Before we get started, remember to check out the Bookworm Carnival over at Dewey’s place! She’s a 13er, too, so be sure to stop by and say hi on your rounds this week.

Many of you guys liked seeing Lyric in action on Monday, as part of the poetry train. (Go read it if you haven’t yet!)

Since Lyric is one of my favorite characters, too, I thought I’d bring you a Thirteen all about her.

Thirteen things about Lyric 1. Lyric is the eldest daughter of Melody Maker, porn queen extraordinaire. Her fraternal twin sister, Allegra, is four minutes younger. Youngest sister Harmony is four years younger. 2. Melody has no idea which of a few candidates fathered her three children. For all anyone knows, there were three fathers. Or maybe only one. The one thing we’re all sure of is that men WERE involved. Frequently. 3. Lyric, Allegra, and Harmony were all raised around the porn industry. Pregnancy didn’t stop Melody from making films. For awhile. Then she moved behind the camera, into consulting on wardrobe, makeup, and other details. In front or behind the camera, Melody was savvy enough to make sure any movie she was involved with said “A Melody Maker Movie” on the front cover. 4. Lyric and Allegra decided in their teens that they didn’t want to be part of adult films. Allegra had no clear plans, but Lyric decided to go to massage therapy school. She figured that at first, she could trade on her famous name to build her clientele, but she’d earn their return business. 5. As a massage student, fresh out of high school, Lyric needed someone to practice on. Melody liked to turn the scene into a film, Allegra was out trying to find a place where she fit in, and Harmony at fourteen was just too young. It was Melody who suggested Lyric find a guy in band, especially since Lyric liked music so much. 6. ShapeShifter was on the verge of taking the city by storm, and Lyric smelled opportunity. Linking to them early would help solidify her reputation as a real massage therapist. After all, any girls who were allowed inside ShapeShifter’s inner circle for any length of time were either girlfriends or girls who refused to put out but were valuable in other ways. Lyric was, of course, the latter. 7. Lyric picked Mitchell because he was the quietest ShapeShifter member. Someone as shy as Mitchell wasn’t likely to turn a massage into something sexual, and since he barely spoke, he wasn’t likely to brag about their deal: free massages in exchange for a spot on the band’s guest list. And the occasional ShapeShifter t-shirt. As she got to know him, she was surprised to find she’d developed a loyal friend. 8. Massage was great, but Allegra was still lost and Melody was finally making noises about being done with films. It was Lyric to the rescue. 9. With input from Melody and a silent business partner who became her landlord, Lyric opened a retail shop, Lyrical Pleasures. Allegra had a job, and so did Melody whenever she wanted it. Harmony too, once she was old enough. 10. Lyrical Pleasures quickly became THE place in Riverview. And for good reason: Lyric stocks everything from exclusive and limited-quantity club wear, outfits for strippers and drag queens — including wigs, shoes, and anything else they wanted — to lingerie and sleepwear, videos, and, of course, gear and toys for consenting partners. You can be as demure or as naughty as you want at Lyrical Pleasures. She even sells such innocuous things as the most luxurious bath beads she can find. 11. Because of the store and her reputation for discretion, Lyric knows pretty much everything happening in Riverview, from the underground to the top governmental figures and the people who really run the city. 12. Lyric and Kerri have a lot in common. In fact, once the two women meet (thanks to Mitchell, of course, when Kerri complains that Mitchell’s reputation as a kinky bastard is overblown), they become fast friends, having Mitchell and ShapeShifter in common, as well as drag queen pageants. Lyric knew Kerri’s name long before they met, as Kerri did the makeup for many of her queen friends in her pre-Mitchell days. 13. What’s the deal with Trevor and Lyric? She’s not one of his conquests, much to his chagrin, although truth be told, he doesn’t try very hard. Her reputation as straight-laced and not overly interested in those sorts of relationships precedes her, and that’s how she likes it.

Mitchell was packing up the last of the gear when Lyric approached the edge of the stage. “Got plans, or can you come be a practice dummy again?”

He perked up, trying to hide his grin. He loved being Lyric’s practice dummy; it was the easiest thing he’d ever had to do, and she didn’t care if he talked or not. Which of course meant that silence reigned.

“What’s the body part of the week?”

“One you’ll love,” she purred, sounding scarily like her porn-queen mom.

“You are so not getting near my dick,” he said, giving her a grin over his shoulder. He turned back fast so he could finish packing up. The others were already gone; they’d packed up and split while he’d been talking to some girls, trying to convince them to buy ShapeShifter t-shirts.

The’d finally decided to blow their cash on some weed and smoke it with Eric and Trevor. And him if he wanted, but given the choices, he’d rather go with Lyric.

“Not your dick, stupid,” she said with a laugh. “Your ass. Trust me.” She planted a foot on the stage and stepped up beside him. Not that it was a high stage unless you were short. It was the way she did it, like she belonged up there. That’s how Lyric was. Everything she did was cool.

Even though he was ready for it, he still jumped when she touched the waistband of his jeans.

“We start here,” she said, pressing a bit harder, then ran her hands lightly down his ass and the backs of his legs, stopping before his knees. It should have been erotic. It wasn’t. “And end here,” she said. “All of this.”

“What about my shoulders?”

“Throw in a t-shirt and you’ve got it.” She bent over and picked up the last three cords that he’d left on the stage. “I don’t need to pratice shoulders,” she said.

He rolled his. “Yeah, but maybe mine need it anyway.”

She laughed. “That is a different thing altogether. Best news of all for last,” she added, handing the cords over. Mitchell packed them up as he listened. “Mom’s out on a date and Harm’s at a sleepover. The house is ours. Well, except for Allegra.”

Mitchell grinned. This was setting up to be too perfect. Those two other girls could smoke weed all night for all he cared at the moment. He was going to be a practice dummy.

He fastened the case he’d just finished packing. “Let’s load this into the truck and head out.” He glanced around, trying to see if he’d forgotten anything.

“I need my shirt.”

“It’s in the truck.”

She nodded. “You’re driving, then?”

He eyed her. “You’re not?”

“Allegra left me here when I told her I wanted to see if you were up for some practice.”

Mitchell grinned. “She’s jealous?” A jealous twin was one of Trevor’s favorite things, no matter that in this case, there wasn’t much to be jealous of. Lyric needed to practice. He liked getting free service from her. It was that simple.

“She thinks we’re fucking,” Lyric said with a tilt of her head, like if it was anything, it was confusing.

“Lyr, no offense, but I wouldn’t do you.”

She clapped him on the shoulder and handed him the case. “It’s mutual, hot stuff.”

Mitchell didn’t ask the obvious question. Whatever this thing with Lyric was, they both understood it somehow. They’d never spoken about it, but they also didn’t need to. She’d made it clear when she’d proposed this deal what she wanted him for: a warm body to massage. All he had to do was put her on a permanent guest list.

He definitely got the better end of the deal.

Reminders: check out Rhian’s place for the rest of the Monday Poetry Train — and join on in! Also, the Summer’s Hidden Treasures contest is now in full swing. Are you reading and reviewing yet? Help spread the word… great prizes and great discoveries of new authors await you.

By popular demand, Roadie Poet returns:

Home.

It’s hard to sleep.
The bed’s still.
Doesn’t vibrate like the bus does
There’s no motor noise
Snoring
Farting
Sleeping going on
Behind vinyl curtains
That hide faces
Bodies
Friends
But nothing more.

Home
is Mom’s place
The apartment where we’ve lived
Since I was a kid.
My cross-country trophies are here
And my FBLA shit
From the days
when Mom hoped
I’d be something more
Than just a roadie.

My bag’s still packed
I’m ready to go
As soon as that call comes.
They said any day.
Go home.
Wait.
A week, at most.
Two days, more likely.

And then I can have a new bunk
Hopefully on the top
Middle’s okay.
Bottom sucks.

My bed’ll vibrate
No quarter needed
And once again,
I’ll sleep like a baby.

Ring,
Phone.
Ring.

Here is Roadie Poet’s debut, in case you missed it.

Hope you’re all reading for the Summer’s Hidden Treasures Contest, and that those of you nutty enough to Sweat for Seven are doing nicely. Me, I’m working on some edits that ought to lead to no good…

The views expressed here belong to the fictional character of Trevor Wolff, not of the blog owner. For the most part.

I’m sitting here
Candle burned down to a stub
No feather quill or other romantic-assed writing thing.
Just a pen.
That skips.
Cheap-assed thing.

I’m a poet.
I call on my angst.

Now wait a minute.
Who made that rule about poets and angst?
Did anyone ever stop to think about angst?
That it’s for losers.
Jerks who’re afraid to get over themselves and live life.
Who have to hide in their pretend misery
Or else they’re not cool.
And God help ’em if they smile.
But of course, they can’t believe in God.

I don’t, either.
Don’t, not can’t.
See the difference?

That doesn’t stop me from taking in
What Eric says is God’s making.
There’s a lot of fun in living
— even more fun in loving.
Smart people know this.

I’m smart.

Even though I’m writing a fucking poem
Like some wuss, a romantic with styled long hair
And those poofy sleeves that catch on fire whenever you reach over the candle’s flame
’cause you like things hot.
Playing with fire’s one thing.
It’s good.
Catching on fire’s another.
It’s bad.
I don’t have to try that one to know the truth of it, thankyouverymuch.

I’m writing a fucking poem
Like some over-eager kid in an English class.
Which I’m not.
English class was boring as hell
And the teacher always buttoned her sweaters to her chin.
I bet they’d have been fun to unbutton.
And teach her how to live.

I’m Trevor Fucking Wolff.
My band rules the Earth
And I can write a poem when I’ve got to.

No angst allowed.
No losers allowed, either.
But willing English teachers?
C’mon in.

More from RP, our Roadie Poet, in the next few weeks. Happy Canada Day (a day late) to our friends in Canada and upcoming Fourth to my fellow Americans! I hope you guys are all finding books for the Summer’s Hidden Treasures contest; it’s a doozy.

Written for Rhian’s Poetry Train. I think it’s self-explanatory!

Looking back
Over old poems written years ago

I see their beauty
Recognize their pain
Love their nostalgia
And fear their power
To wound

I’ve come so far since then
Learned what love really is
Brushed the past under the carpet
And walked on it,
Like you walk over crumbs
That you promise yourself you’ll vaccuum up later
But never remember to do

Doesn’t matter where I am now,
I suppose.
Not when there’s another who might see
Who might be hurt
Wounded
Torn raw
And opened to a fiction that reads like truth
Instead of the fantasy it was
And the truth it could never be.

Maybe under the carpet’s not deep enough.

Maybe I need to take this part of my past
Into my treed backyard
And dig a hole
And bury them there, my poems.

I’ll mark the spot
With a rock, a stick, an old bird’s nest
So that when the nostalgia hits
I can visit them and dream again

About things I wished were a different way

Even as I know
That as good as I wanted them to be
They could never be as good
As things are now.

Don’t forget to check out the Summer Hidden Treasures Contest! And if you haven’t been here for a few days, scroll on down and catch up with Kerri…

Trevor took a deep drag on his cigarette and motioned at Mitchell with it. “C’mon. Quit being a wuss.” It was more a command than a request, but of course, Mitchell wouldn’t see it that way. You could command the idiot to eat an entire chocolate cake and he’d quit after two bites and say he was saving it for later.

“I’m not being a wuss, dickhead. I don’t want an earring.”

“How can you be a respectable rock star without a pierced ear? Name me one single fucking star out there who doesn’t have at least one hole in his ear.”

Trevor could tell from Mitchell’s face that the guy didn’t even realize most stars had ears, let alone shit dangling from them. Too, he could tell that the idiot didn’t think that image meant a single fucking thing.

Waiting Mitchell out was useless, so Trevor filled the space with his cigarette. When it was all but gone, Trevor sighed. Smoke that hadn’t escaped his lungs chose right then to come out his nose; he decided he understood how dragons felt.

“Look,” he told Mitchell, “it’s no big deal.”

“Tell that to Ma. She’ll kill me if I let you do this. And then she’ll kill you for doing it!”

“No, she won’t. Not if you’re serious about this band thing.”

“I am, Trev, and you know it. You fucking know I am!” Mitchell crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. “But I gotta draw the line somewhere, and I’m drawing it at earrings!”

“No one’s gonna think your ass is gay,” Trevor drawled. “Despite what Amy did over the end-of-day announcements that one time. No one bought it then and no one’ll buy it now.” He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray Mitchell’s mother had given then when she’d given up the battle to keep her precious baby boy from smoking.

“That’s not the problem.”

“Yeah, and I’m already a fucking rock star.” Trevor eyed Mitchell, convinced he knew what the guy was about to whine: it’ll hurt, Trev.

“Dad,” Mitchell said instead. “He meant it when he said he’d kick me out of the house if I do it.”

Trevor sighed as loudly as he could. How stupid was Mitchell? “That’s why you grew your hair out, asshole.”

“I thought it was to get girls.”

“Well, since it didn’t work for you, let this be the reason you did it.”

“Amy’ll tell.”

“I’ll handle Amy,” he said easily, knowing it was true. His usual methods may not have worked with the wanna-be doc, but Trevor Wolff did not have only one way to get through to a girl. Besides, he had plenty on Amy if it got that far. Which it wouldn’t.

Mitchell chewed on his thumbnail, eyeing Trevor, who wanted to jump up and down with glee. The guy was teetering on the edge. All he needed now was one little push and he’d do most of the jumping himself.

“It’s a chick magnet.”

“Just one,” Mitchell said. “One hole, one ear.”

Giggling, Trevor ran for an ice cube. When he got back, Mitchell was sitting on the edge of his bed, hair pushed back behind his left ear, hands braced on his knees. “Make it fast.”

“The ice’s gotta have time to work. You don’t want to feel it, do you?”

Mitchell swallowed hard and Trevor handed him the ice. “Hold it on your ear until you think your ear’ll fall off.” He pulled out his lighter and produced a pin from a pocket.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I did Jeremy and Eliza’s after HJ did mine,” he said. “Wait. I gotta find the… Put the ice back on!”

It was in his denim jacket pocket. The earring they’d leave in while the hole healed. The same one he’d used, the same one he’d let Jeremy borrow, and the same one he’d stolen right out of Jeremy’s head when the dumbshit wasn’t looking.

Trevor held its post and the needle in the lighter’s flame. Mitchell turned paler than he normally was.

“Okay,” Trev said when the ice had melted away and Mitchell was swearing about how his hand felt. The wuss had been impressive in the way he’d held onto that frozen water; if it was a test of manlihood like HJ had insisted, the blonde idiot in front of him had passed with flying colors. “Can you feel this?” he asked, poking at the air beside Mitchell’s head.

“Nope.”

“Good,” Trev said and jammed the pin through Mitchell’s ear.

Mitchell swallowed a scream that still managed to get halfway out — and then passed out. Trevor caught him and laid him gently on his right side, left ear facing out.

“Easier this way,” he said to no one in particular since he doubted Mitchell was up for listening and engaging in conversation.

The first hole went so easily that Trevor dug two more starter earrings out of his jacket and gave Mitchell a grand total of three.

He crossed his arms and nodded, satisfied with his work. So what if Patterson and Sonya didn’t like it? They’d never throw their precious baby out of their house. Not them. No way, no how.

This is part of Rhian‘s Poetry Train; jump on aboard. As you can see, you don’t have to post poetry. (Wink to Karen)

Also, I hope you’re looking for some Hidden Treasures to spend the summer with. The contest begins whenever you want to read; remember to post your reviews online starting July 15. Scroll down for more info; sticky post or something similar coming soon.

I think this one is still a work-in-progress; we shall see. Once again, feel free to post today and jump on Rhian‘s poetry train. There are few cooler than Rhian.

Nine PM

Nine PM
Half-hour to the headliner.
I walk on the stage.
Opener’s finished.
Crowd’s worked up.

I been here since 6AM
I’ll be here another four hours or so.
But Nine PM
That’s my break.
My nightly laugh.

The cattle cheer when they see me.
The place comes alive.
The air snaps.
Like I’m the star,
Not just some roadie
With a job to do.

Most guys,
It’d go to their heads.
They’d get a few girls
hand out promises they couldn’t keep —
or wouldn’t.

Either way, it’s the same thing.
Guy gets laid.
Girl goes home.
Alone.

Right now, I got a job to do.
Walk across the stage.
Make sure everything’s plugged in
Gaffed down
Like it’s supposed to be.
Leave again.
It’s simple like that.
Good.
Easy.
After the day I just had, I need that.
And those yelling fans
Wake me up real good.

Bronx cheer or real,
Don’t make no difference to me.
They can scream until they can’t no more.
Won’t bring the band out any faster.

Nine-thirty’s their time.
Nine’s mine.

Have you been over to Rhian’s poetry train? Have you jumped on???

Have you joined Dewey’s comment game?

Are you ready for my summer reading contest???

Now, on to what you’re here for. The fiction.

Now, you readers know that ol’ Chelle LaFleur can bang her big fat head with the best of them. And you readers know that ol’ Chelle LaFleur can rock out with the best of them. That’s why Chelle LaFleur is so much more than just a music critic.

Chelle LaFleur’s gotta earn her keep at this here Trumpet newspaper, and so Chelle got to go out one night and check out Temple of the Book, one of those three-man, acoustic bands where all the members wear their brown hair pulled back in ponytails and they all have John Lennon glasses on. The whole audience would be pale-skinned or else would be all dredlocked up. I just knew it.

Has Chelle told you lately that she’s the world’s stupidest journalist? Has she?

Temple of the Book is three dudes, yeah. They’re not all acoustic, they don’t wear ponytails and the only glasses were the ones they were drinking their beer out of. And they rock. Hard. Geoffrey, the guitarist, might be able to out head-bang some of you regulars, and that’s no joking on Chelle’s part.

I may have been the only dark face in the crowd, but don’t think people don’t know who Chelle LaFleur is. I been to lots of shows and seen lots of bands and that was the first time I got a shout-out from the band onstage. Well, okay, there was that time that the ShapeShifter boys started asking if I was there, but that was different. This was a band who was glad to see ol’ Chelle, and who said they played harder ’cause I was there. I don’t think praise gets no better than that.

The shame of all of this is that, typical of this city, no one came to see Temple of the Book. There were about thirty of us there. What’s the matter with you people? Are you really dumb enough to think that our music clubs will stay open if no one shows up at them? Do you think these bands can make it and make a new name for the city without your support?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, it can be hard to figure out what sort of music a band plays. Some of them don’t do themselves any favors, picking those brainy names that makes them sound like they should be wearing John Lennon glasses. But don’t a night checking out a new band beat that tired old TV show you didn’t want to watch in the first place?

You rockers ought to get over yourselves and check this band out. Three guys: one guitar, one bass, one drummer. The bass player sings some of the smartest, most with-it lyrics I’ve heard. I know this first-hand not just ’cause I heard them, but because they wrote some of them down for me. Look here:

You say you mean it
You back it up with actions
And when push comes to shove
You push right on back

That’s from the song called Braveheart. Yeah, it was a movie or tall tale or something. But think about it. Think what it’s saying in today’s world. You gonna let yourself be pushed around and made to live a life you don’t want to live? You know how tired I am of hearing you people whine because someone’s pushing on you and not letting you have your own way. Well, here’s your power. Take it and make some changes already ’cause Chelle’s sick of hearing the whining.

You heard it first, and you heard it here. Temple of the Book. Check them out.

Help!
I am being held
Prisoner
in my own home
by my children
Who,
I swear,
have been taught
Advanced Torture Techniques
by their friends.

Don’t forget to check out the other writings at Rhian‘s Poetry Train! Jump on board!

Warning: this outtake contains sexual inneundo and abuse of cookware. Please do not read further if this will upset you.

They could hear the crashing from where they stood outside the practice studio, across the driveway from the house. They’d actually congregated to listen; it was that loud.

“Sounds like your woman needs to get laid,” Trevor said, bobbing his head like he knew it all. Then again, when it came to tantrums like this, he did.

“Hardly,” Daniel said with a snort.

“That time of the month?” Eric asked. Like he knew about those things, Trevor thought. Mr.-I’d-rather-be-their-friend. His girls got one boringly chaste week on the bus with the band and then forever bought him dinner whenever he blew through town.

Come to think of it, having women buy him dinner wasn’t such a bad thing. But that lack of getting off? For-get it. Trevor hadn’t formed a band to keep his pants on. Or zipped, for that matter.

“No,” Daniel said with a sigh. He hung his head and shook it, looking like a dark brown mop. Trevor snickered, wondering what sort of shit he’d have to clean up later on. Val was not a happy woman in there.

Lately, she’d been like that a lot.

“It’s her fault, really,” Daniel said. “She told me to make dinner, and I did. No big deal, right?”

Trevor wasn’t so sure about that. Part of Val’s miserable mood had started when she’d quit the restaurant. That’d been years ago now, but her mood wasn’t even a bad wine — it hadn’t even tried to improve with age.

“So what happened?” Mitchell asked. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave Daniel a look like he wanted this to hurry along.

“I told her it was time to clean out the freezer. Maybe reorganize it. I swear, there were twenty pounds of chocolate in there. Candy bars, those big bricks for baking, bags of chips, you name it, it was in there. I swear, it took up half the freezer and didn’t leave room for the extra sauce I made! Gram would kill me if I let it go to waste; that’s her secret recipe!”

“And the frozen margarita mix took up the other half of the freezer?” Trevor asked, bored with the story of the spaghetti sauce. He’d been hearing about how wonderful Gram’s sauce was for years, but every time he had it, he thought it wasn’t much better than the jarred shit Mitchell’s mother would stock his apartment with.

“She didn’t care when I said that ought to go downstairs, too!” Daniel half-whined. Trevor cringed, but when Daniel continued, it was in a better tone. “You know, maybe we could put some food in that freezer? Food, kitchens — you know what I’m saying here?”

“So now she’s throwing things because–” Trevor asked. He needed to hear this. To make sure it was real. And to laugh his ass off when it was.

“You heard it,” Daniel sighed. “She’s pissed because I asked if she’d move the chocolate.”

“Oh, Dans,” Mitchell said. He scratched his arm, his face screwed up like he was in pain. “That’s harsh. I think if I did that to Kerri, she’d take my head off. Along with other choice parts of me that I’d rather keep.”

Trevor couldn’t get a word in before Daniel said, “That’s our roasting pan she’s throwing around now. It better not go through the windows.”

“Let’s go make some music,” Mitchell said, putting a hand on Daniel’s shoulder to turn him in the right direction. Eric jumped eagerly for the door of the practice space. Trevor took one last hit of his cigarette and ground it into the gravel.

“Music soothes the savage beast,” Mitchell continued, reaching above Daniel’s head to hold the door open.

“The only thing soothing that beast is her chocolate,” the drummer said, giving the house one last, mournful look.

“And you fuck-ups tell me how great your monogamy shit is,” Trevor grumbled, resisting the urge to provoke Mitchell more severely. This would have to do for now.

Sure enough, the big idiot cuffed the back of his head as he walked by. “It is great, you loser. Just sometimes… you gotta take the bad with the great.”

“And keep the chocolate upstairs!” Eric laughed.

It didn’t escape Trevor that neither of the stupidly attached men in the band laughed along. In fact, Trevor thought, they sorta looked like they wouldn’t mind if Eric joined Daniel’s head in that roasting pan of Val’s.

Just so it wasn’t his, Trev thought as he picked up his bass. He had more important things to do.

Thankfully, a steady woman was at the bottom of the list.

First off, those of you in the know will get this… I baked dark chocolate brownies over the weekend and they are better than the regular kind! Whoa, baby. I keep saying they taste like mud, but that doesn’t do them justice because then I have to explain that if mud really tasted this good, puddles the world over would be in trouble. Some ice cream maker needs to come buy my recipe.

Now, to the poem… I wrote this last night and I’d like to say that although I sometimes feel like people see me in their comment train and think, “Why do you keep hanging around here?” it’s not directed at anyone in my blog world. So don’t think I’m pointing finger at you; I’m not.

Here you go…

Thorns

Sometimes, I feel like Trevor.
Irreverent.
Witty, and sly.
Knowing fully well I’m not liked
or wanted
and barely tolerated
But not caring in the least.

Trevor won’t admit it,
So I will.
I do care.
Yet I smile and keep up
the perky routine,
Feeling like a trained puppy
And all those other things that
Trevor will
— rarely —
sometimes admit he feels, too.
Sometimes, I feel like Trevor.

Sometimes, it’s fun to be a thorn.
Especially when the people you prick
asked for it.
Cast you in that role and
never gave you a chance.
All they could see was someone different
and different is bad.

But after the prick’s been given,
a sort of remorse sets in
for what might be
And the awareness that by giving those pricks,
it’s only prolonging the agony
and ensuring that acceptance can’t be won.

Trevor’s story (dare I say his Song)
is more clear-cut than mine.
Read his tale
and you’ll see.

That sometimes, I feel like Trevor.
And sometimes, Trevor feels like me.

Be sure to visit Rhian for the links to others on the train. There are neat people writing wonderful things who are jumping on. As you can tell by this one, a strong command of poetry isn’t needed; just a willingness to put it out there.

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!

You guys are really into this bean dip… Hope what follows doesn’t disappoint, as the bean dip is mostly absent. Mostly.

If you’re a bit lost, this is the earlier post, setting up this lovely scene.

Erica knew how to stock a backstage dressing room, that was for sure. Daniel asked Mitchell to remember to include some of the things she thought of — ice cream sandwiches for after the show, and gummy candies beforehand — whenever ShapeShifter got big enough to have a catering rider.

“Shit, I’ll ask for the ice cream from now on,” Mitchell laughed. It had been a stroke of genius on Erica’s part; nice and cool after the hot set. They’d all gotten headaches and nasty head rushes, but fuck if it hadn’t been worth it.

Back at Erica’s flat, Mitchell got friendly with a six-pack and crashed. The other three stayed up with their hostess, met her boyfriend — a hulking biker type, apparently — and talked the night away. Mitchell had trouble believing they’d stayed up and talked without getting drunk or stoned; it took awhile in the morning before anyone would admit to both.

They were in pretty good moods as Mitchell pulled the Bronco out of the narrow city street that Erica lived on and followed her directions to the Northbound freeway. After its brief cleaning, the truck smelled better, the weather was good for driving — not raining, not too bright; just perfect — and so Daniel and Mitchell fell into a discussion of how many t-shirts they had left and how many more copies of their small-label release they’d need to have shipped out when it started.

Eric farted.

Not to be outdone, Trevor burped. Then farted.

“Oh, shit, here we go,” Daniel muttered.

Mitchell tried not to smile. “She did feed us Mexican food last night.”

“Knowing fully well we’d be stuck together in a small space when it kicked in,” Daniel pointed out.

Eric groaned with pleasure as he farted again.

Mitchell could practically feel Trevor’s brain working, trying to find another way to top him.

“Trev,” he said in his most serious voice, “give me your lighter.”

“Ooh!” Mitchell envisioned Trevor’s eyes lighting up as he understood what Mitchell was trying to prevent. “Nope, I think I need a smoke.”

“Four guys who smoke, stuck in a truck the morning after a midnight Mexican feast,” Daniel said, then farted noisily. “This is not going to be pretty.”

“Let’s get the windows open,” Eric said, waving a hand in front of his face. “It’s already nasty back here.”

“So open the fucking windows,” Mitchell snarled, reaching for the map.

“Don’t do it, man,” Daniel said softly. “Going back without a plan’s never a good idea.”

Mitchell glared at him. The tooting in the back continued, accompanied by a burping contest.

“We’ll get our revenge on her,” Daniel said with a definitive nod.

“How?”

“Beats the shit out of me, but I’m sure we can find something. We’re ShapeShifter. No one fucks with us like this.”

Mitchell had to sigh as he opened his window and let go of the tight hold he’d had on himself. “I think, Dans, that she did.”

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Some fiction again this week for Rhian‘s Poetry Train. I don’t think you need any run-up to this; it’s the early days, the fledgling band‘s put together a small tour on a shoestring budget. On these tours, you rely on the goodness of locals — or you sleep in your truck.

By the way, you can blame this — and its conclusion, which I’ll run tomorrow — on Erica at Writing Aspirations. It’s all her fault.

“Hey, M,” Trevor said, coming up behind Mitchell, who was half-in, half-out of the Bronco, trying to clean it out a bit. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was starting to smell. Four guys on the road would do that, he knew. But damn, it had happened fast.

“Whatcha-doin’?” Trev sing-songed.

Mitchell bombed an empty can of Mountain Dew at him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Why the fuck not? It’s fun.” Mitchell tossed another one, again without looking. Who cared where it landed, so long as it was out of the truck.

Trevor smacked his lips. A bag rustled; Mitchell guessed he had talked someone into coughing up some chips. Until they got paid for this show, they had about five cents between the four of them. Unless, of course, Trevor was hoarding cash again and had used that to buy the stupid chips.

“Because I’m not alone,” Trevor sing-songed.

Mitchell groaned and buried his head in the seat of the Bronco. He should have known.

“You want to come meet Erica.”

Before he raised his head, Mitchell let himself growl. Getting it out would be the only way he could smile at this girl. He didn’t want to be social; he wanted to clean the damn truck out before he had to think about the show. He had about ten minutes, tops.

What he saw when he turned around surprised him. First of all, this girl was holding a can of bean dip, and she and Trevor had almost abandoned the chips for it. Mitchell half-expected Trevor to pick the can out of her hand and lick it clean.

The last time he’d done that, he’d turned it into foreplay.

“Who’re you?” Mitchell asked. She was tall for a girl, almost taller than Trevor, and she wore ratty denim shorts over fishnet hose and fourteen-eye black Doc Martens. A push-up bra and a ripped black Soulbender t-shirt; she looked more goth than metal except her hair wasn’t dyed black and she didn’t have makeup on. In the absence of those, Mitchell decided she was … normal.

“Erica,” she said and stuck her finger in the can of bean dip. She licked it off before saying, “The Sleeve wanted me to connect with you guys. I’ll be doing your dressing room tonight, so if you want anything special in there, holler. Also, if you need a place to crash tonight, I’ve got room.”

Trevor moved a step closer to her and started examining her mouth. “I want something special,” he said.

“Forget it,” she told him coolly. “I’m taken.”

“M here can fix that for you,” Trevor said, giving Mitchell a wide smile like he was asking for a punch.

“Not gonna happen,” Mitchell said before Erica could react. She was cool enough, she worked for Steve the Sleeve, and if she was offering them a place to crash, he was all over it. Anything to keep from driving most of the night. He’d pull over for an hour or two when he had to, but sleeping in the truck was old. If he never had to do it again, he’d be happy.

Trevor turned and started rummaging through the back seat of the Bronco.

“Think you want that place to crash?” Erica asked, peering past Trevor into the truck.

“If it’s no big deal,” Mitchell said, wondering how many other times she’d made this same offer. She didn’t have that over-eager bunny attitude; this was old hat for her.

Trevor emerged with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “One left,” he said, pulling it out. It wasn’t very straight.

It didn’t seem to matter how banged up the cigarette was because suddenly, Mitchell wanted it for himself.

“I’ll make dinner for you after we get back to my place after the show,” Erica offered. “I make a mean Mexican spread.”

Mitchell narrowed his eyes and looked her over. This was bordering on ritual. “You’re Steve the Sleeve’s girl?” he asked, his opinion of the local promoter plummeting. Everyone knew you didn’t use your girl for dressing room detail.

Erica snorted. “I wouldn’t do that sleazeball if you gave me a million bucks and underwrote my own promotions biz. But he pays me good,” she shrugged. “So what if I have to kick him in the balls every now and then to keep his hands off me? It’s nothing compared to how hard he’ll get it when I spin out and start doing my own shows.”

“You’re on for that place to crash tonight,” Mitchell told her. There was something honest about her, something he could relate to. He wasn’t so sure about the Mexican food, but he’d deal with that when he had to. The last time they’d had Mexican food, they’d all gotten sicker than dogs and had to stop at every single rest stop along the drive.

Maybe the homemade effect would make the difference.

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Pantera sang of Cowboys From Hell. They ain’t got nothing on Pam Derbish, Groupie From Hell.

So Molly and I are there in the front row of the ShapeShifter show last night. It’s getting pretty full at ShapeShifter shows now and it’s not so easy to get up to that front row anymore. Word’s out. They’re playing stuff from the new album, which’ll be their first big record. And we’re not the only girls there anymore, us and that hippie chick who’s always hanging around. Not by a longshot. I don’t know a lot of the girls who’re showing up these days. The funny thing is how they all act like they’ve got a right to the band. Like they’ve been there since the start. Like they really think so!

The mosh pit is churning behind us and every now and then I have to put an elbow into some overheated, overexcited jerk who thinks that shows are only about moshing and not about the music or the band or any of the really important stuff. I’m not even so sure that some of them are into moshing. Sometimes, you get these newbies who think it’s all about crashing into people senselessly. But a good pit, I’ve been learning by being so near them, has rules.

So Molly and I are right in front. I can reach out and touch the top of the monitor right in front of Mitchell‘s feet, so I put my hands there. To show everyone I belong. I igore the dirty looks from the other girls, the new ones who think Mitchell is their turf. We’ll see about that.

If I were just a bit taller, say if I could get a foothold on the edge of the stage, I could reach over the thing and touch Mitchell’s foot. That’s how close I am. That’s my spot and God help the bitch who tries to take it from me.

I about died when it happened. I mean, Molly says I should have expected it. We’ve been to how many shows? And hung out near the backstage door after each and every one? We’ve done everything but throw ourselves at them. It was overdue, I suppose. She says it was so overdue, the library stopped charging. I don’t think I get that, but I don’t care. Because it finally happened.

Right after they do Phases of the Moon, Mitchell bends down and picks up the Gatorade on the floor near his foot. “Hey, girls. Good to see you tonight,” he says as he takes the cap off the bottle. I watched his throat as he drank. I wanted to lick the sweat off it.

Molly says he blushed when he talked to us. I say his face was already red from singing and playing and exerting. But Molly insists we made him blush.

Whatever. I don’t really care. All that’s important is that he noticed me! Mitchell Voss noticed me!

He talked to me! He knew I’m alive! Omigod, I think I might die of it. Mitchell Voss. He’s so amazingly hot. I wish I could do more than lick the sweat off his neck.

I didn’t sleep last night. I’ve got classes today, but I’m as awake and energized as if I slept for two days. Mitchell Voss knows I’m alive!

And because the voting’s not closed yet…
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Robin told a href=”http://creativegoddesses.blogspot.com”Rhian/a to declare today to be Poetry Monday (or something like that), so here’s my contribution.

If I could write our story,
words like “beautiful”
wouldn’t exist.

We would have all the time
we could ever want;
No fears of getting
too attached,
of needing to define the rules,
of clinging to mind games,
only to see me leave you for a new life,
a life without you
except for far-between weekend visits.

And you wouldn’t tell me –
your arms around my waist,
me perched on the tops of your feet
but my chin still no higher than
the middle of your chest –
that when you look at her,
all you see is beauty.

And that’s the one thing I can’t offer you.
Or so you say.

.
If I could write our story, Mario dear,
there wouldn’t be such a gap between us –
not that height matters,
not that money matters,
not that age matters,
but it’s all about living.

You would understand about relationships-
that women are best when they are both
girlfriends and friends,
and that you can have the second,
without the first.

And I would understand about you –
your fragile ego,
your need to be a man, not a boy,
your thoughts,
your wants;
And all the potential that I see so clearly in you now
would be realized.

I promise you that if I could write this story,
That’s how it would be.

.
Remember, though,
that there are things I could never change
in this fiction I long to write:
The planes and angles
that make up your face
and cause something inside me
to catch, then melt —
even though I mean it when I say
that beauty’s far from everything.

There’s the gentle way you kiss;
and your hands so soft and ghostlike
that after your touch,
even a whisper feels harsh;

You say I am not beautiful
but still,
you make me believe
you’d never hurt me –
that’s what you promised.
Isn’t it?

.
So if I could write our ending,
it would happen on the ice –
in the middle of a hockey game –
and you would realize this:

That we are comfortable together,
and that the beauty of our friendship
is what matters,
not how beautiful you or I appear
when we look at each other.

And one day you will realize —
I guarantee you will,
even if I don’t write this story —
that this is the the kind of beauty –
the only kind –
that I will ever have to offer you.

.
If I could write our story,
it would be enough.

**
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First off, I’d like to say that She is NOT getting the Thinking Blogger award for this post.

Secondly, if you weren’t here yesterday and are wondering who Walter is and how he fits into the grand scheme of things, scroll down and read yesterday’s Thursday Thirteen. That should give you the background you need, but really. You can blame it all on Wylie. I’m not calling this an outtake because… I have no idea what it is yet. Maybe an outtake. Maybe the start of something longer. Tell me if you want more.

And anyone who catches the reference to another TTer and writer wins a cheer.

There was no doubt about it: Walter’s fingers were stiff and sore come morning. In some ways, they didn’t feel like fingers at all, but like claws, or those skinny little bird’s toes, all red and rumply. The sort you stared at as they moved, presaging disaster.

A few of those pills that Dr. Rosen had prescribed worked wonders. Over the years, Walter had learned not to ask what sort of pills Dr. Rosen was giving him. They worked, they got him through, that was all he needed to know. They gave his fingers their life back so that the show could go on.

Walter rolled over in bed and grabbed for his cigarettes and the lighter with the big, arthritis-happy flicker. The show… ahh, the show. The one that they said would tank, not last all these years. The one they said that fifty-year-olds had no business performing.

Tell that to Rat Catcher, Walter thought with a smile. They were as old as he was, had been at it as long as he had, and could still rock the house. Maybe not as long or hard or with as much energy, but they could still rock.

So much for those preconceptions of youth, Walter thought. Better to die before the aging process set in. Better to hang it up before age 40, just because 40 was when you got too old to have long hair and play the guitar for more than ten people at a party held in your living room.

It was funny to hear the young kids who came to play with him or just pay homage. A lot of them still believed those old tales. They’d blurt out something stupid like that, firmly inserting their feet in their mouths, all the while completely oblivious to it.

Walter and Dr. Rosen would have themselves a few good laughs about it later on. Sometimes, Lila would join them for those laughs, but usually, she held back. Lila wasn’t much for laughing at anybody anymore, least of all the young kids with stars in their eyes. She’d learned the hard way how that sort of behavior could backfire on you.

So had he, which is why Lila and Dr. Rosen were the only people he laughed with. Over the years, as his acquaintances had grown, his trusted inner circle had shrunk. People were too fast to sell you out, to crawl over you in their own race for the top.

How many times had he sat down with an eager young kid who wanted to be his next disciple and told that kid that being on the top didn’t matter? That having a steady, loyal audience and a consistent sales level was where it was at.

They’d always point out that in addition to a disciple, Walter himself was always latching on to a new hot guitarist with a huge following. They never got that it was all about marketing, that the idea was to use the hot guitarist to draw in new fans, many of whom stayed once the hot guitarist had cooled and drifted off into obscurity or a spot playing behind true has-beens like Jim Shields and Terry Fantillo.

The only ones who stuck around were the smart ones, the ones who did a stint with Walter and then went on to create their own band. Or to join a band with staying power, like Rises the Night.

He’d seen all sorts of kids over the years. The cocky ones, the quiet ones, the sex-obsessed ones, the junkie ones. He’d learned. And he’d survived.

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