Mom alert: Some grown-up words in this one, and if you didn’t guess, some nudity, too. It’s fiction; it’s all good.

It wasn’t turning into a good afternoon. Mitchell had been over at the Owenses’ house, trying to mow their lawn. Trying; they’d left Sarge, their German Shepard, outside, and he’d either stick himself between Mitchell’s legs or else he’d laid down in the mower’s path, tongue lolling as if he was laughing. Because, of course, Mitchell couldn’t mow over the dog, much as he wanted to.

He got home hot and crabby, disgusted to hear that Amy had her friend Valerie over again. They were in Amy’s room, the door was open, and Mitchell could hear them giggling and laughing. Just like usual. They’d never learn.

He shucked off his sweaty t-shirt and shorts; the socks and shoes had gone even before he’d entered the house. The underwear absolutely had to follow; there was nothing worse than sweaty underwear. It chafed.

The towel he’d left in his room had, of course, been stolen by Trevor. That meant he had to…

Mitchell grinned. Amy’s door was wide open. Amy’s door was between Mitchell’s room and the bathroom. And nothing or no one could go past Amy’s room without her looking out. This was going to be beautiful. Better than usual.

Sure enough, as he strolled past, the girls shrieked, then Amy wailed, “Mom! Mitchell’s naked in front of Valerie again!”

He stopped, of course, and came back to stand just within view. “You left the door open,” he told them.

“So? That doesn’t give you the right to go parading around the house naked.”

“I’m not parading anywhere, you fucking princess–”

“Mom!”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Mitchell continued, ignoring her latest screech. Ma wasn’t going to get in the middle of this one, and if she did, it’d be to tell Amy to keep her bedroom door shut already.

“Why can’t you shower at normal times, you loser?”

Mitchell took a step closer, all too aware that Valerie was checking him out. So far as he knew, Valerie didn’t have any brothers. This was probably good stuff for her. “If someone in this house wouldn’t hog the bathroom for a good half-hour every morning, maybe I could get in there before school.”

Amy shut her mouth, cutting off whatever she’d been about to say.

“And if that same someone,” he continued, taking another step forward, “would shut her fucking flap every time I try to take a shower before bed, I’d do it then.”

“Going to bed with wet hair–” Amy started, but Mitchell held a hand up.

Amy recoiled.

“Got a whiff, huh?” Mitchell asked, lifting his entire arm. “While you were in here, giggling over guys in magazines and proving I’m right that you don’t have a brain in there,” he said, tapping Amy in the forehead, “I was out, working my butt off and trying not to mow Sarge. While you two were in here, dreaming about your stupid weddings, I was out there, working to make my dreams come true. You don’t like the results, shut your fucking door.”

He surprised even himself when he pushed Amy back into her room and leaned in to grab the door and shut it himself. In the back of his mind, he could hear Trevor nodding with approval, but he felt like an idiot. Ma would kill him for touching Amy like that.

She flung her door open before he could close the door to the bathroom. “Oh, yeah?” she yelled, stalking down the hall toward him.

He ignored the impulse to shut the door in her face. Whatever she was about to say might be good.

“You think you’re hot shit, strutting around all naked like this, huh?”

He sighed. “Aim, what the fuck do you want?”

“I want… I want…” Her eyes darted back and forth as she tried to think on her
feet. Fortunately for Mitchell, she wasn’t very good at it. “I want you to leave me and Valerie alone!”

“I walked past your door, you egotistical bitch!”

“Mom!”

Mitchell pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Calling for Mom like that’s only going to get you in trouble,” Trevor said from the other end of the hall. “And quit being jealous that your brother’s got all the family jewels and you’ve just got those teeny titties already, will you? Let the idiot go shower before I go and get naked on you. ‘Cause let me tell you, girls, if I go and do that, I’m not staying in this hallway, youknowwhatImean?”

Chuckling as the girls shrieked some more, Mitchell finally closed the bathroom door. That almost made up for that stupid dog laying down in front of the lawnmower. Even if it had taken Trevor to make it good.

Just a reminder… go vote for me!

With apologies to Karen!, who was expecting to see this posted earlier.

I swear, you’da thought my desk was hostin’ Christmas the way the whole greedy office buzzed around here the other day, sniffin’ around for handouts. What do you mean why? You think Chelle LaFleur’s not worth sniffing around?

This one time, you just might be right, but don’t let that get to your head. It’s the mail that was so hot. A good ten packages stuffed full of CDs showed up, all at once. Looks like record company folk really do care that I know what I’m writing about when these bands roll through town.

Now, don’t no one go telling them that I know more’n I let on. You really think I get all hot and bothered over a record company thinking I’m so dumb, they gotta send me lots of CDs and press kits about their bands? Got any clue how much money someone’ll make on eBay once I’m dead?

Even funnier than the fact that I’ve got these folk snowed is the way my coworkers react. You’d think they’re in a record store or somethin’, pickin’ up all my new music and turning it over, as if the back cover will tell them the secrets of the universe or somethin’.

Ever notice that? How every single person on the planet picks up a record, a cassette — yeah, remember those two things? — a CD, whatever, and turns it over and gives it a good, long look?

Seems to your friend Chelle here that if the universe wants to give up its secrets, it’ll do it inside the record and let it come out that way, in the music. I’ve never seen anything on the back of a CD ‘cept a pretty picture — okay, I’ve seen plenty of ugly ones and even more boring ones. — and some really small print that hurts Chelle’s old eyes.

You heard it first and you heard it here: It’s a waste of all our time time to flip a disc over and read what’s on the back, but I dare you to try and stop yourself before it’s been flipped. Like women who want to keep their mouths shut when they put mascara on, we just can’t stop.

Way back on Thursday, I promised you guys an outtake based on my Thursday Thirteen. Here it is and don’t forget about the BAFAB contest I’m throwing!

Mitchell joined Amy in the doorway to the room that used to be Wayne’s private space, back when the farmhouse had been Wayne’s. Mitchell looked things over; it was shaping up into an office all right. His office. Like Kerri’s studio in what had been an attic was hers, this was his.

“M,” Amy said, drawing the sound out as if she was eating something good.

He grunted, immediately on guard. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

“What’s that big wooden thing in the middle of the room?”

“A desk, Aim,” he said, playing along. Privately, he was disappointed that she couldn’t do any better. After all, he’d practically been voted Least Likely to Need a Desk in high school. Rock stars didn’t need desks, unless they got caught up in the drama of sweeping everything off them so that a girl could be laid down there. It was better when you left the stains for someone else to clean up.

“You.” Amy said. It was a declaration. “You have a desk.”

“A whole office-like space,” he agreed, nodding. “I’ve got a band to run, remember?”

“You didn’t need a desk in your apartment.”

“Not so long as I was happy eating off my lap,” Mitchell said. “What did you think the table turned into?”

She played with her lower lip, thinking. “That really is a desk,” she finally said.

“Scares the shit outta me, too,” he lied. The truth was it felt good. Powerful. Like he knew exactly who was in control of ShapeShifter, and he was the one who had that control.

Okay, he admitted. That part scared the shit out of him. But it wasn’t like Trevor could have run the band. Eric refused to do anything more than hear the final decisions and Daniel wasn’t willing to handle it alone. That left it up to Mitchell.

Amy nodded, like she’d agreed with something he’d been thinking. She clapped him on the shoulder. “The band’s in good hands,” she said, and left the room, heading down the small hallway to the breezeway that led to the new addition.

Mitchell stayed in his office for a minute, letting Amy’s words sink in. Had she really just praised him?

“Aim!” He tore down the hall after her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her hand on the doorknob of one of the new guest rooms.

“You just… you were nice. You feel okay?”

“Every now and then, Pipsqueak, you earn it.” Her smile, that sisterly one he hated, broadened. “Must be Kerri’s influence ’cause we both know you couldn’t do it alone.”

He put his arm around her shoulders. “That’s better.”

“It is a cool desk, Mitchell.”

He snorted. “The whole fucking house is cool, Aim.”

“Yeah, well, I’m still mad it’s yours and not mine. Don’t push your luck.”

While I’ve been busy putting together some Buy a Friend a Book Week fun for next week, I realized that I can’t find the surface of my desk. It’s actually been this way for some time now and I swear, everything there can’t find another home somewhere else.

That made me think. What sorts of things do other people keep on their desks?

Here’s one take on it, with an outtake to finish up the desk fun over the weekend. Stay tuned for that, and for the BAFAB contest.

Thirteen Things on the desk of Mitchell Voss, rock star: 1. Guitar picks 2. remote control to the sound system, empty CD cases, and some newish, trendy stuff that keeps getting overlooked in favor of the old favorites. 3. papers JR‘s been waiting on for weeks 4. papers Daniel‘s been waiting on for weeks 5. love drawings, instead of love notes, from Kerri and a sketch of hers that he stole and framed. Conveniently, she’s never noticed it. 6. scraps of paper with random, so-far unused song lyrics scribbled on them 7. the first guitar string he broke onstage 8. bulk quantities of black Sharpies 9. three desk lamps to act as spotlights on strategic piles of papers 10. new lightbulbs for the lamps 11. two years’ worth of music industry trade magazines he intends to read — next time he gets the chance 12. a hairbrush that hasn’t been cleaned since it arrived on the desk even though it gets semi-frequent use 13. an origami dragon folded by one of the crew during ShapeShifter‘s last tour Anything interesting on your desk? Links to other Thursday Thirteens!

Here I go again
about typos. Sue me, all right? I’m a journalist even if I never went to school for it. But maybe that’s why it gets my goat so much, you know what I’m saying here, people? If Chelle LaFleur can find a way to spell right, so can you.

Yes, it’s that simple. No, don’t you dare come whining to me about how busy you are and how something like spelling shouldn’t matter. It does and it should. If I can hustle to make my own bills and still take the time to spell right, so can you.

Besides, we live in a world that’s more and more about our computer screens. We don’t see faces no more; we see pictures and while y’all might have some pretty darn interesting body parts, that’s something else you gotta consider.

Here’s the deal: The Trumpet here is looking to hire some freelance writers, now that they’ve gone and put me on staff full-time with a salary and everything. We all know they did this so I’ll stop writing for every news outfit in town and so they can keep me for themselves, but that ain’t the issue, here. What it’s all about are these applications we’ve been gettin’ in at the office.

“I wanna be a righter.”

I kid you not, that’s what one application said. You wanna be a lefter, too? You wanna get an interview? Work with real people and not monkeys or your greased-up right hand? Learn how to spell.

One kid came into the reception area wearing a dirty red hoodie, pulled up and looking like it hadn’t been washed in a year or two. Alls we could see was his nose, and that didn’t look too clean, neither. I kid you not. And this small voice comes out, “I can write music reviews.”

Well, people, lookie here. That’s Chelle’s job. No one said nothing about writing music reviews.

Look. I meet folk like you daily. You all wanna have a glamour job like ole Chelle’s. But to get where I am, and to get to the point where you can write a column like I do and use slang like I do — but you’ll notice it’s all spelled right slang — you gotta impress. You gotta make people believe that you can do the job from the first second they lay eyes on you.

You can’t do that if you can’t spell. Take two seconds and look up those words in the dictionary. You just might learn something along the way, and learnin’s always a good thing. Use that word you just learned and make someone think you’re smart.

I remember a day when being smart was sexy. Well, in this corner of the world, that hasn’t changed. Smart is sexy. Good spelling is hotter than hot. And being professional from the get-go is what’ll get you where Chelle is.

You heard it first and you heard it here. You may not get to where ole Chelle is, but if not, it’s only you that’s holding you back.

Shit, shit, shit.

Molly and I are supposed to go hang out at Decade tonight. ShapeShifter’s playing, and I’ve got to make them notice me already. Mitchell’s so hot. I’d look so good with him. We can be in the papers together. Pam and Mitchell. Riverview’s power couple.

Pam Derbish. The only woman on the planet with abs better than Mitchell’s. And do I know how to use them, too.

But no… won’t be happening tonight. Can’t be happening tonight. I’ve got to call Molly and tell her I’m not going anywhere near Decade tonight. Shit. Shit shit shit.

Pam and Daniel… he’d throw over that bitch for me, I know it. I’d get a spiral perm so we’d have matching curls. Maybe even let my natural color grow out so I don’t look too blonde next to him, his hair’s so dark.

I’m not even going to leave the house. Maybe I’ll even cancel classes tomorrow, too. Or however long it takes for this to clear up and go away. And then I can get back to work.

I’ve got to make that band notice me already. I’ve got to be part of their inner world. I need to be important to them, just like they’re important to me. It needs to be a shared thing. They need to know.

I can picture me and Eric. I’d buy dresses that hit my knees so I could go to his dad’s church with him. I could wear those little pillbox hats like Jackie O, and I’d have to get certified in a few more dance-like classes and do less weights. You don’t want to look too cut when you’re with a minister’s son, but you do need to look good. You’ve got the eyes of the congregation on you. Even more than the other ShapeShifter fans, the congregation’s got to be won over.

I’m not going to be able to do it looking like this, that’s for sure. And I’m sure as hell not leaving the house. I hope Molly doesn’t hate me for life. I deserve it if she does.

This is what happens when you exercise; it’s the one thing that no one warns you about. Oh, you can have abs to die for, Pam. No problem there. A gorgeous ass, sculpted arms. Just… forget about having clear skin on your back. Forget about having beautiful, flawless skin on the one night you know you’ll be able to get close enough to ShapeShifter to get them to notice you.

To make matters worse, the problem’s right by my mouth. It looks like a cold sore, except it’s already formed a bit of a white head. And besides, I don’t get cold sores. I know it may not seem like it, the way I go on about ShapeShifter, but I am careful about who I sleep with. I do, after all, have standards. Especially about something like sex.

I was hoping that tonight, I’d be showing those standards to one of the ShapeShifter boys. The night’s perfect. I don’t have a class tomorrow. No roommates around tonight. And brand new candles.

And this zit.

Shit shit shit.

Tonight was perfect. ShapeShifter’s getting hard to get near. They’re popular now. They’re putting out another album, and rumor has it that they’ll be touring in a real bus this time, too. People outside of Riverview are starting to hear about them. Lots of people.

I need to make my move soon, if I’m going to be able to do it at all.

Maybe I’ll get my period tonight. That would be the only way I’ll ever forgive this zit. Especially if Molly calls me in the morning and says that the band noticed her instead of me.

Despite his weed-induced mellow and years of personal experience, Trevor was still proud of the destruction they’d just wreaked on the dressing room. Beer bottles on every surface. Foil wrappers wherever they’d been tossed. Towels draped over the beer bottles, under the bottles, in one case even wrapped around the base of a bottle, anchoring it upright. Potato chip crumbs — among other things — ground into the carpet. Food everywhere. The couch washed down with shaken-up soda and beer, and people still dumb enough to try to sit on it. Garbage cans overturned; at one point, Mitchell had been wearing it instead of a lampshade, the wanker.

One rather enthused and satisfied girl had taken the squeeze mustard and written ShapeShifter on the wall behind the disaster that the catering table had become. All the food had either been knocked over, pushed aside, rescued by a frantic local roadie or two — Trevor hadn’t bothered to watch — or relocated; it didn’t matter. It wasn’t the lovely little display of tempting usualness it’d been when they’d arrived.

Two girls had decided to see if sliced salami would stick to the wall if they threw it just right. Intriguingly, a couple actually had. A bunch had made contact but then slid down the wall, leaving a lovely grease trail in their wake. The rest made a path — like stepping stones, Trev thought with a snicker — across the room. One or two had been trampled on; a brunette had slipped and fallen on her ass, then limped out. She’d looked more in pain than upset that her party with ShapeShifter had ended so soon.

Trevor didn’t doubt that he’d been the only one who’d noticed her leaving. He also didn’t doubt that he’d laughed the hardest at her fall. Her arms had flailed, her eyes had gone huge, but she’d let out this kittenish, barely audible scream. It hadn’t fit the picture. Pretty fucking cool.

“Come on,” Charlie, their tour manager said, tugging on Trevor’s arm as if he was the one who’d be able to get everyone to leave. “Party’s over. We need to get out of here.”

Trevor pulled his arm free. The guy wasn’t entirely sober, himself. Settlement must not have taken long — although who the hell knew what would happen once the disaster of the dressing room was noticed.

Charlie burped a beery-reeking gasball, giving Trev the feeling that he was the only sober one in the room. For a change. If it weren’t for weed this good, he’d have hated the fact that he was afraid to drink.

“The party’s not over,” he told Charlie.

“The party’s not over?”

Trevor gave him a blessedly stoned, placid look. He stopped himself from folding his hands over his belly. “The party can’t be over until the fat lady sings and if you look around, all the fatties showed sense and left already. No fat girl sings, no party ends.” He nodded. It really was pretty simple.

“We’ve got to clear out,” the tour manager whined.

Trevor curled his lip at the guy. “So clear the fuck out. But in the meantime, we have a party to finish up.” He nodded at the rest of the band. “They’re still standing. There’s still a few girls here. Party’s not over.”

“Move it back to the hotel,” Charlie called, raising his voice to be heard over the drunken slurring that passed for chatter. Even if most of it was directions about what felt good and the slurping of deep kisses.

When no one gave any sign of hearing, he turned the radio off. “Move it back to the hotel,” Charlie repeated.

The guys looked around their girls at each other and shrugged. One spot was as good as another. So long as there was beer, they’d be happy. Besides, there were beds in hotels. That meant less complaints about sore knees and backs and other body parts.

Maybe.

Trevor wondered if there’d be any fat chicks at the hotel they could pick up. And if there were, what would it take to get them to sing?

So far, it had all lived up to its promise: the island was beautiful, the house and beach secluded, the staff discreet, and the bed big and comfortable. So big and comfortable that despite its white sheets, it had been a shame to leave it.

But Mitchell had wanted to go snorkeling, and that meant Kerri’d had to go into town to buy a bathing suit, something she hadn’t owned in years. Mitchell had warned her to choose a basic suit instead of a sexy one; when the band was touring, hotel pools were his favorite place to spend down time. A sexy suit would interfere with swimming.

While she’d been out shopping, she’d stopped and picked up a few sundresses, another thing she hadn’t owned in who-knew-how-long. They were coming in handy, though, because when Mitchell’s manager had given them use of the house for a two-week honeymoon, he’d added the condition that they visit his favorite restaurants. If she had to wear clothes at all on this dream vacation, Kerri thought, she was going to wear something skimpy and beautiful.

She and Mitchell were seated on a patio along the beach at one of the restaurants on the list, their dinner orders just placed, when Mitchell got up, left his Vans by the patio’s edge, and wandered down the beach. Kerri cocked her head as she watched him, not sure what he was doing and itching for a sketch book. There seemed to always be a light wind near the shore and it blew his silvery-white hair across the shoulders of his loose black tank in a tantalizing way. Add in his camoflage cargo shorts and he was a hell of a vision as he bent to play in the sand near the surf. Nothing at all like a powerful rock star; just a regular guy.

She sat there, savoring, still wishing she had the means to draw him, until he turned and waved at her. It was, she could tell, an invitation to come see what he’d done, so she kicked off her sandals beside his black slip-ons and followed.

“What did you do?” she laughed as she got close enough to see.

“What’s it look like?” he laughed, holding his arms out to show off his masterpieces.

“It looks like a bunch of hearts.”

“Well, then,” he said with a definitive nod. “Guess this is what happens when there’s no guitar handy and I hear music.”

“Looks to me like you hear hearts.” she said, smiling as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. He brushed her hair away from her forehead and kissed her temple.

“It’s your damn fault, woman,” he breathed into her ear, making her shiver.

“I think I’ll take it.”

check out more stories of love at Scribbit‘s cool site. Click here for the contest itself. And for more, visit Write Stuff around the 17th.

This is for Erica, who’s home sick with the flu. But while I have you here, let me point out that author Conor Corderoy stopped by to leave a comment here. If you haven’t picked a book to read yet for the Debut a Debut contest, why not his Dark Rain? A dystopia AND murder mystery; how can you refuse?I can’t!

And now… the outtake, just for Erica!

Daniel and Mitchell had gathered around Eric, who stared up at them from Trevor’s couch on the tour bus, his eyes glassy.

“Freaky,” Mitchell said with a nod. He pulled a potato chip out of the bag he’d bought at the rest stop half an hour ago.

“I think it’s a hangover,” Daniel insisted, holding out his hand for a chip.

Mitchell ignored him. “We weren’t drinking that much last night. And you don’t blow your nose as much as he’s been doing when you’re hungover. It makes your brain pound too hard.”

“Good point,” Daniel said. He tried to take the bag of chips, but Mitchell pulled it out of danger and tossed it toward the bus’ kitchen area.

Daniel took a wary step back, but Mitchell was fast and pinned the drummer to the couch opposite Eric. “You can fucking share,” the drummer snarled.

“No I can’t,” Mitchell growled back. “And let’s hope Eric doesn’t. He’s got the flu, you dumb fuck. All of us can get it.”

“We have a show tomorrow,” Eric moaned. “We can’t cancel.”

“True. ShapeShifter doesn’t cancel.”

“What do we do?” Eric’s moan turned sniveling. “I can’t fucking move. Do you know I spent the entire stop trying to get out of my bunk and up here?”

“Well, I wish you’d gotten here sooner,” Mitchell told him, diving for the potato chips before Daniel could grab them again. “’cause if we’d known, we could have picked up supplies.”

“Supplies?” Daniel asked, sucking on the thumb that Mitchell had bent backwards in his rush for the chips.

“Yeah,” Mitchell said, popping another chip into his mouth. “Soup, Jell-o.” He grinned. “We could have some real fun with the Jell-o that sick boy there doesn’t eat.”

“What girl’s gonna want to get on a bus that’s got a guy with the flu on it?” Daniel asked.

Mitchell winked. “Who said we’d tell them before we’re rolling?”

“Show tomorrow,” Eric said and pulled another tissue out of the box he’d propped on his chest. “Me. Gotta play,” he said and blew his nose. Hard.

Mitchell shuddered. Charlie, the band’s tour manager, jumped for the used tissue and put it into a plastic bag.

“What do we do since we don’t have any soup?” Daniel asked.

Mitchell shook his head uselessly and eyed his potato chips. There was something unappetizing about eating after listening to the goop that had come pouring out of Eric’s nose. He crumpled the top of the bag closed and offered it to Daniel, who winkled his nose and shook his head.

“You fuck heads,” Trevor said, getting up from his usual spot on the couch, at Eric’s feet. “There’s only one cure for the flu.” He pushed past Mitchell, who gave him a quick slap to the back of the head, and opened the fridge. He pulled out a beer and grabbed the opener. “You get him so drunk, he forgets he’s sick.”

“We might pickle him before that happens,” Mitchell said with a frown. He opened the potato chips and, without looking, fished one out of the bag and ate it.

“Pickle me!” Eric begged. “Just … make me better.”

Trevor handed over the beer. Daniel helped himself to a potato chip and shrugged at Mitchell.

It was worth a try.

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

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

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

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

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

Such was life with a musician.

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

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

As part of the Debut a Debut contest that Erica at Writing Aspirations and I are throwing, I thought that I’d start featuring some of our debut authors, too. First is Lila Shaara, whose Every Secret Thing is one of the debuts you can win copies of — an autographed hardcover or an audiobook on CD!

Now, on to Chelle and what she’s got to say today.

Now someone had better explain to me just what’s goin’ on here. Okay? I’m listening, so you all had better start speaking.

Now see here. I know I’ve encouraged letters and feedback from you all. And for the most part, what you people have to say rocks. I like that you don’t hold back in your letters, and I like even more that you show me some respect when we meet up face to face. Not a lot; just enough.

What I don’t like is this recent bombardment from you all about my horn-tooting of those little bands out there. Why? What’s your issue here? Don’t you know how big bands get made? They start out as little bands and they slug it out and they find a way to make sure they stand out. If they stand out enough to catch my cynical old ears, so much the better, don’t you think? Have you ever known me to go nuts for a band that was so terrible, you changed the radio station every time they came on?

Well, you gotta account for taste in there, too. But my track record speaks for itself: every single bitty band I’ve told you about has found their way to success of some size, and all of it’s been deserved. Sure, some of ’em broke up before they made it as big as they could have, but that’s the nature of bands, boys and girls. They’re made up of people. People don’t always get along.

Sort of like you all and me, right now. ‘Cause sure as I know my name’s Chelle LaFleur, I know that you ain’t feeling this bitty band love the way I am. And I don’t know why, unless you’re just perfectly happy to keep on doing the same-old, same-old.

If that’s the case, then you shouldn’t be taking up the air I’m tryin’ to breathe, you know what I’m saying here, boys and girls? I’m here to find good music and not care about how big their arenas are or how gigantic their heads are or how humongous their staffs are, pushing their great big news down my fat throat. It’s about the quality of the music, and damn if I care who’s making it.

Okay, unless it’s those ShapeShifter boys, but they’re another story. They’re one of those bands who earn your respect, just because they’re so damn cute, and so damn into what they’re doing and we all know they won’t be a bitty band for much longer.

So quit’cher bellyaching at me already. If no one looks for the next ShapeShifter, how’s anyone gonna find them?

You heard it first, and you heard it here: Bitty bands rock. C’mon out with Chelle and give ’em your support.

Those of you who’ve been around know that my fiction centers on the fictional band ShapeShifter, the men who make up this unique band, and the people who shape the rest of their lives. For the past two weeks, our focus has been on ShapeShifter frontman Mitchell Voss. Now that you guys have a better idea who he is, I thought I’d throw in some generic bits about ShapeShifter — sort of like a palate cleanser before we get to the next character.

Enjoy, and don’t forget about the Debut a Debut contest (and to check out the winners of my meme contest, too!)! The list of debut authors to check out is being updated semi-daily and can be found either at Writing Aspirations or my main website.

Thirteen things most people know about ShapeShifter: 1. They are four boys from Riverview USA who made it big 2. They are all roughly the same age. Trevor and Daniel are a year older than Mitchell and Eric. 3. They love all their fans, but show it most obviously to the female variety. The males just get autographs and pictures. 4. Mitchell and Daniel are the band’s heartthrobs and mouthpieces. 5. Mitchell can be quite cranky to the media. 6. Trevor came up with the band name. In the beginning, they had a typical ShapeShifter concept. Each band member had an animal: Mitchell the dragon, Daniel the bear, Eric the eagle and Trevor Wolff was … a wolf. 7. The concept was soon considered too hokey to be allowed to continue. But Mitchell is still considered a dragon by many. 8. The band’s first tour happened before they had a record deal. They piled into Mitchell’s father’s Bronco, attached a U-haul to the back, and off they went. 9. They did everything in the back of that Bronco. It’s a wonder the truck survived. But it did. 10. Mitchell is still driving it during Trevor’s Song. 11. They love to hang out in pools (witness Green Hair Week) — and in pool halls, shooting 8-ball. 12. They love to make commando runs on ice cream stands before leaving town. Fans often try to guess where they’ll stop. The ice cream shops love the added business. 13. They’ll stop and talk music with you as long as they possibly can. Make sure what you say reflects the fact that you’ve got a brain in your head (with the obvious exception of someone obviously tongue-tied at having a discussion with ShapeShifter). Don’t forget to Debut a Debut! Links to other Thursday Thirteens! 1. (leave your link in comments, I’ll add you here!)

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Mitchell tossed his head, trying to get the sweat to change course. Of course, it didn’t work. At the end of the show like this, the sweat had a mind of its own.

“So,” he said in a conversational way, putting his left foot forward more, almost straddling the mic stand. His guitar got in the way, so he used his right hand to move it away. “Those lousy fuckers in this half-ass town wouldn’t let us stay up here tonight until midnight so we could do this all proper, like.”

The crowd booed. Mitchell nodded approvingly, looking around at them and then at the band. Trevor and Eric looked suitably impressed and they nodded along with Mitchell.

“But,” he said, holding up one finger and cocking his head. More sweat dripped into his eyes; he blinked it out. “They wouldn’t budge even when we offered them lots of money. And I mean lots,” he said, wondering if the fans could possibly comprehend the negotiations they’d tried. Beside him, Eric nodded agreement. Trevor just laughed.

“So. Here we are, and you fucks are probably gonna bolt outta here and head off to another party. When you get there, be sure you show off your special New Year’s T-shirts and then laugh your asses off ’cause none of us got ’em.”

The crowd roared again, like that was the funniest joke they’d ever heard. As if it was true, Mitchell thought. Shit, he had the original drawing that Kerri had made somewhere in all his papers. As if ShapeShifter would make something as exclusive as a commemorative New Year’s tee and not hold out a few for themselves.

“Before we go, let’s have ourselves a little celebration. Ready? Dans’ll help you count down from ten, and we’ll have some fireworks and shit.”

He paused as Eric signalled to Daniel before approaching. “Invite the crew out,” the guitarist reminded him. Good thing; he’d forgotten. As if he’d wanted to do this without Kerri.

“Whoa,” Mitchell said, holding both hands up to quiet the fans. “We gotta do this right. Bring the crew on out. Ker, techs, everyone back there. C’mon out.”

Once Kerri had nestled under his left arm, his guitar touching her hip and his sweat drenching her, he waited for the rest of the crew to stumble out. Even though he’d warned them he’d be doing this, they were still wary, as if they were expecting some sort of joke.

On any other day, they’d have gotten one, that was for sure. Ordinarily, crew belonged in the background. But this was New Year’s Eve, and while they hadn’t gotten permission to bust through the arena’s curfew, they had gotten permission for some indoor fireworks and an early celebration.

Then, band and crew would party backstage until they were all too soused to stand.

Bobby, Mitchell’s tech, offered to take his guitar. But Mitchell shook his head. “You’re off duty for a few,” he said, leaning away from the mic so it wouldn’t pick up his voice. The guitar wasn’t heavy; he could carry it a few more minutes.

Daniel provided the bass drum beat that the crowd used to count down, and then the pyro guys back at the sound board set off the fireworks.

As he and Kerri watched, smiling, Trevor came up behind them. “So, tonight the night you’re gonna wise up and dump Rusty’s ass? That girl in the third row sure looks like she’d be willing to ease the parting.”

Mitchell cuffed the back of Trevor’s head and grinned. “You don’t stop, do you, asshole?”

Trevor grinned happily. “Who, me?”