the younger set.
And next, this is something I'd totally like to track down and get for myself. It's a new graphic novel (and you guys know how I love my graphic novels *coughJoannSfarcough*) about an all-girl rock band, the Apocalipstix. The book was actually released in July, so it only took a month to cross my radar. Not bad, but really. They could have sent me a review copy and I'd be telling you all to go on over to Front Street Reviews and read what I thought of it.
So there ya go. Some cool shit for a US Labor Day weekend. Make it a good one; it's the unofficial end of summer. I'm going to miss summer around here. Sort of.
Anyway, I've been meaning to bring these two things to your attention for too long now. Long enough that I'm tired of The Tour Manager closing my Firefox window and the open tabs along with it. And it's Sunday. Seems like a good time to bring you a Sunday Best.
First off, we have a very cute set of cookie cutter and six cookie recipes from the folks at Punk Rock Kitchen. While this is sort of pink and definitely missing the biting social commentary that characterizes punk rock, it's still a lot of fun. I'd definitely give this as a birthday present to the younger set.
And next, this is something I'd totally like to track down and get for myself. It's a new graphic novel (and you guys know how I love my graphic novels *coughJoannSfarcough*) about an all-girl rock band, the Apocalipstix. The book was actually released in July, so it only took a month to cross my radar. Not bad, but really. They could have sent me a review copy and I'd be telling you all to go on over to Front Street Reviews and read what I thought of it.
So there ya go. Some cool shit for a US Labor Day weekend. Make it a good one; it's the unofficial end of summer. I'm going to miss summer around here. Sort of.
Labels: books, food, Sunday Best
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Show Day
Been following the saga of Springer? Why not?
Since it's the Monday of Hanukkah, that means it's the day of the now annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration, a fund-raiser thrown by our friends in the fictional band ShapeShifter. Read on; links to catch up will be at the bottom.
Mitchell rolled over and stretched, unsurpised that Kerri was already gone. She liked to get up at what she called normal hours. He, of course, kept a rock star's hours.
That meant it was noon, or near enough to it to count. Five hours until he had to be at the venue, and tonight was a doozy of a show. The second annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration. Fifty wanna-bes up on stage with the band, tripping on everything, fucking with his and Eric's foot pedals, trying to steal their picks.
Amazing that last year, it had been a shitload of fun.
Most of the credit for that had to go to the stage crew who'd stepped up and worked without pay -- like they'd be doing this year, too. The band had found some nice ways to say thanks, even going so far for a few of the thicker skulls as to make calls directly to get them some extra work. Mitchell had heard that one had found his calling and was sticking around as a cotton tech. Not bad for someone who hadn't seemed able to tell a size three-x from a small.
Mitchell finished stretching and got up. No need to shower on a show day. No need to do much, really, on a show day. Just press, and that had all been done already. There'd be no more until things wrapped up early tomorrow morning. Then it'd be three solid days of talking about how it had gone.
Kerri wasn't in the kitchen. When he finished two toasted bagels with cream cheese and strawberry jelly, an orange, and a handful of potato chips, Mitchell poked his head in the garage, but both Kerri's Jeep and bike were there. That meant she was probably up in her studio; Mitchell wondered if she'd want some company.
He grabbed his new guitar by the neck and carried it up to the third floor. "Hey."
She looked up from her artist table thingie. "Hey, yourself. Getting pysched?"
He shrugged. "Too early for that." It would be a great night; too many people had too much to prove for it to be any other way. The wanna-bes who'd be jamming with the band were all trying to be good enough to get the band's attention. The crew and club staff would all be tying to earn jobs with the band. The fans had to prove they were the band's best fans. Everyone would be at their best, and that alone would make it a great night.
He reminded himself it was too early to think about it. Thinking would only get him up for what was to come, too, and there was no way he could maintain that level of adrenaline for five hours. Better to be mellow now and let it kick in when they got to the club.
"Are you going to stand there all day?"
He shrugged. What else did he have to do with himself? He sure as shit wasn't going to go down into his little room and focus on band shit.
Kerri sighed, and he knew that was a signal to sit down in his usual chair by the window and make some music for her to work by. Quietly, so he didn't break her concentration, but after this many years with her, he knew what the rules were. Besides, fun things often happened when he distracted her.
Still, though, five couldn't arrive fast enough, and then things would get rolling. Because it was a benefit, it'd be crazy and chaotic and barely in control, and it'd make these five hours seem like paradise.
The whole idea for the Musical Hanukkah Celebration began here. Springer's story began here and continues here. And here are more facts about the event.
Since it's the Monday of Hanukkah, that means it's the day of the now annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration, a fund-raiser thrown by our friends in the fictional band ShapeShifter. Read on; links to catch up will be at the bottom.
Mitchell rolled over and stretched, unsurpised that Kerri was already gone. She liked to get up at what she called normal hours. He, of course, kept a rock star's hours.
That meant it was noon, or near enough to it to count. Five hours until he had to be at the venue, and tonight was a doozy of a show. The second annual Musical Hanukkah Celebration. Fifty wanna-bes up on stage with the band, tripping on everything, fucking with his and Eric's foot pedals, trying to steal their picks.
Amazing that last year, it had been a shitload of fun.
Most of the credit for that had to go to the stage crew who'd stepped up and worked without pay -- like they'd be doing this year, too. The band had found some nice ways to say thanks, even going so far for a few of the thicker skulls as to make calls directly to get them some extra work. Mitchell had heard that one had found his calling and was sticking around as a cotton tech. Not bad for someone who hadn't seemed able to tell a size three-x from a small.
Mitchell finished stretching and got up. No need to shower on a show day. No need to do much, really, on a show day. Just press, and that had all been done already. There'd be no more until things wrapped up early tomorrow morning. Then it'd be three solid days of talking about how it had gone.
Kerri wasn't in the kitchen. When he finished two toasted bagels with cream cheese and strawberry jelly, an orange, and a handful of potato chips, Mitchell poked his head in the garage, but both Kerri's Jeep and bike were there. That meant she was probably up in her studio; Mitchell wondered if she'd want some company.
He grabbed his new guitar by the neck and carried it up to the third floor. "Hey."
She looked up from her artist table thingie. "Hey, yourself. Getting pysched?"
He shrugged. "Too early for that." It would be a great night; too many people had too much to prove for it to be any other way. The wanna-bes who'd be jamming with the band were all trying to be good enough to get the band's attention. The crew and club staff would all be tying to earn jobs with the band. The fans had to prove they were the band's best fans. Everyone would be at their best, and that alone would make it a great night.
He reminded himself it was too early to think about it. Thinking would only get him up for what was to come, too, and there was no way he could maintain that level of adrenaline for five hours. Better to be mellow now and let it kick in when they got to the club.
"Are you going to stand there all day?"
He shrugged. What else did he have to do with himself? He sure as shit wasn't going to go down into his little room and focus on band shit.
Kerri sighed, and he knew that was a signal to sit down in his usual chair by the window and make some music for her to work by. Quietly, so he didn't break her concentration, but after this many years with her, he knew what the rules were. Besides, fun things often happened when he distracted her.
Still, though, five couldn't arrive fast enough, and then things would get rolling. Because it was a benefit, it'd be crazy and chaotic and barely in control, and it'd make these five hours seem like paradise.
The whole idea for the Musical Hanukkah Celebration began here. Springer's story began here and continues here. And here are more facts about the event.
Labels: creative writing, fiction, Kerri, Mitchell, Musical Hanukkah Celebration, outtake, Poetry Train
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Fiction Outtake: Eric's Flu (pre-Trevor's Song days)
This is for Erica, who's home sick with the flu. But while I have you here, let me point out that author Conor Corderoy stopped by to leave a comment here. If you haven't picked a book to read yet for the Debut a Debut contest, why not his Dark Rain? A dystopia AND murder mystery; how can you refuse?I can't!
And now... the outtake, just for Erica!
Daniel and Mitchell had gathered around Eric, who stared up at them from Trevor's couch on the tour bus, his eyes glassy.
"Freaky," Mitchell said with a nod. He pulled a potato chip out of the bag he'd bought at the rest stop half an hour ago.
"I think it's a hangover," Daniel insisted, holding out his hand for a chip.
Mitchell ignored him. "We weren't drinking that much last night. And you don't blow your nose as much as he's been doing when you're hungover. It makes your brain pound too hard."
"Good point," Daniel said. He tried to take the bag of chips, but Mitchell pulled it out of danger and tossed it toward the bus' kitchen area.
Daniel took a wary step back, but Mitchell was fast and pinned the drummer to the couch opposite Eric. "You can fucking share," the drummer snarled.
"No I can't," Mitchell growled back. "And let's hope Eric doesn't. He's got the flu, you dumb fuck. All of us can get it."
"We have a show tomorrow," Eric moaned. "We can't cancel."
"True. ShapeShifter doesn't cancel."
"What do we do?" Eric's moan turned sniveling. "I can't fucking move. Do you know I spent the entire stop trying to get out of my bunk and up here?"
"Well, I wish you'd gotten here sooner," Mitchell told him, diving for the potato chips before Daniel could grab them again. "'cause if we'd known, we could have picked up supplies."
"Supplies?" Daniel asked, sucking on the thumb that Mitchell had bent backwards in his rush for the chips.
"Yeah," Mitchell said, popping another chip into his mouth. "Soup, Jell-o." He grinned. "We could have some real fun with the Jell-o that sick boy there doesn't eat."
"What girl's gonna want to get on a bus that's got a guy with the flu on it?" Daniel asked.
Mitchell winked. "Who said we'd tell them before we're rolling?"
"Show tomorrow," Eric said and pulled another tissue out of the box he'd propped on his chest. "Me. Gotta play," he said and blew his nose. Hard.
Mitchell shuddered. Charlie, the band's tour manager, jumped for the used tissue and put it into a plastic bag.
"What do we do since we don't have any soup?" Daniel asked.
Mitchell shook his head uselessly and eyed his potato chips. There was something unappetizing about eating after listening to the goop that had come pouring out of Eric's nose. He crumpled the top of the bag closed and offered it to Daniel, who winkled his nose and shook his head.
"You fuck heads," Trevor said, getting up from his usual spot on the couch, at Eric's feet. "There's only one cure for the flu." He pushed past Mitchell, who gave him a quick slap to the back of the head, and opened the fridge. He pulled out a beer and grabbed the opener. "You get him so drunk, he forgets he's sick."
"We might pickle him before that happens," Mitchell said with a frown. He opened the potato chips and, without looking, fished one out of the bag and ate it.
"Pickle me!" Eric begged. "Just … make me better."
Trevor handed over the beer. Daniel helped himself to a potato chip and shrugged at Mitchell.
It was worth a try.
And now... the outtake, just for Erica!
Daniel and Mitchell had gathered around Eric, who stared up at them from Trevor's couch on the tour bus, his eyes glassy.
"Freaky," Mitchell said with a nod. He pulled a potato chip out of the bag he'd bought at the rest stop half an hour ago.
"I think it's a hangover," Daniel insisted, holding out his hand for a chip.
Mitchell ignored him. "We weren't drinking that much last night. And you don't blow your nose as much as he's been doing when you're hungover. It makes your brain pound too hard."
"Good point," Daniel said. He tried to take the bag of chips, but Mitchell pulled it out of danger and tossed it toward the bus' kitchen area.
Daniel took a wary step back, but Mitchell was fast and pinned the drummer to the couch opposite Eric. "You can fucking share," the drummer snarled.
"No I can't," Mitchell growled back. "And let's hope Eric doesn't. He's got the flu, you dumb fuck. All of us can get it."
"We have a show tomorrow," Eric moaned. "We can't cancel."
"True. ShapeShifter doesn't cancel."
"What do we do?" Eric's moan turned sniveling. "I can't fucking move. Do you know I spent the entire stop trying to get out of my bunk and up here?"
"Well, I wish you'd gotten here sooner," Mitchell told him, diving for the potato chips before Daniel could grab them again. "'cause if we'd known, we could have picked up supplies."
"Supplies?" Daniel asked, sucking on the thumb that Mitchell had bent backwards in his rush for the chips.
"Yeah," Mitchell said, popping another chip into his mouth. "Soup, Jell-o." He grinned. "We could have some real fun with the Jell-o that sick boy there doesn't eat."
"What girl's gonna want to get on a bus that's got a guy with the flu on it?" Daniel asked.
Mitchell winked. "Who said we'd tell them before we're rolling?"
"Show tomorrow," Eric said and pulled another tissue out of the box he'd propped on his chest. "Me. Gotta play," he said and blew his nose. Hard.
Mitchell shuddered. Charlie, the band's tour manager, jumped for the used tissue and put it into a plastic bag.
"What do we do since we don't have any soup?" Daniel asked.
Mitchell shook his head uselessly and eyed his potato chips. There was something unappetizing about eating after listening to the goop that had come pouring out of Eric's nose. He crumpled the top of the bag closed and offered it to Daniel, who winkled his nose and shook his head.
"You fuck heads," Trevor said, getting up from his usual spot on the couch, at Eric's feet. "There's only one cure for the flu." He pushed past Mitchell, who gave him a quick slap to the back of the head, and opened the fridge. He pulled out a beer and grabbed the opener. "You get him so drunk, he forgets he's sick."
"We might pickle him before that happens," Mitchell said with a frown. He opened the potato chips and, without looking, fished one out of the bag and ate it.
"Pickle me!" Eric begged. "Just … make me better."
Trevor handed over the beer. Daniel helped himself to a potato chip and shrugged at Mitchell.
It was worth a try.
Labels: Conor Corderoy, creative writing, Daniel, Debut a Debut, Eric, fiction, flu, Mitchell, outtake, Trevor
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Thursday Thirteen #28 -- Let's hit the Road
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| If you've been here during the first part of this week, you know that I wrote two interlinked outtakes in honor of a comment Rashenbo made about last week's TT, Thirteen Things in Mitchell and Kerri's kitchen. If you haven't read the outtakes yet (and why not?) but want to read the Thirteen before you do, let's just suffice to say that they take place very early in the band's career, when they are a little more dependent on the kindness of others -- but what sometimes seems to be kindness backfires. Anyway, since it's summer and since it ties in so nicely, here's Thirteen Things To Eat While RoadTripping 1. Mountain Dew 2. Potato Chips 3. Oreos 4. Slim Jims 5. apples 6. Peanuts 7. Twizzlers 8. popcorn 9. doughnuts 10. cheap beer (hey, road trips take pit stops!) 11. pizza 12. fast food, especially milkshakes 13. sunflower seeds Happy trails, everyone! And because the voting's not closed yet... And if you've missed it somehow, Just a reminder... go vote for me! Yes, I'm totally going to torture you with this until the voting closes on May 22. So go vote, will ya? If you've already voted, why not register under another e-mail address? You'll get to vote again that way! |
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
Labels: Blogger's Choice Award, meme, road trip, Thursday Thirteen
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Fiction Outtake: Cranberries (The Early Days)
Patterson didn't mind that they'd left early. The after-dinner entertainment had been the same for years now: the men gathered around the television, the women in the kitchen, cleaning up and gossiping, the kids who were too young to do either dispersing to the basement or another round of football in the yard.
Mitchell, for all his love of baseball, loathed watching football. And Trevor's lewd comments about the sport had been immediately unwelcome.
Frankly, Patterson had been glad to have an excuse to leave. He wasn't much of a football lover, himself, and family togetherness had its limits when there was so much in your life you couldn't discuss.
He pulled the Bronco into its spot on the side of the driveway and sat for a moment. Trevor, in the back seat, had gotten awfully quiet. Too quiet.
Mitchell, beside him, hopped out of the Bronco like he didn't have a care in the world. Like leaving early wasn't a big deal. To the boy, it probably hadn't been. Spending the day with the family had been okay at first, with the annual flag football game and the cousins to catch up with. But if you kept Mitchell away from his guitar too long, he started to get twitchy. Once that happened, the cousins decided he was weird. Adding Trevor to the mix hadn't helped, but leaving that one at home had never crossed Patterson's mind. Trevor was part of the family now, no matter how hard he worked at reminding them all that he wasn't.
Trevor followed Mitchell out of the Bronco, but didn't wait by the back door with the younger boy. Instead, Trevor stared at the sky.
"Did you ever wonder," he said to Patterson, his face turned upward.
"I wondered what's bothering you tonight."
Trevor shoved his hands into the pockets of the leather vest he'd consented to wear over his denim jacket. He hunched his shoulders.
Patterson had a few guesses. But it was best if the boy talked without prompts.
Suddenly, the hands were out of the pockets, the shoulders were down, and the boy had spun to face his guardian. "Do you have any fucking clue what it's like to watch that table get cleared and hear everyone laugh that everyone forgot about the cranberries and this and that and everything else? Do you have any fucking clue how lucky you are to even have a fucking family?"
"Yes," Patterson said. "And not just because this is a holiday of gratitude, either."
Mitchell wandered closer, but stayed safely behind Trevor.
"Do you know what my Thanksgivings used to be like?" Trevor went on, his face turning red in the starlight. "Do you know what we'd have for dinner?"
"No," Patterson said. "Tell me."
Trevor just shook his head, like the words wouldn't come. Mitchell sat down in the grass and folded his legs Indian-style. He began playing with his shoelaces.
Trevor pulled his cigarettes out of the chest pocket of the denim jacket. "Some years, it was us sitting around the table, watching him drink a bottle of JD. One year, he beat Mom with the bird she'd brought home and then made her cook it and stood there while we ate it. I puked it back up about an hour later." He snorted. "And don't forget the year there was no food because Mom couldn't get a hold of his paycheck and he stole hers and drank 'em both."
Mitchell shook his head and visibly swallowed. Patterson just listened. He'd been witness to scenes like this, although not at the Wolff household. It didn't matter; the tragedy was still the same. The fact that he'd been able to make a difference in this young man's life couldn't even begin to make up for the families he hadn't been able to help so directly.
"Happy fucking birthday, Trevor," Trevor said, sniffing hard and rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his denim jacket. "They usually forgot. And there's the Voss family," he said, gesturing expansively, "with a birthday cake and apologies for being a week late."
Patterson looked at Mitchell; he felt the boy watching him. He'd managed to shelter Mitchell from the worst of Trevor's stories; this couldn't be easy.
Mitchell was imploring his father to make it stop. To help him know what to say or do.
Patterson pursed his lips and gave the barest shake to his head.
"And all that fucking food that everyone forgot to eat," Trevor said.
"We didn't forget," Mitchell said. "No one likes the cranberries. So Aunt Paula leaves 'em on the table because we're supposed to have cranberries. She's probably shoving them back in the container she uses every year, and she'll throw it in the freezer until next year. They'll make it to the table, probably still frozen, and then when we clear, everyone will joke about forgetting to eat them when the truth is, no one wants 'em."
"Think that's funny?" Trevor whirled and bent over to look at Mitchell, who shrugged.
"I think cranberries are okay," Mitchell said.
Patterson had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.
Trevor cocked his head, considering.
Mitchell started pulling at the grass.
"So you're saying I'm a cranberry?" Trevor asked at last.
Mitchell made a sound sort of like one of Trevor's indignant snorts. "No," the boy said. "You're an ass who's keeping me from my guitar. C'mon. Let's go make music."
Patterson moved to unlock the front door, wondering if a parent could be more proud of his son. It wasn't likely.
Want to know more about who these folk are? All the info you need is at West of Mars. Go check it out.
Mitchell, for all his love of baseball, loathed watching football. And Trevor's lewd comments about the sport had been immediately unwelcome.
Frankly, Patterson had been glad to have an excuse to leave. He wasn't much of a football lover, himself, and family togetherness had its limits when there was so much in your life you couldn't discuss.
He pulled the Bronco into its spot on the side of the driveway and sat for a moment. Trevor, in the back seat, had gotten awfully quiet. Too quiet.
Mitchell, beside him, hopped out of the Bronco like he didn't have a care in the world. Like leaving early wasn't a big deal. To the boy, it probably hadn't been. Spending the day with the family had been okay at first, with the annual flag football game and the cousins to catch up with. But if you kept Mitchell away from his guitar too long, he started to get twitchy. Once that happened, the cousins decided he was weird. Adding Trevor to the mix hadn't helped, but leaving that one at home had never crossed Patterson's mind. Trevor was part of the family now, no matter how hard he worked at reminding them all that he wasn't.
Trevor followed Mitchell out of the Bronco, but didn't wait by the back door with the younger boy. Instead, Trevor stared at the sky.
"Did you ever wonder," he said to Patterson, his face turned upward.
"I wondered what's bothering you tonight."
Trevor shoved his hands into the pockets of the leather vest he'd consented to wear over his denim jacket. He hunched his shoulders.
Patterson had a few guesses. But it was best if the boy talked without prompts.
Suddenly, the hands were out of the pockets, the shoulders were down, and the boy had spun to face his guardian. "Do you have any fucking clue what it's like to watch that table get cleared and hear everyone laugh that everyone forgot about the cranberries and this and that and everything else? Do you have any fucking clue how lucky you are to even have a fucking family?"
"Yes," Patterson said. "And not just because this is a holiday of gratitude, either."
Mitchell wandered closer, but stayed safely behind Trevor.
"Do you know what my Thanksgivings used to be like?" Trevor went on, his face turning red in the starlight. "Do you know what we'd have for dinner?"
"No," Patterson said. "Tell me."
Trevor just shook his head, like the words wouldn't come. Mitchell sat down in the grass and folded his legs Indian-style. He began playing with his shoelaces.
Trevor pulled his cigarettes out of the chest pocket of the denim jacket. "Some years, it was us sitting around the table, watching him drink a bottle of JD. One year, he beat Mom with the bird she'd brought home and then made her cook it and stood there while we ate it. I puked it back up about an hour later." He snorted. "And don't forget the year there was no food because Mom couldn't get a hold of his paycheck and he stole hers and drank 'em both."
Mitchell shook his head and visibly swallowed. Patterson just listened. He'd been witness to scenes like this, although not at the Wolff household. It didn't matter; the tragedy was still the same. The fact that he'd been able to make a difference in this young man's life couldn't even begin to make up for the families he hadn't been able to help so directly.
"Happy fucking birthday, Trevor," Trevor said, sniffing hard and rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his denim jacket. "They usually forgot. And there's the Voss family," he said, gesturing expansively, "with a birthday cake and apologies for being a week late."
Patterson looked at Mitchell; he felt the boy watching him. He'd managed to shelter Mitchell from the worst of Trevor's stories; this couldn't be easy.
Mitchell was imploring his father to make it stop. To help him know what to say or do.
Patterson pursed his lips and gave the barest shake to his head.
"And all that fucking food that everyone forgot to eat," Trevor said.
"We didn't forget," Mitchell said. "No one likes the cranberries. So Aunt Paula leaves 'em on the table because we're supposed to have cranberries. She's probably shoving them back in the container she uses every year, and she'll throw it in the freezer until next year. They'll make it to the table, probably still frozen, and then when we clear, everyone will joke about forgetting to eat them when the truth is, no one wants 'em."
"Think that's funny?" Trevor whirled and bent over to look at Mitchell, who shrugged.
"I think cranberries are okay," Mitchell said.
Patterson had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.
Trevor cocked his head, considering.
Mitchell started pulling at the grass.
"So you're saying I'm a cranberry?" Trevor asked at last.
Mitchell made a sound sort of like one of Trevor's indignant snorts. "No," the boy said. "You're an ass who's keeping me from my guitar. C'mon. Let's go make music."
Patterson moved to unlock the front door, wondering if a parent could be more proud of his son. It wasn't likely.
Want to know more about who these folk are? All the info you need is at West of Mars. Go check it out.
Labels: brotherly love, creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, Patterson, Trevor
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Fiction outtake: Meeting Trevor (The Early Days)
Mitchell watched from the couch, half-amused, as Amy pleaded her case on the other side of the family room. So far, she wasn't doing so hot.
"Mom, it's just a movie!"
"Not with a boy we haven't met yet, Amy," their mother said placidly. Mitchell watched her more than Amy, actually, fascinated by the way that she got calmer the more Amy yelled and whined. He wanted to shut Amy up somehow; she was getting as bad as Beth. Boys, boys, boys.
He shook his head and tossed his baseball into the air, catching it so easily, he didn't even have to think about it. There was more to life than boys.
Baseball, for example.
And, he thought, trying not to grin too bright in case Ma or Amy saw it and flew off the handle, thinking he was smiling at them, girls.
"Well, if you drive me there, you can meet him then," Amy tried.
"How's he getting there?"
Amy looked down at the carpet and twisted her shoulders back and forth. Mitchell's grin grew; this was going to be good. "He just said he'd meet me there, out front, and if he wasn't there five minutes before, it wasn't his fault and we'd try another time."
Mitchell sat up and leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he kept playing with the baseball. Ma was going to hate that excuse. She didn't go in for situations that involved if, unless they were science experiments.
Sure enough, Ma was frowning. "That doesn't sound like a dependable young man," she said. She gave Amy one of those long looks down her nose, the kind that made all of them squirm. Amy folded her arms behind her back and kept staring at the carpet, her shoulders still twisting as she fidgeted.
"Amy, are you sure this is the sort of boy you want to be with?" The question was gentle, which surprised Mitchell. He'd thought Ma was ready for some strong action. The fact that she wasn't was almost a let-down.
Amy crossed her arms over her chest and scowled as she nodded. Mitchell tossed his baseball again and kept quiet. Things were about to get good. Getting kicked out now would not be smart.
"Why?" Ma asked and folded her hands over her knees, like she did when she really wanted to listen.
Amy shrugged. "'Cause he's neat. He's different from the other boys. He's not a loser like Pipsqueak." She jerked her chin at him.
"Hey!" he said, his brain already in hyperdrive, thinking of ways to get back at her for what was sure to be his imminent eviction from the room.
"Leave your brother out of this," Ma said in that same calm voice, but Mitchell could tell, as he shot her a grateful look, that she was losing patience. "I will not drive you to the movies to meet this young man who may or may not be there," she said and stood up. What she said next was going to be the judge's verdict. Mitchell bit back another smile, thinking that social studies had been good for something more than a place to sit and daydream.
"If you want to go, find your own way there," Ma said.
She left the room and Mitchell tossed the baseball again, fighting the temptation to torment Amy somehow. It'd be fun to throw the baseball at her and leave a bruise for this movie date that might not happen, but Ma would kill him for that. Not worth it. Besides, he'd feel bad every time he had to look at the bruise, and bruises took a couple of days to fade.
"Any ideas?" Amy asked him glumly.
He shrugged. "What do I know? I'm just a pipsqueak."
She flounced out of the room and slammed her bedroom door behind her. Ma stuck her head out of the kitchen and frowned at the noise; Mitchell shrugged and sprawled on his back on the couch, still tossing the ball. It was sort of a bummer that Amy's new dude wasn't going to show up at the house. She'd been chasing around some pretty interesting guys lately.
That meant the sort that Dad and Ma hated.
Which meant that maybe Mitchell ought to be trying harder to get Golden Girl to that movie theater. Anything that got Amy in trouble was worth the effort, especially when he could conveniently get himself off the hook at the same time.
There wasn't much a thirteen-year-old kid could do to help out, though, and before Mitchell could come up with even a bad plan, Beth was coming out of the girls' bedroom and talking softly to Ma.
"I'll be right there with her, Mom. Nothing will happen. I'll… I'll take Pipsqueak and we'll sit in the back row and keep an eye on them."
Mitchell covered his face with his baseball glove. The last thing he wanted to do was sit through some movie Amy was sure to have picked. She went for that sappy romantic shit.
"Maybe letting her get stood up by this boy isn't such a bad idea," Ma said thoughtfully.
Mitchell tossed his baseball and wondered why.
An hour later, he and Beth were standing near the popcorn counter, watching Amy talk to her guy. Mitchell recognized him, sort of. He was in Mitchell's grade, but that didn't mean much. So were five hundred other kids.
This kid stood out, though, because he wore a jean jacket all the time, and had long brown hair. Like… below his shoulders long. Mitchell, who'd recently convinced Dad to let him grow out the brush cut he hated, couldn't see letting his own get like that. He wasn't going to start skipping classes, either.
Beth leaned over to him. "Looks like Perfect Amy's doing some rebelling," she said.
Mitchell shrugged.
"This could be fun," Beth continued in a taunting voice, like she was challenging Mitchell to something. He wasn't sure what, though, and again, he shrugged. Ma always said it was rude to not answer at all and that even a gesture was enough, so Mitchell spent a lot of time shrugging and not a lot of time actually speaking. No one seemed to mind.
"Beth, Pi-- Mitchell, this is Trevor," Amy said, leading him inside.
The other kid stared at Mitchell. "I know you." He nodded like it all made sense. "You saved my ass that one time at lunch."
Mitchell shrugged. So he'd seen Asshole Jerry sticking his foot out, ready to trip Trevor and send him flying. It hadn't been hard to ruin Asshole Jerry's plans with a quick gesture at Trevor. After all, that had to be the oldest trick in the book, the one that everyone was on to. Mitchell couldn't respect someone who took that route.
"Thanks for that," Trevor said, giving Mitchell a companionable chuck to the shoulder. "I'd have probably gotten expelled again if he'd dumped me."
Mitchell looked over his shoulder, frowning. The guy had touched him.
"That didn't hurt, you wuss," Amy said to him. She fidgeted some more, wringing her hands. Trevor made a point of separating them and holding onto one.
"Do you guys really have to watch the movie, too?" Amy asked, biting back a smile as she stared at her hand in Trevor's.
"Well, here's the thing," Trevor said, a smile playing at his lips. "If you think I'm gonna sit through some lovey shit like I said I would, you've got another thing coming. No, babe, we're gonna see the thriller. See if we can throw popcorn at the bad guys." He nodded like it was all settled.
"But…" Amy said.
"But nothing," Trevor said with a definitive nod. "We can make that sappy shit happen ourselves. But how often do you get to take on the bad guys and save the world?"
Mitchell nodded. He liked the way this guy thought. Well, other than being romantic with Amy. That thought made his skin crawl.
Beth was grinning. "So you mean," she drawled and tossed her long whitish-blonde hair over her shoulder, "you're teaching our little Amy that it's okay to fib a bit to our parents?"
Trevor looked her over for a long minute. Mitchell half-expected Beth to fidget like Amy was, but she didn't. "Got a problem with that?" he asked, sticking his tongue into his cheek. Mitchell wondered if he was trying to challenge Beth -- and if he had any idea how fast she'd put him in his place if he tried.
"Only that it took her this long to find you," Beth said, her voice warming like she liked this guy. Mitchell knew he did; he wondered what it would take for Trevor to dump Amy and be his friend instead.
"Stick with me," Trevor said, nodding firmly. "I've got lots to teach the three of you."
Mitchell shrugged and hoped that he'd get to learn some of it.
"Mom, it's just a movie!"
"Not with a boy we haven't met yet, Amy," their mother said placidly. Mitchell watched her more than Amy, actually, fascinated by the way that she got calmer the more Amy yelled and whined. He wanted to shut Amy up somehow; she was getting as bad as Beth. Boys, boys, boys.
He shook his head and tossed his baseball into the air, catching it so easily, he didn't even have to think about it. There was more to life than boys.
Baseball, for example.
And, he thought, trying not to grin too bright in case Ma or Amy saw it and flew off the handle, thinking he was smiling at them, girls.
"Well, if you drive me there, you can meet him then," Amy tried.
"How's he getting there?"
Amy looked down at the carpet and twisted her shoulders back and forth. Mitchell's grin grew; this was going to be good. "He just said he'd meet me there, out front, and if he wasn't there five minutes before, it wasn't his fault and we'd try another time."
Mitchell sat up and leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he kept playing with the baseball. Ma was going to hate that excuse. She didn't go in for situations that involved if, unless they were science experiments.
Sure enough, Ma was frowning. "That doesn't sound like a dependable young man," she said. She gave Amy one of those long looks down her nose, the kind that made all of them squirm. Amy folded her arms behind her back and kept staring at the carpet, her shoulders still twisting as she fidgeted.
"Amy, are you sure this is the sort of boy you want to be with?" The question was gentle, which surprised Mitchell. He'd thought Ma was ready for some strong action. The fact that she wasn't was almost a let-down.
Amy crossed her arms over her chest and scowled as she nodded. Mitchell tossed his baseball again and kept quiet. Things were about to get good. Getting kicked out now would not be smart.
"Why?" Ma asked and folded her hands over her knees, like she did when she really wanted to listen.
Amy shrugged. "'Cause he's neat. He's different from the other boys. He's not a loser like Pipsqueak." She jerked her chin at him.
"Hey!" he said, his brain already in hyperdrive, thinking of ways to get back at her for what was sure to be his imminent eviction from the room.
"Leave your brother out of this," Ma said in that same calm voice, but Mitchell could tell, as he shot her a grateful look, that she was losing patience. "I will not drive you to the movies to meet this young man who may or may not be there," she said and stood up. What she said next was going to be the judge's verdict. Mitchell bit back another smile, thinking that social studies had been good for something more than a place to sit and daydream.
"If you want to go, find your own way there," Ma said.
She left the room and Mitchell tossed the baseball again, fighting the temptation to torment Amy somehow. It'd be fun to throw the baseball at her and leave a bruise for this movie date that might not happen, but Ma would kill him for that. Not worth it. Besides, he'd feel bad every time he had to look at the bruise, and bruises took a couple of days to fade.
"Any ideas?" Amy asked him glumly.
He shrugged. "What do I know? I'm just a pipsqueak."
She flounced out of the room and slammed her bedroom door behind her. Ma stuck her head out of the kitchen and frowned at the noise; Mitchell shrugged and sprawled on his back on the couch, still tossing the ball. It was sort of a bummer that Amy's new dude wasn't going to show up at the house. She'd been chasing around some pretty interesting guys lately.
That meant the sort that Dad and Ma hated.
Which meant that maybe Mitchell ought to be trying harder to get Golden Girl to that movie theater. Anything that got Amy in trouble was worth the effort, especially when he could conveniently get himself off the hook at the same time.
There wasn't much a thirteen-year-old kid could do to help out, though, and before Mitchell could come up with even a bad plan, Beth was coming out of the girls' bedroom and talking softly to Ma.
"I'll be right there with her, Mom. Nothing will happen. I'll… I'll take Pipsqueak and we'll sit in the back row and keep an eye on them."
Mitchell covered his face with his baseball glove. The last thing he wanted to do was sit through some movie Amy was sure to have picked. She went for that sappy romantic shit.
"Maybe letting her get stood up by this boy isn't such a bad idea," Ma said thoughtfully.
Mitchell tossed his baseball and wondered why.
An hour later, he and Beth were standing near the popcorn counter, watching Amy talk to her guy. Mitchell recognized him, sort of. He was in Mitchell's grade, but that didn't mean much. So were five hundred other kids.
This kid stood out, though, because he wore a jean jacket all the time, and had long brown hair. Like… below his shoulders long. Mitchell, who'd recently convinced Dad to let him grow out the brush cut he hated, couldn't see letting his own get like that. He wasn't going to start skipping classes, either.
Beth leaned over to him. "Looks like Perfect Amy's doing some rebelling," she said.
Mitchell shrugged.
"This could be fun," Beth continued in a taunting voice, like she was challenging Mitchell to something. He wasn't sure what, though, and again, he shrugged. Ma always said it was rude to not answer at all and that even a gesture was enough, so Mitchell spent a lot of time shrugging and not a lot of time actually speaking. No one seemed to mind.
"Beth, Pi-- Mitchell, this is Trevor," Amy said, leading him inside.
The other kid stared at Mitchell. "I know you." He nodded like it all made sense. "You saved my ass that one time at lunch."
Mitchell shrugged. So he'd seen Asshole Jerry sticking his foot out, ready to trip Trevor and send him flying. It hadn't been hard to ruin Asshole Jerry's plans with a quick gesture at Trevor. After all, that had to be the oldest trick in the book, the one that everyone was on to. Mitchell couldn't respect someone who took that route.
"Thanks for that," Trevor said, giving Mitchell a companionable chuck to the shoulder. "I'd have probably gotten expelled again if he'd dumped me."
Mitchell looked over his shoulder, frowning. The guy had touched him.
"That didn't hurt, you wuss," Amy said to him. She fidgeted some more, wringing her hands. Trevor made a point of separating them and holding onto one.
"Do you guys really have to watch the movie, too?" Amy asked, biting back a smile as she stared at her hand in Trevor's.
"Well, here's the thing," Trevor said, a smile playing at his lips. "If you think I'm gonna sit through some lovey shit like I said I would, you've got another thing coming. No, babe, we're gonna see the thriller. See if we can throw popcorn at the bad guys." He nodded like it was all settled.
"But…" Amy said.
"But nothing," Trevor said with a definitive nod. "We can make that sappy shit happen ourselves. But how often do you get to take on the bad guys and save the world?"
Mitchell nodded. He liked the way this guy thought. Well, other than being romantic with Amy. That thought made his skin crawl.
Beth was grinning. "So you mean," she drawled and tossed her long whitish-blonde hair over her shoulder, "you're teaching our little Amy that it's okay to fib a bit to our parents?"
Trevor looked her over for a long minute. Mitchell half-expected Beth to fidget like Amy was, but she didn't. "Got a problem with that?" he asked, sticking his tongue into his cheek. Mitchell wondered if he was trying to challenge Beth -- and if he had any idea how fast she'd put him in his place if he tried.
"Only that it took her this long to find you," Beth said, her voice warming like she liked this guy. Mitchell knew he did; he wondered what it would take for Trevor to dump Amy and be his friend instead.
"Stick with me," Trevor said, nodding firmly. "I've got lots to teach the three of you."
Mitchell shrugged and hoped that he'd get to learn some of it.
Labels: Amy, creative writing, fiction, Mitchell, outtake, Trevor
Monday, May 08, 2006
Fiction Outtake: This one's for us girls! (Post-Trevor's Song era)
Mitchell wasn't having much luck reading his guitar magazine. He knew it was stupid to sit at the kitchen table and try to read in the first place, but Kerri wasn't helping matters any.
She was pacing around the cooking area, stopping to open the pantry, the refrigerator, the cabinets. She'd move things around, dig a bit in the freezer for something near the back, close everything up again, and move on to the next spot.
Over and over.
She was on her twelfth circuit when he'd had enough.
"Woman, what the fuck are you doing?"
"I need chocolate. I can't believe we don't have any chocolate. Why is there no chocolate in this house?" she asked as she took every single thing off one of the pantry shelves.
Mitchell got up to take a look at the things she was putting on the floor. Pancake mix, syrup, cans of tuna, corn starch -- that was the sort of stuff he was expecting to see. And he supposed he remembered picking up that bottle of Big Buck's Bodacious Sauce the last time he'd been at Big Buck's for some ribs.
But when it came to things like a dry scone mix, a paper cup of corn chowder that needed to have water added before it was anything but powder, and six varieties of balsamic vinegar, all he could do was scratch his head. Some of it he could blame on Val, who loved to force her gourmet finds on them. Some of it might have come from Nancy, and some of it… who knew? Maybe one of Amy's jokes again?
"Ker," he asked softly as she growled and started putting things back, "where'd some of this come from?"
She looked at the can of baby bay shrimp in her hand. "You know," she said slowly, "I have no clue. And you know what else?" she asked, fixing him with a stare that was so bright, it made him wince. "I don't care. It's not chocolate and that is what this is about. Where the fuck is the chocolate?"
He thought fast. The boys were still with Nancy; he had time before she'd want to leave for the day. He could pull this off -- if he moved now.
Mitchell grabbed Kerri by the shoulders and turned her toward the door leading to the garage. "Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
She tried to resist, so he bent and slung her over his shoulder.
"I'm taking you out and we're buying out every single peanut butter cup the store's got. What doesn't make you puke in an hour's going into the freezer."
"Stop!"
When she struggled, he set her down as gently as he could, worried that the way she was moving, she'd hurt herself. Or, worse, he'd hurt her.
"I don't want peanut butter cups. I want…" She licked her lips, her eyes roaming the ceiling. "I want brownies."
"I think I saw a box on the floor."
Kerri looked at him, her hazel eyes twinkling. "Race ya to 'em."
"Nah, you go. Call me when they're done." He started to stroll off, but she tackled him. Thankfully, not hard enough to bring him down, but hard enough to knock some of his wind out. He gave her a scornful look over his shoulder.
"You're eating?" she asked. "Then you're helping bake."
"Only if I get to smear batter on you and lick it off."
"Nope," she said calmly, picking the box of mix up off the floor.
"You do it to me?" he asked hopefully. "Would that be chocolate enough for ya?"
She pressed up against him and gave him one of those infuriating closed-lipped kisses. "Try it and see. But… after we bake these puppies and I've had a few."
Mitchell frowned as she tore into the box. She peered inside, looking so cute he wanted to melt, then with a sheepish smile read the back for the cooking directions.
"You know," he drawled, ready to break and run before she could throw something at him, "in two days, you'll be telling me to take what's left over to the studio because you don't want to gain three pounds just by breathing in their scent."
"You know," she answered, cocking her head slightly, "you could forget about that smearing batter thing, get out of my sight, and let me enjoy my brownies in peace, motherfucker."
Mitchell decided that even Trevor wasn't enough of a fool to hang around after that charming invite. He grabbed his guitar magazine and headed out onto the back porch. Anything to avoid the evil brownie fumes; Kerri would find a way to curse him so he gained three pounds, he was sure of it.
She was pacing around the cooking area, stopping to open the pantry, the refrigerator, the cabinets. She'd move things around, dig a bit in the freezer for something near the back, close everything up again, and move on to the next spot.
Over and over.
She was on her twelfth circuit when he'd had enough.
"Woman, what the fuck are you doing?"
"I need chocolate. I can't believe we don't have any chocolate. Why is there no chocolate in this house?" she asked as she took every single thing off one of the pantry shelves.
Mitchell got up to take a look at the things she was putting on the floor. Pancake mix, syrup, cans of tuna, corn starch -- that was the sort of stuff he was expecting to see. And he supposed he remembered picking up that bottle of Big Buck's Bodacious Sauce the last time he'd been at Big Buck's for some ribs.
But when it came to things like a dry scone mix, a paper cup of corn chowder that needed to have water added before it was anything but powder, and six varieties of balsamic vinegar, all he could do was scratch his head. Some of it he could blame on Val, who loved to force her gourmet finds on them. Some of it might have come from Nancy, and some of it… who knew? Maybe one of Amy's jokes again?
"Ker," he asked softly as she growled and started putting things back, "where'd some of this come from?"
She looked at the can of baby bay shrimp in her hand. "You know," she said slowly, "I have no clue. And you know what else?" she asked, fixing him with a stare that was so bright, it made him wince. "I don't care. It's not chocolate and that is what this is about. Where the fuck is the chocolate?"
He thought fast. The boys were still with Nancy; he had time before she'd want to leave for the day. He could pull this off -- if he moved now.
Mitchell grabbed Kerri by the shoulders and turned her toward the door leading to the garage. "Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
She tried to resist, so he bent and slung her over his shoulder.
"I'm taking you out and we're buying out every single peanut butter cup the store's got. What doesn't make you puke in an hour's going into the freezer."
"Stop!"
When she struggled, he set her down as gently as he could, worried that the way she was moving, she'd hurt herself. Or, worse, he'd hurt her.
"I don't want peanut butter cups. I want…" She licked her lips, her eyes roaming the ceiling. "I want brownies."
"I think I saw a box on the floor."
Kerri looked at him, her hazel eyes twinkling. "Race ya to 'em."
"Nah, you go. Call me when they're done." He started to stroll off, but she tackled him. Thankfully, not hard enough to bring him down, but hard enough to knock some of his wind out. He gave her a scornful look over his shoulder.
"You're eating?" she asked. "Then you're helping bake."
"Only if I get to smear batter on you and lick it off."
"Nope," she said calmly, picking the box of mix up off the floor.
"You do it to me?" he asked hopefully. "Would that be chocolate enough for ya?"
She pressed up against him and gave him one of those infuriating closed-lipped kisses. "Try it and see. But… after we bake these puppies and I've had a few."
Mitchell frowned as she tore into the box. She peered inside, looking so cute he wanted to melt, then with a sheepish smile read the back for the cooking directions.
"You know," he drawled, ready to break and run before she could throw something at him, "in two days, you'll be telling me to take what's left over to the studio because you don't want to gain three pounds just by breathing in their scent."
"You know," she answered, cocking her head slightly, "you could forget about that smearing batter thing, get out of my sight, and let me enjoy my brownies in peace, motherfucker."
Mitchell decided that even Trevor wasn't enough of a fool to hang around after that charming invite. He grabbed his guitar magazine and headed out onto the back porch. Anything to avoid the evil brownie fumes; Kerri would find a way to curse him so he gained three pounds, he was sure of it.
Labels: brownies, chocolate, creative writing, fiction, Kerri, kitchen, Mitchell, outtake
