I don’t know how many of you guys read Edittorrent and their neat blog. All you writers, you should be.

But anyway, someone other than me offered up the first three lines of a manuscript for their comments and a discussion ensued. A question arose: how can you create heat visually? Short of just posting a picture of Mitchell, this is what I wound up with. While it doesn’t fully answer the question, I like it. Hope you do, too.

Mitchell slid his sunglasses into place and waited for Charlie’s nod. The first car had left without him and Daniel when Charlie had decided to play Papa Tour Manager and order them back upstairs to change into shorts. Now, they were stuck waiting for a lift.

The same car pulled up, easily recognizable by its sun-faded red, and Mitchell went outside first, understanding immediately why Daniel kept dawdling. It was like walking into a wall of heat, a studded one that attacked every pore on his face so that they constricted, more parched than the worst hangover. He was suddenly all too aware of every single last eyebrow hair — including the ones the makeup people had waxed off three weeks ago for that damn photo shoot. And he swore the cleft in his chin got deeper as it, too, sought the shade of his sunglasses.

His arms were instantly slick with sweat that didn’t cool, the small of his back turned into a puddle, and his legs tried doing the same shrinking thing as his face. His lips felt like dried-out glue: fragile, brittle, and broken.

All in the two steps it took to get into the car’s front seat.

“Holy fuck,” he said, leaning toward the vent and adjusting it so it blew directly on his face. He gasped at its nominal coolness, alerted to the fact that he hadn’t been able to breathe at all while out there. “You live here?” he asked the driver, lifting his sunglasses so they’d stop sliding away. Fuckers just might dangle from his ears if he wasn’t careful.

Daniel and Charlie slid into the back seat. Daniel pulled a ponytail holder out of his pocket and peeled his curls away from his face.

“M, want one?”

Mitchell slid his hand underneath his hair and encountered a swamp. It wasn’t a bad idea, but who knew who’d see him? No one had ever seen him with his hair off his face. Maybe Kerri, but if she did, she was the one who’d shoved it away.

“I think I want to be in Europe already,” Mitchell said, leaning away from the air and angling it more toward the back seat. “We are idiots for touring the States in the summer.”

“We’ll be there in two weeks.”

“If we don’t fucking melt first.”

“Is it supposed to cool off by showtime?” Daniel asked.

Mitchell reached for his lip balm and looked over his shoulder at Charlie. Who was squirming.

It was going to be a brutal show, Mitchell thought. One of those nights where he took the stage in shoes, shorts, and guitar and spent most of the two hours wishing he could take even more off. At least he’d be slick with sweat and his skin wouldn’t try to shrivel up again. That had sucked.

And they still had to get out of the car and into the backstage area.

Talk about things that sucked.

Now, you may not have heard this here first, but you’re hearing the truth here first. That counts for a lot in Chelle’s book.

I just got off the phone with my favorite rocker, Mitchell Voss, and this is what he had to say:

For some reason, we couldn’t take the bus from the hotel to the arena, so the promoter sent a limo for us. It should have been a twenty-minute drive. An hour later, our tour manager gets out of the limo and walks up the side of the road to see what’s going on.

Turns out, a car broke down. They can’t even move it off to the shoulder, it’s the middle of rush hour. Traffic’s a disaster. Our tour manager comes back to the limo and says the car’s driven by three girls on their way to … you guessed it. Our show.

Trevor, Daniel, and Eric aren’t stupid. They’re also lonely. Or, they were.

That’s right, girls and boys. Those ShapeShifter boys smelled opportunity and they didn’t let anything stop them. Those girls with that broken-down car got the star treatment on their way to the show. They got to watch the show from the special VIP section with Mitchel’s wife, the most amazing Kerri Voss, and they got to be the after-show party, as well.

Chelle here knows how many of us dream of this happenin’ to us, even you guys out there. Like any good music reporter, I tried to find those girls and get their take on the night, but that handsome Voss man wasn’t coughing up any names.

So girls, if you’re out there and reading this, drop me a line, will ya? You just went and lived yourselves a dream and the rest of us, we want to know all about it.

You heard it first, and you heard it here. ShapeShifter loves their fans.

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.

Tour’s in full swing.
No clue where we are.
One city, another
All look the same.

Inside.

Days pick up a rhythm
Bus moves with one
Rhythm drives you up the ladder
Takes you back down
Across the stage.

No clue what the sun looks like
Or if there’s snow on the ground.

Who cares?
Days move with a rhythm.
Set up
Show
Tear down
Hit the road.

This is when a roadie learns
What’s in his blood.
If the road is there or not.
If his blood moves
With
The rhythm of the road.

Don’t forget to take a ride on the Poetry Train! Grab yourself a car while you’re at it, too. The only rule is that there are no rules, so join in, why don’tcha?

So while ShapeShifter’s busy takin’ some time to themselves, not that they should or anything, it seems their techs went and got all antsy on us. Just like a lot of us ShapeShifter fans do when there’s nothing new to report.

Instead of sitting around and moaning about how they can’t wait until the band is active again, Bobby, Cookie, Creek, and Chuck decided to make some noise of their own.

That’s right. These four brave souls who put up with my ShapeShifter boys night in and night out have decided to form their own band. They called themselves Tech Support, which is a clever enough name if you don’t know what they do and the ways in which techs really do support the men they work for. The women, too.

So this new Tech Support band’s busy playin’ all the spots around Riverview. Never more than a day’s drive away, just in case their bosses need ’em for something. You know: fix a string, tune something, tighten a drum head. Doesn’t sound hard. But yours truly guesses that once you get used to the prima donna treatment, there’s no going back.

Not that Chelle’s calling those ShapeShifter boys prima donnas.

Well, okay, she is.

She’d love to do it in person, too. Face-to-face and all that. After all, how’s a rock writer supposed to write about rock if she don’t get a chance to listen to it?

That means that any of you who’re thinkin’ of takin’ your pretty little selves out to Riverview to check out Tech Support live and in person, check with me before you jump in your rental car. Chelle here don’t drive. She needs a lift to the gigs. And you can be there to watch what happens when she calls the ShapeShifter boys prima donnas to their faces.

I bet those Tech Support boys will laugh the whole time they’re agreein’ with me.

What? You STILL haven’t joined the Monday Poetry Train? No rules, people, no rules! (or is that the problem?? Hmmm? Also, scroll down a post for a new thing I’d love to see the world join me in: Sunday Best. You decide what’s best and talk about it on Sundays. How easy is that?

You probably want to go take a peek at this week’s Weekend Wordsmith prompt in order to fully understand the ending of this. I stared at that thing for a good hour or so before this bubbled forth, sort of like a mud pot in Yellowstone (yes, pictures to follow). And for those of you who are confused, DMH means… Deadly Metal Hatchet. You got it.

Scott stared at the girls. “You for fricken real?”

“Well, yeah,” the skinnier of the two said. Skinny wasn’t the right word; skeletal was more like it. It was all he could do to keep from staring at her collarbones and the way they stuck out. This girl had problems.

Scott figured he had to have problems, too, because he was seriously considering her offer. Hang at her place, she’d said. She had a pool.

It was a hot August night. A pool would feel a hell of a lot better than the Winnebago.

Gecko came up right then, a beer in one hand, his index and middle finger of the beer hand holding a cigarette. He clapped Scott on the far shoulder and left his arm draped there as he leered at the girl. “Who’s this?”

“My friends call me Chapeau,” she said, thrusting her chest out. Like she had tits, Scott thought. There was the barest bump under her tank top, and it was a close-fitting tank top.

“Chapeau?” Gecko said, lifting both the beer and the cigarette to his mouth. He blew smoke at her. “That means hat or something, dunnit?”

“Think about it,” she said and winked at Scott. “We leave in ten.”

Scott didn’t have much to explain to Gecko. “She has a pool.”

It took him exactly four minutes to round up Lido and Fozzy. Chapeau was ready to go.

They should have stayed home, Scott thought as soon as they got there. There was no food in the fridge, and Chapeau got all nervous when they talked about ordering a pizza. And the pool?

The pool was one of those plastic wader things, barely big enough for one of them to sit down in, let alone the four of them plus Chapeau.

Fozzy said it felt good to just be able to stick his feet in. Then again, it was probably the first time in a month that Fozzy’s feet had gotten near water other than his own sweat. Lido muttered something about the Hatchet being needed here. This was a joke, he mumbled, something that the Hatchet needed to fix for them.

They stayed like that, not talking once Lido was done, sitting in folding chairs that made a circle around the stupid blue wading pool, drinking the beer they’d brought and staring stupidly at each other, until Chapeau showed them how she’d got her name, one at a time, in a not-so-private viewing that went around the circle to each Hatchet member in turn.

Hats, it seemed, covered heads. Pretty well, for someone as skinny and gross as this girl looked.

After Scott’s turn, he looked over his shoulder. Even though no one had moved, a set of wet footprints led away from the stupid blue wading pool.

It seemed the Hatchet had realized it wasn’t needed on this girl after all. And that the Hatchet walked on human feet.

Trevor barely waited for the garage door to finish going down before he was in Susan’s chair, swirling four fingers over the touchpad.

Mitchell stuck his head in Susan’s office. “Trev, the fuck you doing?”

“Having fun.” Trevor nodded firmly. “When the cat’s away and all that.”

“Trev,” Mitchell said slowly, “if you fuck up Susan’s blog, she’ll rewrite the end of the book so you wind up dead. Hear me? Dead. D. E. Fucking A. D. Dead.”

Trevor glanced at Mitchell, then at the screen. “She would, wouldn’t she?”

“Yep.”

With a heavy, exaggerated sigh, Trevor turned off Susan’s monitor. “You people are no fun. Hear me? No fucking fun at all.”

Mitchell shrugged. “I hear Susan’s already come up with two new outtake ideas. Sounds to me like we’ll have plenty of fun when she gets back.”

“And between now and then?”

Mitchell grinned. “We make music.”

What? You thought I could leave town and not say a proper goodbye? Keep an eye on me here. And have a safe, healthy and happy New Year! I’ll be back around the fifth or so; don’t forget about me while I’m gone. Mitchell’s right; there’ll be plenty of fun when I get back.

Christmas break.
Two days in a hotel.
Little box of a room.

It’s a room.
Hambone and me, we don’t complain.
We know better.

More’s staying with us, too.
Tour’s happy about that.
Saves ’em the cost of her room.

Hambone pretends to sleep.
We turn the TV on for noise.
Try to be quiet.
None of it works.

Tour rented out a room
For a crew Christmas dinner.
A bigger box of a room
But at least we’re not on our own
Since we can’t be home.

Me and Hambone and More, we’re glad of that rented box of a room.
We’re a team now,
Musketeers of the road.

It’ll be hard to find tours like this
Until word gets out about us.
But so what.

Right now’s what matters.
Best Christmas present we could hope for.
Me, Hambone, and More.

Musketeers of the Road.

Before we launch into the fiction, I want to point you guys to my bud Bunnygirl. Yeah, click on her name. She’s going to hold a flash fiction carnival and you KNOW you want to be part of it.

And now, the end of the Springer Saga. Sort of.

Springer stretched out in the hammock in the back yard, chewing on a piece of grass and fingering his pipe, wondering if he wanted a smoke. Who needed to smoke when they’d been on stage with the best band on the planet? The day was cloudy, and it seemed that every single cloud he saw reminded him of something from the night before.

That cloud over Springer’s head was his guitar. He’d changed the strings before the show. He’d polished the body, checked the pickups, made sure the knobs and dials were all working. It was a guess how to tune it, since ShapeShifter played in a bunch of different keys, but the roadies backstage had given everyone’s guitars a super quick tuning when they’d been assigned their songs.

Even though he hadn’t been able to pick out the sound of his specific guitar over the other two lottery winners on stage with him, not to mention Eric and that Walter dude everyone but him seemed to dig, he’d been there, onstage with ShapeShifter. The only time he’d been able to hear himself was when he’d hit that wrong note, but no one else seemed to notice. They probably figured it was that bass player who must’ve picked up a bass after he’d won the lottery for a spot onstage with the band.

That big, fluffy, high one was how he felt. He’d never been on stage before and being up there, with the lights shining down on his head until it felt like his hair would catch on fire and looking out at the crowd who was screaming, yelling, and singing along… He understood a lot more now, that was for sure. He understood why guys in bands put up with so much shit and what they meant when they said it was in their blood.

Problem was, Springer wasn’t sure it was in his blood. He’d watched Eric’s fingers and realized how much better the guy was. That the parts Springer was playing were dumbed down and basic. You had to be good to get as big as ShapeShifter. Better than Springer had realized. It was that simple.

That wispy cloud, the one that was hard to see, that was how he’d felt after the song ended, when the roadies or whoever they were came and herded him and the other two off the stage. There weren’t even handshakes to say thanks; the band kept playing and the next two were already coming out for their chance to jam. The roadies had helped him unplug, had given him his commemorative picks, and showed him to the safe place for storing his guitar so he could go back around front and watch the rest of the show. It had run smooth and all, but was it all it’d been supposed to be?

He didn’t want to say no. But saying yes wasn’t right, either.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t saving up for next year already. Maybe it’d be different. Maybe Eric would remember him. Maybe he’d find a better job and be able to afford some guitar lessons. There had to be a way.

Maybe there was the stage in his blood after all.

Yep, it’s Sunday night and Monday, so take a ride on Rhian’s Poetry Train! The only rules are that there are no rules, so come take part in the fun.

Just joining us? Where have you been the past ten days?

Thirteen Things now that the 2007 Musical Hanukkah Celebration is over. 1. Monday’s Musical Hanukkah Benefit raised $9k, just from the ticket sales. 2. All 200 t-shirts were sold, for $30 each. That makes for another $6k. 3. ShapeShifter matched that money and gave it to a program in Riverview that’s going to keep music in local schools. 4. Then they said they were giving an equal $30k to one of the national music in the schools organization. 5. That’s 60 thousand dollars. $45k of which comes right out of the ShapeShifter boys’ pockets. 6. There was a Chinese auction of stuff donated by local churches and other religious folk. That raised another thousand, and is also going to stay local. 7. Guests included Hammerhead’s Howard the Hammer and Walter Cichewski, as well as a cartoon video featuring the Deadly Metal Hatchet. 8. Our buddy Springer was allowed to jam during ShapeShifter’s famous song, Still Life. That’s the song that almost everyone asked if they could play along with. Only two got to. Springer’s a lucky dude, despite the incident with the cop earlier in the week. 9. He wasn’t able to stick around or sneak back on for a second song. 10. Neither was anyone else who was there. Most tried. Many were shown the door for their rather vigorous and sometimes creative efforts. 11. After the show, Springer hung around the backstage door in the hopes that he’d get to see Eric and have a few words with him. He wasn’t the only one waiting. 12. Eric must have left through another door. Springer never even got on the same side of the stage as his idol. From that angle, the night was a disappointment. Too bad he didn’t think to go to Roach’s. 13. Mitchell got off stage, surprised no one by dragging Kerri into the shower with him, hung with fans for a few hours at Roach’s, and was in bed around four in the morning. Upon getting up on Tuesday, he realized he didn’t have much more to do with himself than he’d had the day before.

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 try to link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!

View More Thursday Thirteen Participants

Confused? Missed an episode or two? Well. It all started back here, last year. I thought it was such a cool idea that bringing it back this year was a no-brainer. It began here, with the introduction of Springer, a fan who desperately wants ShapeShifter’s lead guitarist, Eric Wallace, to notice him. It continued here, with last week’s Thursday Thirteen. I took us back to Springer, since many had questions about him, but the plot thickened. And since I love the guy, we spent the day of the show with Mitchell. Stay tuned for some final wrap-ups from Springer.

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.

If you missed the start of the saga, go here. For more details about the Musical Hanukkah Celebration, go here. And if you want to know what comes next, stick around…

Springer froze. That had just not happened. That cop had not hit him.

And of course, since it was a cop and cops were never wrong, it’d all be Springer’s fault, even though he’d been doing nothing wrong, just sitting at a red light, behind another car. At least he hadn’t hit that other car.

The cop was out of his car, looking at the damage. Springer didn’t know what to do, since this was a cop involved. Cops hated it when you got out of your car. They tasered you and shit.

Then the cop was back in his car, on the radio. And his lights were on, too.

Springer groaned. He’d finally earned that last thirty bucks for the show. He’d even gotten lucky and won the lottery and was going to jam with the band. He needed to be home practicing, getting as good as he could get in a few days so that when he hit the stage with ShapeShifter, Eric would notice how good he was and offer to help him out. Give him pointers and shit.

And now… he’d have all these stupid repairs. As if working overnights for time and a half hadn’t been hard enough, now he’d have to do more of it. Months of it. Time and a half sounded good until you realized it was only three bucks more an hour, and most of that went to Uncle Sam.

The cop came over to him. “Pull over in that parking lot,” he said, and left just as fast.

Springer wondered if he smelled bad or something. He pulled the car to the parking lot the cop had pointed at and waited.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of what it would be like to be on that stage on Monday. It was the only way he could get through this without going ballistic. He couldn’t afford to get tasered. Not with the show so close.

As I said, stay tuned for more ’cause the concert itself is coming up on Monday night. (Just a reminder, this is all fiction!!) However, if you’d like to spread some Hanukkah love, check this:
Simonne at All Tips And Tricks is having a group writing project asking…’What is Your Best Blogging Achievement?’ You can see the entries here. I vote for Shelly to win. You should, too.

Thirteen things you need to know leading up to this year’s Musical Hanukkah Celebration 1. Our favorite boys in ShapeShifter conceived this idea last year to honor “the religion that was around before Christianity… and [to] celebrate our music scene at the same time,” as ShapeShifter guitarist Eric Wallace said in an interview with Chelle LaFleur. (you can read the whole thing here.) 2. Here are the basics: it’s held on the Monday during Hanukkah, because Monday is traditionally the slowest night in the entertainment business (yes, that explains why restaurants close on Mondays!). Everything from the food to the stage hands to the club itself is donated to the cause. 3. Tickets last year were $10. You could also chip in another $50 and jam onstage with ShapeShifter. Only fifty people were allowed to do that, but 300 tickets were sold. 4. Because it’s a fund-raiser and because of the success, the boys jacked the prices this year. Now, it’s $15 to get in and $75 to jam with the band. Still a bargain considering what a ticket to a ShapeShifter concert costs. 5. If you were here on Monday for the Poetry Train, you are still waiting to find out if our new friend, Springer, raises the money he needs to attend this year. Stay tuned; we’re not done with his story yet. Read the first part of it here. 6. Notice how he’s forgotten to factor in the price of a limited-edition, commemorative t-shirt? 7. I’m still trying to figure out the logistics of having 50 people jam onstage with a rock band. One thing that helps is that this turns into a full two-hour-long ShapeShifter show. I think that means five people on stage for ten songs, and then the band finishes up on their own. Or with surprise friends. 8. Last year, the concert was as fictional as ShapeShifter but the charity that the donations went to wasn’t. Music Lives seems to have … not lived. Thus, the ShapeShifter boys will keep their raised funds closer to home and make sure that the kids of Riverview and the surrounding area have great exposure to music in their schools. 9. Wouldn’t it be great to have real-life t-shirts from this? I think so, too. As soon as that awesome graphic chick comes up with a logo for ShapeShifter, I’ll see what I can do. 10. It ought to go without saying that any net profits from this dream shirt that may or may not happen will go to a charity that supports music in the schools. 11. Last year, Eric had said he and his father were going to work to get more people involved with the event, particularly people within the religious community. This year, a (still fictional!) Chinese auction will be happening at the show, too. At least one of the prizes is tickets to a VIP box at a Riverview Otters game. (that’s the city’s baseball team) 12. Last year, the band managed to talk the club’s chef into making potato pancakes for 300 people. This year, the latkes are being catered. 13. Once again this year, ShapeShifter will match all monies raised from the tickets and the opportunity to jam onstage with the band. They want to see the take before committing to matching the t-shirt sales and the money raised from the Chinese Auction, but they probably will. After all, it’s all for a good cause. Links to other Thursday Thirteens! 1. (leave your link in comments, I’ll try to add you here!)

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 try to link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!

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Big thanks to Headmeister for this week’s cool header!

If you weren’t around last year for the Musical Hanukkah Celebration, NOW is the moment to catch up! Hanukkah starts Tuesday night, and I’ll have a little gift for you this year, too, along with some fun posts.

It hadn’t been hard to raise the sixty dollars. Take the girl out to Roach’s instead of Big Bucks. Skip a movie here, work an extra overnight there. And soon, Springer had tucked that sixty bucks away inside that one pair of underwear his grandma had given him, the flannel boxers with reindeers on them that she’d thought were so cute, she couldn’t resist. Even Springer’s mom resisted so much as touching them, making them a safe place to hide every important thing he owned. It wasn’t much: a pipe, his ShapeShifter guitar pick collection, and his precious sixty bucks.

If Grandma had given him the cash instead of those dreadful boxers, he’d be able to make up the difference he was now facing. Boomer at KRVR had gone on the air two weeks ago and said that since last year’s show sold out so fast and since it’s all for charity, ticket and jam prices went up. It was worth it, Boomer said. It was a chance to help kids who needed help.

What about him, Springer wondered. No one was helping him that he could see. He had to stop over at Grandma’s once a week and mow her lawn and take out her trash and do anything else around the house that she needed him, even though baiting the mousetraps in the basement grossed him out. Emptying them made him yak, every time. And then he had to clean that up, too.

It wasn’t fair. And what made it worse was that here he was, spending a year ponying up the cash he thought he needed, only to hear that nope, he needed fifteen bucks for the ticket and seventy five for the jam instead of ten and fifty.

He needed thirty bucks, and fast. Tickets were going on sale in a week, up at KRVR’s studios again. No lines, no sleeping out, no nothing. The only good news was that this year, there’d be an extra fifty people allowed in. But still, only fifty allowed to jam. They couldn’t bend on that one, or they’d be going all night long.

It wasn’t fair. If only Springer could get up there with ShapeShifter and show them how good he could play, they’d come up to him after and help him out, the way they’d helped out those guys in Deadly Metal Hatchet, who sucked. But because they’d toured with ShapeShifter, they were someone. Same for Hammerhead, even though they didn’t suck.

Thirty bucks.

Springer leaned over to the radio. Boomer was talking about it some more. People had questions. She was answering.

“The way the jam session will work is that if you want to jam, you’ll get a lottery ticket. If we pull your ticket, you have twenty-four hours to get your seventy-five big ones down here to the KRVR studios or we pull someone else’s name.”

Springer figured that meant he had a week and a day to round up that extra thirty bucks. Maybe his girl would front him the cash if he promised to take her to Big Buck’s once he paid it back. She had the cash. She always had cash, even though she wouldn’t buy dinner when they went out. Thirty bucks shouldn’t be hard. Maybe he’d cut back on the cigarettes. Work a few more overnights, as much as he hated them.

There had to be a way. Because once he got up there with ShapeShifter, it’d all start to happen for him. He just knew it. He could taste it.

Let me know if you like Springer and want to see more of him! I sort of like the dude, myself.

It’s been a hectic Wednesday in Chez Susan. That has me longing for some quiet, unassigned moments. Trevor thought he’d pipe up and share some suggestions with me.

Thirteen Ways in Which Trevor Whiles Away the Time Thanks to Casa Sosegad for the awesome header! 1. in strip joints like Moon Shadows 2. reading catalogs from Lyric‘s competitors and deciding what to bug her into ordering for him 3. practicing with Daniel. It’s easier without Mitchell‘s fancy-assed rhythms and attitude. 4. getting stoned, usually with Eric. It’s one of the few times they get along. 5. picking his nose — or so he says, but the pasttime is probably more along the lines of irritating others. 6. tinkering with his Vincent. 7. picking on Mitchell. 8. eating: at Harry’s Hoagies, Roach’s, or conning Val or Sonya Voss into cooking for him. 9. checking out girls and picking them up and bring them to … their homes (for quicker getaways) 10. dreaming of how big ShapeShifter will be 11. crusing town on his Vincent, looking for trouble. 12. Check out the competition playing around town 13. When all else fails, take a nap.

Uhh, I think I’ll only take him up on that last one, although heaven knows I’m itching to hear some live music.

As always, to learn more about a character, click on their name when it’s orange and you’ll be zipped to a cool bio page with links to other outtakes. Or scroll on down for this week’s offerings: Beached Whales and Letter G. Happy reading and may all our days quiet down a bit.

“R,” Trevor said.

Mitchell looked up from his guitar. “The fuck?”

“R.”

Mitchell growled.

Trevor gave an exaggerated sigh. “The prompt this week at that Writer’s Island place Susan likes to hang out on. It’s,” he took a deep breath and waved his fingers near his face. “The Letter,” he said in a voice that was supposed to be spooky.

“Oh,” Mitchell said. He looked down again, then gave Trevor one of those looks that would have been through his bangs if the guy was dumb enough to have any. “I like G,” he said, and strummed the chord.

Trevor considered. Gs were good. G marked the spot. G wasn’t a grade. Yeah, there was lots to like about G. And it wasn’t like he was attached to R in any way, shape, form, or sound. In fact, R was usually Mitchell’s sound. The one he made when he growled.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “G’s good.”

Mitchell smirked and Trevor realized what he’d said. Good. It fucking started with … G. So did almost every other phrase Trevor could think of. Go figure. Goddamn. Geez. Girl. Give me. Guitars.

Trevor turned his back on Mitchell and reached for a cigarette. Count on the asshole there to come up with a better letter than he could. Maybe that’s what made them such a … successful team. M took Trevor’s ideas and ran with them.

Trevor tried to tell himself that meant his ideas didn’t suck.

Gigantically.

Yep, a bonus excerpt this week! What can I say, I was inspired. In fact, I wrote a few more outtakes over the weekend and now my file of stuff for this here blog is about to burst. Stay tuned for all of it…

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 cast of character tab above. And don’t forget to take a ride on Rhian’s Poetry Train!

Afternoon.
I’m on the floor.
Hambone’s snoring in the bed.

Bed.

Did you miss that part?
Looks like I did.
I’m on the floor.
Hungover.
On the floor.

Hambone’s got the bed.

More’s got the other one.

I’ve got the empties from last night’s party.
There’s a lot of ’em.

Two beds.
Three peeps.
One’s my girl.
Explains why we’re naked.

But not

Why

I’m

On

The

Floor.

Want more Roadie Poet? Click on his name and whoosh, you’ll be visiting his character sketch page, where you can link to more adventures. And for more poetry and other cool self-expression, check out Rhian’s Poetry Train — and join the party!

A bit of scene-setting here: This outtake takes place during the early chapters of Trevor’s Song. It’s not essential to the story, so you won’t find a hint of it there. This is strictly backstory. Yet when you finally get to close the back cover (and scream in frustration at me over the ending), and you come back to this outtake, it’ll all click. I promise.

It was stupid, she knew, but when Mitchell reached for her hands, Kerri pulled them away and tried to stuff them somewhere he couldn’t find them. Unfortunately, other than her pockets and behind her back, any place her hands went, the rest of her had to follow.

“C’mon,” he said and tried again. “They’re supposed to be paint-covered, Ker. It’s what you do.”

Reluctantly, she let him take her hands, both of them, in his. Palm up, he started to raise the left to his mouth.

He stopped an inch away.

“I know,” Kerri sighed. “Turpentine, paint… It’s not the world’s biggest turn-on.”

Mitchell stroked her palm with his nose.

“A woman’s hands are supposed to be soft,” she said. “Pampered. Or else calloused from all the hard, honest work she does to keep her family afloat. Not…”

“Not?” he asked, his lips barely touching that same palm.

She turned her face up toward the ceiling and let herself drown in the sensation.

He didn’t linger long. “You know,” he said, slowly easing her hand, still in his, back to her side. Every bit as slowly, he pulled both hands from hers.

She shivered, feeling suddenly alone. Cold.

“Mine aren’t much better.” He picked up her right hand and tapped the back of it with the fingertips of his left. “A guy’s not supposed to be like this.” He turned his hand over, claw-like, fingertips exposed. “Shit, Ker, I’ve got fucking string marks in ’em. On top of callouses a mile deep.”

She smiled, not needing to see them. “What a pair we are.” Taking his right hand, she massaged it gently at the third knuckle.

He closed his eyes, his breath coming hard. “Ker…”

“No,” she said, not sure why or what it meant.

His free hand caught hers. As she massaged, he nibbled her fingertips.

And she knew he’d meant it. He loved her, paint and all.

Did you get to visit with Trevor over the weekend? Scroll down if you missed him! And remember, clicking on the link in the characters’ names will take you to their bio pages — and a list of links to more outtakes featuring them. Have fun!

When Rhian tagged me for this meme, she wanted it to be about Pittsburgh, since she’ll be here in April for the Romantic Times convention. That surprised me because she is, hands down, Trevor Wolff‘s biggest fan. I’d figured she’d want to let Trevor have some fun.

She did.

In her honor, let Trevor do the same meme, based around the town he lives in, the fictional Riverview.

Best Place to Eat

Oh, man. Like I know the hoity-toity places? Ask Rusty about those. If it were up to me, Harry’s Hoagies would deliver. Three times a day. Meatball subs and a root beer.

When I’m stuck making Mitchell happy, we head over to Big Buck’s Best Barbecue a lot. His family’s entrenched at this Italian place called Paulo’s. It’s not the greatest, but they feed me and him for free sometimes. They made this special salad thing with a funny name just for the big idiot. You should see the way he grins when they put it down in front of him. Pathetic. It’s a fucking salad, loser.

Then there’s Roach’s Diner. The whole fucking world hangs out there, especially after shows. Honey keeps a spot in the back for us on nights we play, and then she chases off the glory hounds if we’re not in the mood. And sometimes if we are.

Best Shopping Mall

Yeah, that’d be Lyric‘s shop. Or it would be if she’d carry clothes for us guys. Clothes, I said. She’s got plenty of G-strings and hardcore shit, but if I could get my leathers from her instead of that weirdo who likes to measure my dick to get the bulge in the pants just right, I’d be a lot happier. That guy scares me, but damn if the pants aren’t the best.

Lyric’s already dressing the girls up real good. She says she’s got the city’s most exclusive line of club wear. That’s great. Gimme something more than a dress for a drag queen, okay? It works for them, not Trevor Fucking Wolff.

Famous Landmark
All Access, baby. That club’s infamous. I don’t give a shit if you’ve sold ten million albums. If you haven’t found a way to play All Access, you’re nobody.

Best Tourism Attraction
ShapeShifter.

Like you expected any different?

Best Place for the Kids
Anywhere far away from me. Maybe the next town over.

Popular Outdoor Activity
Sleeping out for ShapeShifter tickets. You’re an idiot if you don’t know that at the end of every tour, we play — well, shit, usually All Access, but every now and then they book up too fast — a show under a fake name. The same fake name so it’s not hard to figure out who Wolf Whistle is.

Mitchell and I once drove past the line waiting for Wolf Whistle tickets. We counted three fights and five couples going at it. Not bad.

Breathtaking Views
Me, onstage. What else?

Well, okay, my friend Diane when she dances. It’s the only time she’s not whining about something, for one. And for another, she’s a damn good dancer. Good at other things, too, and yeah, she takes my breath away when she does some of ’em.

Only Found in Riverview
ShapeShifter. Me. All Access. Big Buck’s. Lyric.

Mitchell’s reading this over my shoulder and he says I can’t include me ’cause we leave town, and that means I can be found in other towns. I say he’s an idiot who ought to mind his own fucking business before I throw his ugly ass out of my band.

Yeah, asshole. My band. I don’t care if you’re the singer and the one the girls swoon over. It’s my band. You’d be sitting in your room, too afraid to dream, if it weren’t for me.

While Mitchell comes up with an appropriate response, check out my original response, a weekend in Pittsburgh.