This negotiation shouldn’t have had to happen, Kerri thought, crossing her arms over her chest and giving the bodyguard her best sulky look. She was the client. He was supposed to be serving her, not dictating where she could and couldn’t ride her bike.

Hell, it wasn’t even a negotiation. Just a body guard laying down the law.

“No one wants you to turn up dead,” Gene said. He slumped in his chair and unbuttoned the cargo pocket on his pantleg, pulling out what looked like a random romance novel. Kerri knew better. There was nothing random about Gene’s romances.

Clearly, she realized as he curled the cover back and started reading, the conversation had ended. Somehow, she’d lost. No more riding her bike all over town, at least not without Gene. Maybe, she thought, Tony would hire someone new to be her bodyguard. Someone who rode bikes.

Gene was kind, almost doting, when he brought her to Fit Riverview and showed her how to set up a spin bike. He made a point of bringing over the instructor as soon as she walked in the room and introducing her to Kerri — who wasn’t surprised when Gene asked her to be low-key about who Kerri really was.

“Not a problem,” she said. She had a brusque way about her that made Kerri think she was annoyed by the request. Then again, this was Fit Riverview. Everyone who was anyone worked out here, including people with bigger names than Kerri Voss.

Hmm, Kerri thought as she stepped up onto the bike and tried to get comfortable. The handlebars were too far away, compared to her bike at home. No brakes, no gears. Just a knob.

At least pedaling was the same.

The class had a neat ebb and flow to it, Kerri thought as she followed along. Hands here, stand there, and pedal, pedal, pedal. The room was dark and the fans maybe sort of moved the quickly-heating air around.

Biking outside was more fun — until the instructor started playing air guitar. A few of the women near the front piped up and volunteered to be backup singers. As they pedaled away, they shimmied their upper bodies, did the hand motions to the old-time Motown song.

“And Gene?” the instructor asked. “Bodyguard duty?”

“You betcha!” he called over the noise of the rap or hip-hop or whatever was just starting. Kerri wasn’t sure she could make it to the end of this song without hurting someone. Gene was on top of her list.

He caught Kerri’s eye. He winked and mimicked an air guitar.

She shook her head, unable to stay angry with him. Everyone wanted to be a rock star — everyone but her and Gene.

They knew better. They were close enough to the real things to know what it was really like. So much more than air guitar and shimmying shoulders.

Kerri envied her classmates their freedom. She closed her eyes and pedaled some more, wishing she could pedal right out of the studio and onto the street.

.
.
This was my first stab at Three Word Wednesday. And, of course, is part of the Weekend Writer’s Retreat. All these fun writing sites these days!

The watch. That’s what made it, Soriana knew. Her arm, bare, snaking up the wall. It could have been any other girl’s arm even though it lacked tattoos or cutting scars on her forearm. The lack would have made her stand out anyway, but it was that gold watch that pulled the eye.

It was one of those stupid watches parents gave their kids for high school graduation. The gold kind, with the solid strap that hooked shut and had a guard chain at the clasp. The kind that was thinner than Soriana’s little finger was wide, except for the face. It swelled out and back in, reminding her of her Mona’s pregnant belly.

She bit back a smile when he came over. “You’re barely old enough to know what you’re doing,” he said softly.

Soriana drew back, whipping her arm away from the wall. “What do you know? I’m older than you think I am!”

Pity crossed his brownish-green eyes, and he frowned. “I hear that every night. Trust me, honey. I know that unless I get you out of here, one of my friends might be arrested for statutory rape.”

Biting back panic, she felt her eyes dart back and forth but couldn’t see anything. She felt like she was standing inside her head, pressed up against the very back of her skull, looking out at the world. And at Eric, who seemed concerned but who was probably laughing at her, deep inside where she couldn’t see.

“I’m not that young!” she hissed, turning her head as she glanced around. A few other girls were looking at her, older girls, giving her death looks at attracting the guitarist.

He put a hand on her elbow and guided her out of the room and into the hallway. It was wide, it was sorta dark, and no one was around. It should have been creepy, but after the other girls in that room, there was something comforting about it.

“Now, look,” he said, but she pulled her arm away.

“You look!” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her ID. “I know I look young. But only a fool would forge a college ID. I really am as old as I say I am.”

Eric took the ID from her and turned aside slightly. Soriana let her eyes travel the line of his waist, so smooth where it appeared under the waist of his jeans, so flat under his t-shirt.

“I told you,” she said into the silence. She licked her lips and shifted her weight from foot to foot, shuffling slightly. She’d worn these shoes before, of course. But she’d never had to spend hours standing in them. She knew when she kicked them off, the floor would feel warped.

Eric handed her the ID back. “Then I owe you an apology,” he said, folding one hand along his waist and bowing slightly. He reminded Soriana of a knight — one in an olive green khaki t-shirt instead of shining armor. Or an English gentleman who only needed his tux to complete the look. Or…

“But a girl like you shouldn’t be hanging around them,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
Soriana was fixated on his forearm. Thick. Strong. If she was Mona, she’d be thinking about the hints that forearm gave off, the promises of what else would be thick and strong.

Mona would have asked who a girl like her should have been hanging around. Soriana couldn’t bring herself to ask the question. She bit her lip, then licked it, and smiled nervously. “Probably not,” she said.

Eric smiled and leaned against the wall, folding his arms behind his ass like his hands were a cushion. “Lucky for me I spotted you. You’re the exact type Trevor likes.”

“Type?” she echoed hollowly, her sudden spike of fear receeding as she let her eyes trace the ends of his hair, sitting jaggedly on his t-shirt.

“Good point,” Eric said. “He likes all you girls equally. He can’t resist a redhead, a blonde, a brunette — and the girls who look like they’re out of place.”

“Which was me,” Soriana said. She hugged herself. “I know. I promised my best friend…”

Eric nodded. Soriana had the feeling he’d heard that one before. In this case, it was as true as her age. Mona had bought the tickets, had figured she’d have had the baby early and would be able to go. Had wrangled the backstage pass even when she knew it would be Soriana going. And had issued the instructions about how to stand, hand on the wall, watch sticking out.

It had worked. Sort of. Except now, Soriana didn’t know what to do. Eric was right: she was out of her league. She never should have listened to Mona. Should have scalped the ticket and sold the backstage pass for a couple hundred bucks. Mona wouldn’t have taken the cash, but she’d have taken the diapers the cash would have bought. Formula for the baby, food for Mona.

Soriana wanted to kick herself. Mona needed money, not tales of Soriana making an idiot of herself backstage. She was in college, for crying out loud. She was smarter than Mona — if only because she knew how to use birth control — and she was going places. Places that were bigger, longer, and further away from here than Mona could even begin to dream.

Eric waved an arm and someone appeared, making Soriana wonder if they’d been less alone than she’d thought.

“Can you see my friend to her car?”

“I… took the bus.”

“Then wait with her until the bus comes,” Eric said to the guy. He wore black pants and a black shirt, with dark red embroidery that said Bank Arena. His muscles bulged down the length of his arms; his thighs filled out the black cargo pants that disappeared into his boots. Soriana had a feeling he’d been wearing a yellow security jacket just a few hours ago.

“Will do,” the guy said, and led Soriana out.

She didn’t look back. Mona would just have to deal.

**
Okay, so Eric’s here, but otherwise, this really has nothing to do with the band. That’s okay. It can’t be all ShapeShifter, all the time.

Go visit the fine folks at the Weekend Writer’s Retreat and at Sunday Scribblings for more non-ShapeShifter fiction. Unless someone’s writing fan fiction, which is fine by me.

It’s been awhile since we had a visit from the Deadly Metal Hatchet guys, and even then, this barely qualifies. It’s a tale that came to me and asked to be told. So here it is.

“Foz-zee!” Mark said, standing up and leaning over the counter so it’d be easier for Fozzy to try to slap his hand. The guy didn’t need the beer he’d come in here to buy; he already walked with a lurch, thanks to that stupid-assed way his dad had laid down that bike. Mark thought it had been a waste of a good bike. And a damn stupid way to try to off yourself.

“Doooood,” Fozzy crowed back, stopping in front of the counter and making sure he was anchored before going off-balance for the hand slap. “How’s it hangin?”

Mark adjusted the waistband of his jeans. “Loose, man. Got some good air flow happening today.”
He nodded, trying to look like he had it all going on. Fozzy couldn’t deal if a guy started telling him how his girl had walked out the other night, how blue his balls were, or how sucky his pay at this pissant job.

He looked past Fozzy, who was nodding and looking for all the world like he was trying to figure out what to say next. She was there again. The little girl with the dirty brown hair and the too-small t-shirt and those long, skinny legs. She must’ve been about seven. And she was always alone.

“Hey, little girl,” he said, gesturing to her. He eyed the security screens he’d made Hans put in when the beer had been cleaned out the third time, right under their noses. He wasn’t supposed to leave the counter, no matter why. But it was just him, Fozzy, and the girl in the store.

He knew what the girl was up to. He didn’t know how she pulled it off, not with that tight t-shirt and those shorts that had once been knee-length. But she managed to walk out of the convenience store every few days with something pretty significant. A loaf of bread. Peanut butter. Paper towels.

She looked over her shoulder at Mark and Fozzy, her eyes wide, her mouth open a bit. Mark figured she’d grow up to be a looker. If she got a chance to grow up.

“Man, isn’t she a little young?” Fozzy asked, leaning close so he could speak softly.

Mark pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly. The little girl turned back to the shelf.
She was eyeing the Cheetos.

He had Cheetos in the lunch box he’d filled before his shift started. The only way to get through some of these shifts at this shitty job was to eat. Otherwise, you’d fall asleep, or do something dumb like take some funny money, or give someone change for a twenty when they handed you a five. Of course, they’d never fess up. They always got that same smile, like they had a secret, and they’d fold up the cash and slide it into a pocket, even when they still had their wallet in their hand.

“You hungry?” he asked the little girl.

She looked at him again, her big eyes bigger. She bit her lower lip and nodded slowly.

Fozzy shifted his weight and scuffed his feet. Then he started rubbing at his arms.

Mark understood. Hungry little kids weren’t supposed to happen. Not where they lived, even though where they lived wasn’t exactly Hollywood or some other place where the rich people flocked.
But here she was. A couple of times a week.

Fozzy took off for the cooler the beer was in. Mark hadn’t expected him to stay as long as he had.

“You can’t keep coming in here and taking food, you know. My boss makes me pay for it.”

She didn’t answer. She just kept staring, half-turned like a spring that was all wound up and waiting for the release, so she could shoot across the room.

Fozzy paused, the door to the cooler propped against his bad shoulder.

No one moved for the longest minute, then Fozzy closed the cooler. “For real?”

Mark nodded. “Anything comes up short on my watch, I have to pay for.”

“How do they know?”

He shrugged. “They do. Somehow.”

Fozzy looked at the little girl and then at Mark. He frowned.

Mark wanted to groan. This was probably part of her act. Make ’em pity you and they’ll cough up the cash. She’d probably deliver it to her old man and he’d spend it on booze while she went hungry…

Fozzy left the store without his beer. The little girl followed. Mark let his eyes linger on the shelves.
Everything seemed to be there.

Except his self-respect.

.
Be sure to stop by the Weekend Writer’s Retreat for other great fiction being posted online!

Welcome to you who are stopping in to celebrate National Poetry Month with Serena at Savvy Verse and Wit. Since many of you are first-timers here at The Meet and Greet, let me tell you a bit about what’s going on.

I’m Susan Helene Gottfried, author of a couple of books that you might like, and — more importantly today — the creator of a fictional poet who hangs out on these blog pages. We call him RP, or Roadie Poet — yes, he’s a member of a rock band’s road crew (thus, the roadie part of his name) who happens to report his adventures in free verse. Here’s his latest adventure.

Pettr the sound guy
walked up to me.
Asked how I was
celebrating.

I stared at him.
Birthday’s not yet.
Tour’s not ending.
Nothing to celebrate
with me
and More.
We’re still feeling each other out
Just dating.

“National poetry month,”
Pettr said.
“Seeing as you write poetry
and all.”

I told him
I don’t
write
poetry.

I tell stories.

He nodded.
Like he didn’t believe me.
Clapped me on the shoulder
And walked away.

I wanted to go after him
Show him what I write.
It’s not poetry.
Nothing rhymes.
There’s no rhythm.

Usually.

It’s not poetry.

It’s not.

“All. Came. Me.” Trevor flicked his tongue at the cigarette perched on the corner of his lip. He nodded. “I like that. All Came to Me. All Came with me. Me and my–”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Daniel said, holding a hand out.

Trevor blew a puff of smoke at him. Not that he hadn’t expected either Daniel or Eric to cut him off before he could go into detail.

But he hadn’t expected the Big Idiot to snicker, either. For whatever that was worth.

“The word is alchemy,” Eric said. “It means to use magic to make something insignificant great.”

“And how does that apply to ShapeShifter?” Trevor asked, drawing himself up. “There is nothing insignificant about us.”

“Not as a whole, no. But individually, before we formed the band, we were.”

Trevor snorted and turned his back on Eric. Mitchell growled softly at him, but ask Trevor if he cared. He didn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. This was stupid.

Daniel took over. “It’s the music that’s the magic.”

Trevor wasn’t going to argue that point. To be successful, any band had to have a little bit of magic. Like those old tales of bands who sold their souls to the Devil. Not that he would have; he hadn’t needed to. Besides, he’d grown up in Hell and if the real place was worse, thankyouverymuch but no. He could do without it.

“Alchemy,” Daniel said, his perfect curls bobbing with the rest of the head they were attached to. “It fits.”

Trevor slid his eyes to the side of their sockets. “Insignificant?” he sneered. “You’re willing to let millions of people know you think you used to be insignificant?”

“What we mean here,” Mitchell said, leaning forward and putting a hand on Trevor’s shoulder blade, “is the band is greater than the sum of its parts.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Trevor snapped, although he knew. The Big Idiot was trying to keep him from claiming Eric was telling him he was nothing more than a fleck on the Earth, a flea that someone would wave one of those gross white dog collars at to scare off.

In other words: the truth.

Trevor flicked his cigarette to the ground and smeared the toe of his boot across it. He made an arc of the unsmoked tobacco on the driveway.

Mitchell sighed. “Let’s stick with the Freaks of Evolution idea. Dans, go find some kids, hand ’em guitars, and let them call themselves Alchemy.”

“It’s a good band name,” Daniel agreed. “Maybe better than a record title.”

“Maybe.” Eric sounded, to Trevor, uncertain. Trevor waited for another warning growl from Mitchell, but none came.

Something insignificant made great, Trevor thought, reaching for a new cigarette. He looked at Mitchell. Now there was something that had been insignificant and, thanks to Trevor himself, made great. Maybe Mitchell ought to change his name.

‘Cause there was no fucking way in Hell Trevor was going to.

**
I feel like I rediscovered my writing mojo with this Sunday Scribblings. The bad news? This is the last outtake that’ll go into Demo Tapes: Year 4. At this point, I doubt there will be a Year 5; there are so many other characters I want to bring you. Still, when I started this whole thing, I never envisioned a Demo Tapes 1, let alone the two that are in print — and the two yet to come.

Who knows what the future holds? Maybe there’s some alchemy in it for all of us. Something insignificant made great.

And be sure to check in at the Weekend Writer’s Retreat, too. I’m still getting to know the folk involved there; come join me.

It has become such a burning question that even seemingly innocent Internet sites are now speculating on the topic. While many question the need for this to be a topic of discussion, there seem to be an equal amount who need to find the answer to this glimpse behind the scenes of one of the biggest bands: what’s on ShapeShifter’s catering rider?

Before embarking on the dangerous mission of sneaking into a backstage room prohibited to men wearing certain sticky passes on the fronts of their silk shirts, Kermit Ladd, your intrepid reporter of the day, sought guesses, speculations, and hypotheses from the many ShapeShifter fans littering the landscape. He was mightily entertained and often would chuckle as he set about, discovering the ultimate truth about what ShapeShifter eats.

The adventure began with a knock at a side door of the Great Energy Center, where a black-clothed young man with short hair and a spider tattooed onto his neck allowed access for your secret snoop. Credentials were presented, a business card handed over — and quickly, carelessly deposited on the floor by the guard’s booth with a practiced flick of the fingers — and the sticky pass affixed to the reporter’s shirt despite the presence of the lanyard and a proferred hole-punch to allow for fast attaching.

Luck was on this reporter’s side, as a quick but whispered discussion between the man with the spider tattoo and a burly, bearded man, who also wore a black t-shirt and who held a clipboard, resulted in Mr. Spider escorting yours truly to the last room expectation had thought possible: the catering room.

It’s not much of a room. Not to look at it. Half a dozen round tables are set up, each with a white cloth covering. There are no centerpieces. Eight folding card table chairs are tucked under the lips of the tables, unfolded and ready to hold up the vaunted stars and their most important of guests.
At the back of the room sits two eight-foot rectangular tables. They also wear the white cloths. Anchoring them are seven chafing dishes, lids askew, heating element absent. It must be too early for food, although the far right end of the table holds a bus tray filled with ice. From the table in front of which all reporters seem to be placed — as there are two others sharing space with yours truly — nothing can be discerned. Getting up seems to be against the rules of etiquette.

When the band members reveal their determination to keep the press waiting, your intrepid reporter decides to break those unspoken rules. Perhaps the rules have been broken already, when a sticky pass was affixed to the front of a silk shirt.

The food, a gentle inquiry reveals, will come later. Some pasta, two broiled fillets of fish. Hamburgs will be brought directly in from the caterer’s grill and placed directly on the band member’s plates; no warming tray needed. Broccoli and cauliflower will be steamed and some seasoned zucchini will be stirred in. A rice dish will also be added, for variety. Dessert will be served after the show.

At this point, the caterer smiled like she was about to share a big secret. Kermit Ladd leaned in to hear what she had to say. Big secrets are why intrepid reporters prepare themselves to sneak into catering rooms.

“They love ice cream sandwiches right as they get into the dressing room. I stand right outside their dressing room door and hand them over as they walk past.”

Any other secrets?

“Serving key lime pie will get you fired.”

While this hasn’t been the most revealing investigative reporting ever done by this particular intrepid reporter, the most ardent ShapeShifter fans ought to be pleased with a hard day’s work.
Perhaps best was the discovery that the dry cleaner could save Kermit’s favorite tan shirt. It shall live to go backstage another day.

**
Not only did I link to this week’s Sunday Scribblings above, but I found a new place to link up your fiction, too. It’s called Weekend Writer’s Retreat. I have high hopes for the future of this new meme. Come join us!

Mitchell was supposed to be out of the room. He was supposed to be off doing interviews and making nice to the press. That meant Trevor had a private spot to bring this blonde back to. He was in a private sort of mood.

Or he thought he had a private spot until, blonde under one arm and hotel room key in the other hand, the noise of Mitchell’s thundering stopped them. From the sound of the big idiot, he had a full head of steam on. Hardly a time to bring a girl into the room.

The blonde shrank under Trevor’s arm. Not that Trevor blamed her; Mitchell had shifted shape into the dragon, and no one with sense wanted to be near him when he got like that. Not even Trevor.

“Did you fucking hear me?” Mitchell snarled at whoever he was talking to.

Trevor turned his blonde so she faced him. He kissed her forehead. “Go wait for me in the bar. I’ll detonate the asshole here.”

There was something almost relieved in her nod. Trevor told himself to take a better look at her so he’d recognize her again — soft nose, blue shirt, black heeled boots. Girls got pissy when you forgot who they were and wound up with someone else. You heard about it later on, and that was the sort of shit Trevor didn’t need. Ever.

Neither was this scene with Mitchell, but what the fuck. It wasn’t like he had much choice.

He dawdled, watching his blonde speedwalk toward the elevator. If Mitchell had permanently fucked this up for him, he thought, the asshole was going to spend an awful lot of time in the near future dealing with whatever had him so royally pissed.

He took a deep breath and pushed into the room. Acting casual and uncaring took some effort in the face of the tornado.

Mitchell was a tornado, all right. Pacing around the room, raking a hand through his hair, so red in the face, you’d think he was covered in the stripped-off paint from some barn.

“I don’t fucking care,” he snarled some more. “No more college twits.” He spoke each word slowly, precisely. His pissiness came off him in waves. They hit Trevor square in the face, making him want to blink it away.

“JR,” Mitchell said as Trevor flopped onto one of the two double beds in their shared hotel room, landing on his elbows and crossing his motorcycle boots at the ankle. It was his best approximation of Mitchell Cool.

Mitchell didn’t even fucking notice. “Stop fucking talking long enough to fucking listen to me, will you? I don’t give a shit how important promoting the band is. Answering questions about what sort of pasta I’d be, or what I’m fluent in, or any of that other wanna-be intellectual shit is not going to keep up. Got it?”

Trevor frowned and rolled onto his left elbow, freeing up his right hand so he could grab a cigarette. He didn’t blame the big idiot. Not this time, anyway.

What sort of pasta would he be? Oh, shit, that was a loaded question.

With another snarl and a growl that made the hair on the back of Trevor’s neck stand up, Mitchell slammed the phone down. “Fucking A!”

“I don’t think her name started with an A,” Trevor said as blandly as he could. “But,” he said and perched the cigarette on the corner of his lip, “I didn’t exactly get the time to find out, ifyouknowwhatImean.”

Mitchell stared at him, mouth slightly slack. After a long second, his lips started to work, but it was like all the sound had disappeared with the end of the phone call.

“So,” Trevor said, trying to stay cool even as he bunched up his muscles and got ready to dive for the floor, “what are you fluent in?”

“Rock and roll, fuckhead,” Mitchell said, slightly calmer somehow. The return of his voice must’ve brought some peace with it.

Trevor nodded, not sure if he was relieved Mitchell wasn’t getting violent on his ass. “Good answer.”

“I thought so.”

“I was going to be fluent in a blonde until I found your hairy ass here.”

“Oh,” Mitchell said and sat on the edge of the other bed as if his legs had just given out from under him. “Well, go get her, then. I’ve got to go deal with another fucking college kid. One question about pasta and I’m fucking history.”

“You’re not fluent in pasta?”

“No fucking way,” Mitchell said. He actually cracked a smile. “I’m fluent in rock and roll, remember?”

“There’s hope for you yet,” Trevor said and got off the bed, hoping he’d shortly be fluent in a blonde in a blue shirt.

Hmm. I think I’ll have to wait for Demo Tapes: Year 4 to make this really zing. As it is, today’s Monday and I wrote this for this week’s SUNDAY scribbling prompt. Guess that’s your incentive to keep supporting the Demo Tapes project, huh?

Now, Chelle here’s all about dreamin’ big. How else do you think a girl like me got this here job at this here Trumpet? You think they hire any old fattie who don’t even own a pen?

Yeah, that’s right. Chelle dreamed big and found a way to make it happen. And now she writes these here columns, and the Trumpet makes sure them columns get into the paper so you can spend your precious money just to read what Chelle’s gotta say.

Chelle’s got a doozy for you today, boys and girls. Seems those goofs over in Europe are at it again. I swear, have you ever seen a crazier bunch of music lovers than the Europeans? They put us over here to shame. To shame. Ya hear Chelle on this one? We gotta do better. We just do.

But we ain’t gotta do it this way. Nope. Know why? ‘Cause this latest one makes them music fans over in Europe sound like they off their rockers. Maybe they are. Chelle here’s gonna let you all decide.

Seems there’s a couple-a groups now who think the best way to show their metal sides is to make heavy metal a religion. A real religion. One recognized by governments and all that.

Now, you and me, we know that metal’s already a religion. There’s rules you gotta follow or you don’t fit in. There’s dogma that makes no sense, like why jerks gotta kick the cool outta mosh pits. There’s guilt if you don’t follow them pit rules, even that stupid one that lets the jerks run the joint. I heard talk of makin’ a sacred text, full of … song lyrics, maybe. I s’pose if the Psalms fillin’ up the Bible at the church Chelle used to go to is poetry, so’s song lyrics. Wasn’t them Psalms songs once upon a time?

What Chelle don’t see there bein’ is a sacred being in this new religion of ours. Who’s it gonna be? My honey Mitchell Voss? The old-school but still rockin’ Sammy Spencer? Maybe the very dead Soul Bendorff? And what sort of teachin’ is this sacred being gonna spread? And how’s we all supposed to follow one person, when metal’s so big already? Them death heads ain’t gonna wanna follow someone like my honey. And that cutie of Chelle’s would laugh at some of them black metal types. In their faces laugh. Chelle knows. She’s seen him do it.

Chelle here ain’t the brightest bulb. She knows that. She cool with it. That don’t mean she can’t see issues with this here idea.

You heard it first and you heard it here: Metal’s way too personal to ever fill a bunch of pews and make people sit all proper like. Metal’s for rockin’.

So go rock on and leave the religion for the rest of ’em.

***
Be sure to see what other people are Sunday Scribblings about. This week’s prompt was Big Dream.

It took some planning
but I got a Valentine’s Day present
For More.

A new Sharpie.
A beaded lanyard she’ll dig.
And a
bag
of
pretzels.

I taped the Sharpie
onto the lanyard for her.
Gave it to her that way.

She looked it over.
Said it was cool.

Looked sorta sad.

I handed over the bag
of
pretzels.

She squealed and hugged
.
.
.
.
.
.
the pretzels.

Then
she hugged me.

And
the
pretzels.

Okay, I thought.
I’d hoped for better.
but it seems

I’ve lost my girl
to a bag
of
pretzels.

“Here’s some mail and some messages that arrived for you, Mr. Vreyman,” the woman at the hotel counter said, handing over a pile that had to be at least two inches thick.

Mitchell tried not to groan at the sight of it. As he swiped the key card off the counter, he turned away and started reading the top page, a fax from JR.

“Oh, and a package!” the counter woman said, freezing Mitchell mid-stride.

Before he could react, Charlie lunged for it. “I’ll take that,” he said, snatching it away before Mitchell could see it. “Expecting anything?” The tour manager said.

Mitchell tried to read the label on it. “Just let me look for a second.”

“Sorry. If you’re not expecting it…”

Mitchell growled. So fucking what if this was JR’s new safety rule? It was entirely possible that Amy or Ma had sent this and forgotten to tell him to expect it. And if Kerri had sent it to surprise him, she’d have sent it directly to Charlie. His hotel sign-in name made her giggle. He kind of liked it: E. Vreyman.

Best of all, none of the band’s fans had figured it out.

Charlie wound up in the elevator with him, but Mitchell began sorting through the shit that had been waiting for him. All band business: from JR, their manager, from the record label, from the publicists. It was probably going to mean the rest of the day spent with Daniel, who was probably already in his room, making his own sense of the same exact shit.

He’d been in his room for three minutes when Charlie knocked at the door and handed the box to him. Didn’t even come in the room, just stuck his arm in and said, “My mistake. This was expected.”

Mitchell grunted at him, knowing the guy would freak if he heard anything more, and closed the door. The box wasn’t big; it sat right on his palm. It hung over the sides but didn’t make it to the tips of his fingers. It was a perfect cube.

Mitchell smiled at it. Only Kerri would find this sort of box.

He shoved the papers aside and sat on the edge of the bed to open the box and see what she’d sent.

It made no sense. She’d sent him a bottle opener.

He lifted it out of the packing peanuts and stared at it. It sat on his palm the same way the box had, only it was smaller. Seemed to weigh more now that it’d been freed from its package.

A bottle opener.

He didn’t get it. He rarely drank beer that still had the tops on when it was handed to him — and that assumed it was even still in the bottle. He hadn’t gotten used to the way people fell over themselves to open a stupid bottle of beer for him. Like he was incapable now that the band was big.

It made as much sense as the bottle opener.

Except, suddenly, the bottle opener made perfect sense.

Mitchell grinned. He couldn’t help it.

He stretched out on the bed, pulled a pillow out from under the ugly comforter, and got lost in the plans of what exactly they were going to do to each other when she showed up in a day or two.

When the knock sounded on the door, he laughed. He hadn’t realized he’d been expecting it. Or the gorgeous redhead who was on the other side, holding a stack of extra towels and a bottle of schnapps.

***
Lots more Sunday Scribblings for you, and lots of messages inside those scribblings. Go knock yourself out.

Now, Chelle here got a toughie for you, so don’t come back and complain when you hear somethin’ you didn’t wanna. Anyone remember Gene McLean, the dude who made them horrid death metal growls for Forbidden Hope that gave Chelle here nightmares?

Yeah, yeah. We all heard of Forbidden Hope, especially us who ruled the scene in the nineties. We heard about how they broke up in ’98 and how Pluck Remy went on to make that Fermented band happen and get so huge and all. But what none of us heard about was what happened to ol’ Gene. Gene McLean, the meanest dude with the rhymin’ name.

Turns out, no one knows what happened to our boy. That child went and vanished on us as if he’d been spirited away by some underworld demon come to get his voice back. Probably was.

Two months ago, word got out. Pluck went and did what no one thought could ever happen. He dissolved Fermented. Just … up and said to all them members of that hard-workin’ band to go and find themselves new gigs. Told ’em all it’d been fun but there was a door they all gotta walk through and hope it don’t hit ’em on them hineys.

Next thing, we be gettin’ word that Pluck’s found Gene. Brought him back into the fold or whatever it is those two had goin’ on. They be bringin’ back Forbidden Hope and there’s death metal heads all over the place havin’ all sorts of unmentionable sorts-a dreams over this news.

Ever seen a happy death metal head? That is some scary stuff right there, boys and girls. But that’s how you all was. Comin’ up to Chelle at shows and tellin’ her all about how great it was gonna be. Forbidden Hope. Back together. Rulin’ the world the way they should have back in the day.

Now, this is the bad part. Chelle here’s gotta break your hearts.

Word came down tonight that Gene McLean got down with the business end of a shotgun. No one knows why. Word came down from Pluck hisself, along with the request that we not bug the Pluck man for a bit. He be needin’ to grieve.

Chelle don’t blame him. Around these parts, there’s people wonderin’ if bein’ saddled with a girl’s name gone and done Gene in at last. Wonderin’ if the magic between him and Pluck couldn’t hold up over the years. There’s a million reasons why Gene coulda gone and done this.

Chelle ain’t sure why someone would up and off themselves like that. All she knows for sure is that it’s stupid. No matter who you are, there’s people who love you. Or like you. Or need you.

Or all of the above.

You hear me? No matter how bad it gets, when you face that demon who’s gonna take it all away from you, say no. Look for that angel who’s never near enough when you think you need her the most.

That’s the one you wanna say yes to.

You heard it first and you heard it here: Say yes to livin’. Without you, who’s gonna be readin’ Chelle’s columns?

***
This Sunday Scribblings came together because of the real-life story of Joe Ptacek, the singer for a nineties death metal band called Broken Hope. He was 37. I was never a fan of the band, but that doesn’t really matter. His story’s a tragedy.

Before we get to the Roadie Poet, let me point you to one Alex Skolnick. He’s the guitar player for Testament, a band near-and-dear to my heart (among other gigs he does/did). He’s waxing poetic about roadies, himself.

Now, on to the Poet , himself:

Been hearing the production manager talk.
“New leaf coming,” he keeps saying.
He’s nervous.
Pressure must be on.

We’re all clueless.
Like it that way.
Let Stew worry about his shit.
We’ll deal with ours.

We’re grunts,
nothing more.
Like it that way.

Can’t help but notice
the band
avoids one spot on the stage.

We now gaff it out
so they don’t forget
and walk across.

We don’t know why.
Don’t care, either.
We got our jobs.
It’s all we want.
Like it this way.

Until the day
Stew comes around.
“New leaf is here!”

And we’re all sucked in
as we help
replace
part of
the stage.

We do
Not
Like it this way.

Ahh, another Sunday Scribblings. Sometimes, I fear I can’t write a thing without it anymore.

If you missed the lead-in to this, clickie here. You won’t be sorry. Then come back and read on; it’ll make more sense.

Mitchell was the only one not into it.

Daniel was all about his new sticks. Signature models, in fact, although Mitchell didn’t really get how a piece of wood could be something special. Oh, he’d played drums often enough to know that sticks felt different and could be different weights.

But a signature style? It seemed extreme, even if the whole reason was marketing shit. Dans and the band got money to put his name on the sticks. People bought the sticks, wanting to sound like Daniel. Everyone won.

Slightly less stupid was Eric’s new amp. Actually, it was a lot less stupid. The guy had needed something new for awhile now. The whole band was tired of his whining and his clueless attempts at making changes. Even Chuck, his tech, had started refusing to help. “Call the rep,” Chuck would grunt and walk away as Eric stood there, mouth flapping, probably secretly wishing he was Mitchell and had the balls to fire the guy for not helping.

Mitchell didn’t know who had called the rep. Eric sure hadn’t. Chuck wouldn’t without being told by Eric to do it. It wasn’t his business, so Mitchell hadn’t done it, either to be nice or in a desperate move to shut the guy up already.

The best gift, though, had to be Mitchell’s new guitar. If Eric’s amp was suspcious, the guitar was even more so. The only person who’d known he wanted it was Trevor. The only person.

Mitchell didn’t believe in Santa. Not anymore. Not after Amy and Beth had ruined it for him when he’d been nine.

That meant there was no way Santa had been behind all this. No fucking way in Hell.

Of course the alternative was even more mystifying. There was no way Trevor would have done this. The guy refused to be organized, refused to think beyond the here and now, refused to plan. Pulling this together, here in Portland where they’d gotten stuck by a freak snow, and making it appear…

Trevor was watching them play with their new musical presents. “Pretty good of the Old Fat Man to find us here, huh?” He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded like he was satisfied.

Mitchell eyed him. There was no fucking way Trevor was satisfied. Not with a lump of coal as a present. Something smelled.

“I knew Christmas was the season of miracles,” Eric sighed, brushing at imaginary dirt on the top of his new amp.

“Yep,” Trevor said, picking up his coal and tossing it in the air.

“You got coal,” Mitchell said.

“I’ve never known anyone who got coal before,” Eric said, giving his amp one last lingering pat and coming over to look at Trevor’s gift. “I didn’t think that really happened. Everyone’s got some goodness in them.”

“This has nothing to do with being good or bad,” Trevor said.

Mitchell caught the sly smile and braced himself.

“Then what’s it for?” Daniel asked. He cocked his head, his eyebrows drawn in toward his nose. “And what sort of present is it, anyway? We all got the cool stuff and you got…”

“It’s a good present,” Trevor said. “It’s what I wanted.”

“It’s coal,” Mitchell said.

“Yep,” Trevor said and grinned. He held it up so they could all see it. “Gotta keep the fire lit.”

With a grandiose gesture none of them could misinterpret, Trevor pushed the lump of coal down the front of his pants.

What can I say? I was in a mood last night

’twas the night before Christmas
And all through the land
Not a creature was stirring
Especially
The band.

The socks, they did stink
From being worn all week.
But no one minded;
They were too plied with drink.

Too plastered to care,
Dare, or share
The miracle of Christmas
That was thickening the air.

Good thing, perhaps
For in this place where they crashed,
The chimney had been smashed.

Santa could not come here.
(Santa was relieved)
If he did, he’d tremble in fear

At the snores
And the proof of the girls
The boys called scores.
Because when it comes to our band,
When it rains girls, it pours.

Yet on the band dreamed
Of guitars, drums, and fans;
Their world-conquering plans
And other goals that seemed
Some days
To be made out of sand.

But Santa, the mighty
The clever, the brave,
Found a way down the chimney,
Through the smashed passages so tiny.
Christmas, he did save.

A guitar for Mitchell,
An amp for Eric,
Drumsticks for Daniel
And for Trevor…

A lump of coal.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

ETA: Want to know what the coal’s about? Read on.

“I dare you,” Trevor said, abandoning the sing-song he’d just been using. That song had never failed him before, but then, this was nothing compared to the sort of thing he usually dared Mitchell to do.

Trevor didn’t think Mitchell was aware he lifted one hand to his left ear and played with the earrings there. Yep, Trevor had dared Mitchell into letting him pierce the big idiot’s ear. And smoke pot in the bathroom at school. Fuck, he’d dared Mitchell into starting to smoke in the first fucking place.

And then there was the band he’d dared Mitchell to start, the girls he’d dared Mitchell into fucking…

Really. The big idiot couldn’t do shit without being dared. Ever.

It wasn’t like this one was such a big deal. One day. No guitar.

Crashing that private party at Moon Shadows had been a bigger deal than this was. Shit, they should have been arrested for that one. Underage, walking into a private party full of naked dancers and picking up one beer per hand… It had been a fuck of an entrance. Maybe that’s what had saved them ’cause Mitchell’s precious Voss family connections wouldn’t have.

“No,” Mitchell said. “Dare me all you want. I’m not taking a day off from the guitar. Gus told me not to.”

“Oh. Gus. Like he’s your god or something.”

“He knows what he’s talking about.”

“He’s some washed up shitty musician who managed to play sessions back in the sixties, when anyone with a fucking work ethic would get hired.”

“He’s been around the greats, Trev. He knows. If he says I shouldn’t take a day off unless I can’t help it, I’m not going to.”

“I’ll give you…” Trevor had to stop and think. He usually didn’t have to bribe people; they did shit for him just because he was Trevor and no one could deny the mighty Trevor Wolff.

“No,” Mitchell said again.

“Is that your favorite word or something?” Trevor asked, wrinkling up his nose and cocking his head. It was a risky move; he’d done it in school once and gotten patted on the head by the teacher he pulled it on.

Mitchell didn’t pat dogs on the head, let alone people.

“Yes,” Mitchell said.

Trevor shook his head and turned away. This sucked. Mitchell never said no. Ever. The guy wasn’t capable of it.

Until you brought the guitar into it. Trevor wanted to kick the thing, but knew that Mitchell would drop kick him if he did. And then the big idiot and his guitar would never be parted, like some of that stupid, sappy shit they’d tried to make him read in school.

The big idiot followed him outside for a smoke, but every time Trevor opened his mouth to try from another angle, the guy said, “No” before Trevor could get sound out. It was all too obvious that Trevor had lost this round.

But he’d find a way to win the war. He fucking would.

Yep, another Sunday Scribbling. You’ve met Gus before, too. Sort of. His legend is beginning to grow.

The band had gathered at the practice space as Mitchell had asked. For once, they’d beat him there, which pretty much told them he had a big announcement. He’d never shown up late with anything but a doozy. Mitchell usually didn’t do late.

“So what’s going on?” Eric asked when Mitchell walked through the door, grinning.

“Wolf Whistle’s going to play All Access tomorrow night.”

As Eric laughed with delight and Daniel hooted, Trevor threw his head back and howled.

The band’s official Wolff whistle.

“Everyone’s on board. Grey’s so glad to have us back, he’s got everyone donating their time again. Whatever profit we make, it’ll all go to the charity.”

“It won’t be much,” Daniel said. Eric frowned and nodded. “No jam session ticket sales, no t-shirt sales…”

“Every bit helps,” Eric said. “And maybe it’s more important that we’re making a stand with Wolf Whistle.”

Mitchell bobbed his head. He could always count on the lead guitarist to get where he was coming from, even as Trevor was lifting a lip to sneer at Eric.

Wolf Whistle was the only band in Riverview history who could book a last-minute show and still manage to pack the place. Then again, Wolf Whistle was nothing but a code name for ShapeShifter when they wanted to fuck around. Everyone knew it. Hell, the line was probably already forming.

“What’s door?” Daniel asked.

Mitchell shrugged. “Not even close to what we’ve been charging for tickets the past few years. Like you said, no one gets to pony up to jam with us. We don’t have t-shirts. This isn’t going to bring in big bucks.”

“Then why are we doing it?” Trevor asked.

“Because I’m pissed we’re not doing the usual,” Mitchell said. “We’ve been doing good here and I’m pissed everyone’s come along and ruined it. So we’ll play and let everyone hear about it after the fact and feel like heels.”

“Nothing like a little bit of guilt to make people realize what jerks they’ve been,” Trevor sneered.

“I don’t really mind losing the jam session,” Eric said quietly.

Mitchell nodded. While popular with the fans, the jam sessions were tough. People were everywhere, there wasn’t anytime beforehand to make sure everyone knew what was going on… really, it was all about letting fans pay for a chance at five sloppy minutes onstage with ShapeShifter. But it brought in big money that went directly to the charity, so the band put up with it. It was for kids, after all. For making music.

It all came back to music.

Mitchell frowned and rubbed his chin. He’d have to get with Daniel and probably Eric later on. There had to be a way to turn all the whining into something positive. These people who’d thrown a fit last year hadn’t been upset about not being given a chance to join the benefit. They were pissed at missing some easy promotion.

They’d managed to ruin this year’s fun, for an awful lot of people. Not to mention the schools who depended on the money they donated — last year, it had been a solid five digit donation they’d made. That had bought a lot of trombones. Or paid part of a teacher’s salary, saving him or her from being laid off.

He was more pissed than he was willing to let on. All those pretentious assholes, trying to ruin it for the kids. Who were they to limit a kid and try to stop music from being made? What if that was tomorrow’s star they were trying to limit?

No more, Mitchell resolved. Wolf Whistle would let at least a few of them rise above.

A brave move from the band, perhaps. Yet it’s definitely one that keeps alive the traditional themes of Hanukkah: hope and miracles. Check in at Sunday Scribblings for more acts of bravery. And pick up the Demo Tapes, why don’t you. My dreams of making enough money from my books to be able to donate to charities such as the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation still need your support before they can become a reality.

Now, for three years previous to this one, Chelle here been faithfully tellin’ y’all about what’s going on in Riverview. You know: A city that’s not even ours. But Chelle’s done this, year after year, because those favorite boys of hers in ShapeShifter have been throwin’ themselves a benefit concert. They’ve worked their special ShapeShifter magic and gotten everyone involved to throw in their stuff for free. From the concert hall to the crew to the people who print the tickets, somehow, those cuties have been able to give every single penny to them Music in our Schools charities.

Chelle had even started pricing airfare to get her fat rear up to Riverview. Not that Chelle LaFleur’s ever been on an airplane and probably needs three of them narrow seats just for her fat self.

It won’t be happenin’ this year.

With Hanukkah set to start tonight, Chelle hunted down her favorite ShapeShifter, that deep-voiced Mitchell Voss. You know as well as anyone else that Mitchell’ll give up the goods for Chelle.

“Well, here’s the thing,” he said and sighed. “It got too big, too fast. Last year, with the change to the bigger theater, instead of everyone going, oh, now they can raise more money and let more fans in, it turned into I’m a rock star, too. Why can’t I come? All these stupid accusations went flying around and the next thing I knew, we were the bad guys for trying to make sure that kids can have a school band. We’re talking about those kids who’d think they were cool ’cause they’d play saxophone and it wouldn’t matter they had these faces all full of zits. Nope, they’d be cool ’cause of that sax. Or the trumpet.”

“The oboe is not cool,” bass player Trevor Wolff said into Chelle’s ear. “There has never been a cool oboe player. Not in the history of oboe players. I don’t even know why people play the oboe.”

We won’t repeat what Chelle’s cutie Mitchell said to Trevor. It ain’t fit for print and besides, I wouldn’t do that to you faithful readers of mine. You got delicate ears. Maybe not your mouths so much. I hear you at shows. I do.

Besides, you might not think so high of Mitchell if you’d heard what he’d said to Trevor. And now that he’s cancelled the Musical Hanukkah Celebration this year, that public image is takin’ a hit.

He left me with this, though: “We’re gonna take the year off, regroup, let some of the momentum die out, and then we’ll be back in 2010. The Monday of Hanukkah, we’ll be rocking out with our fans again.”

I’m-a gonna hold him to that. You should, too.

You heard it first and you heard it here: No Musical Hanukkah this year, but it’ll be back next. Go and donate on your own anyway, just in case there is a sexy oboe player out there. Chelle bets Trevor will love her.

I love it when my latest vision matches the Sunday Scribblings prompt.

“Weird.”

Fozzy supposed he should have had something else to say on the matter. After all, he’d woken up to find a fresh drawing sitting on his desk. He’d been drawing a lot since the accident, it was true. Then again, when all a guy could do was lay around and be miserable, drawing at least filled the time. So what if he’d had to learn to draw left-handed? It had been the sort of challenge he’d been up for.

But he didn’t remember drawing this one. It didn’t look like anything he’d been drawing lately. There were no skulls, no demons, no death. No horror, no screaming. No blood, no bones, no gore.

Nope. It was a drawing of a meat cleaver. Handle down, blade pointing to the left. That was it. Nothing more.

That alone was weird. This was the first time Fozzy had ever drawn something he couldn’t remember drawing. Maybe he hadn’t. But if he hadn’t, who had?

And there was no way he would have drawn on last week’s drafting assignment, either. It had taken him three times as long as it should have; he didn’t have that left-hand thing down yet. It had been a kick-ass project, too, one he might have tried making. He’d gotten an A on it, too. Fozzy didn’t get many As on things.

Now it had this weird hatchet thing drawn on it. You couldn’t see the drawing anymore. Just a few arrow ends here and straight lines there. So much for that A he’d earned.

That made two weird things he’d woken up to. Fozzy would have never let himself ruin something he’d worked so hard on. He wanted to get mad and throw things, but what was the point? His drafting assignment would stay ruined. And if he threw shit, something else might break and get ruined, too.

His counselor would tell him he was growing. Changing. Becoming at peace with the world.

His counselor was full of shit. All he was doing was realizing how pointless it was to have nice things, and to care about them when you managed to get your hands on something. It was stupid, all of it. The only thing that mattered in life was getting out of it.

That brought him back to the third weird thing. So he had a drawing he didn’t remember making, of a hatchet or meat cleaver or whatever the hell it was. It had appeared out of nowhere, ruining last week’s drafting homework. At least he’d already been graded on it. One. Two.

Three; the Hatchet was wearing a red Santa’s cap, complete with white fluffy thing at the tip and a white band around the brim.

The Hatchet seemed happy. But somehow, Fozzy knew better. It was like him: biding its time until it could go for the throat and take its revenge on this shitty life that had done this to him.

There is beauty in this world. I know it. I’ve seen it. I’ve held it in my hand and spent days simply staring, drinking it in. I’ve made beauty through my music, music that sounded like an angel’s song and pleased the maker as much as any other angel’s song could.

I was an angel. I made beauty.

And then the adoration started. There was beauty in that, too. Beauty in their faces as they looked at me, worshipping me as they’d worship a real angel. Beauty in their awe, their respect, their need to be around me.

I stopped feeling like an angel and felt like a god, instead.

It came with a price. A bigger price than simply making music had brought. That had been easy. The price was the need to make more music, to sing higher, louder, more and more. To let my guitar say all those things I never could. To forget about food and people and everything but the music.

I had people who took care of me. There was beauty in them, too. Beauty in the way they cared. In the way they did everything so I didn’t have to. “C’mon, Soul, you need a shower,” they’d say, and they’d take the guitar out of my hands.

They were beautiful. I loved them.

They went away, pushed away by the fans. The fans who took my guitar and handed me a bottle. At first, there was beauty there. Beauty in the things I saw, things I’d never see when it was me and the Oracle.

The beauty turned ugly. And here I am, stuck. I set fire to my guitar, to my precious Oracle every night. I can’t bear the noise it makes now, when once it made music. But it comes back, again and again, my Oracle. Looking for more. Looking for me. It wants to sing the songs of angels again.

I try. I try and try. But the song has left me.

And there’s no more beauty in my world.

***
For more beauty, check out this week’s Sunday Scribblings.

Kerri paused, struck by the reverence with which Mitchell reached for the guitar. His hands were soft, cupped, his arms strong. As the Oracle was placed into his hands, they swayed slightly, as if allowing it a harsh meeting with his palms would be an insult.

His manner was probably the same as that of a True Believer who was accepting communion, Kerri figured. She immediately began sketching as Adam’s shutter began snapping.

To Mitchell, there probably wasn’t much difference between this guitar and holy communion. The Oracle had once belonged to Soul Bendorff. The Oracle wasn’t the guitar he’d set on fire at the end of every show. Hell, the Oracle hadn’t been allowed on the road. It had been the original prototype for the Soul Bendorff model. It had been Soul’s guitar, the one he’d bent sounds with and broken barriers with.

And now Mitchell held in it his hands, thanks to a private audience with a rock-and-roll memorabilia collector named Jeff. He’d first claimed to be a ShapeShifter fan, but a few sneaky questions had proved that the guy was mostly interested in the publicity the photo op would bring him.

Mitchell carefully set the Oracle on his leg, his hands instinctively finding their spots: one ready to strum, the other to chord.

“Here,” the collector, Jeff said, jumping forward to plug the guitar’s power cord into the solid-wood body. He fiddled with the knobs for Mitchell, who lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. Then, when Jeff stepped away, Mitchell began to play.

Kerri had still been sketching as all that took place, but as Mitchell’s notes turned from tentative to assertive, as he began playing first an old Soul Bendorff classic and then his own song: Behold Me, she got as caught up in the music as Mitchell. She didn’t get lost in it as often as Mitchell did, but right then, she was entranced.

At the end of Behold Me, Mitchell grimaced and shook his head. “I ought to give this back. I don’t want to abuse it.”

“I think it needs to be yours,” Jeff breathed. He wasn’t much older than they were; maybe a year. Maybe. He’d gotten his MBA and ran his father’s development company out here in Omaha. A company that bought foreclosed farmland and built towns on it. Kerri knew how Mitchell felt on the subject, how he’d have ordinarily refused this sort of connection. Too many ShapeShifter fans had been thrown off their land — but just as many had benefitted from the towns that had been built.

But this was the Oracle. It had once been Soul Bendorff’s. And guitar players like Mitchell Voss owed a lot to Soul Bendorff.

“Really, man,” Jeff said. There was more heart to his voice; wherever the music had taken him, he was coming back from it. “This guitar… it needs something. You can feel it, you know? Maybe what it needs is you.”

Mitchell ran his hands over the side of the body facing up. He didn’t say anything.

Kerri realized she was holding her breath.

“I want to give it to you,” Jeff said.

“Give it to me.” It wasn’t a question. Kerri breathed again.

Jeff held his hands out and backed up a step, as if Mitchell was trying to return the guitar and he was refusing it. “Give it to you. No strings attached. Ha-ha. Strings. Get it?”

Mitchell nodded, frowning. “I get it.” He stood up and set the Oracle gently back into the stand Jeff had taken it from. “I’ll have my lawyer call you.”
“Dude,” Jeff said, suddenly Mitchell’s best friend. “We don’t need to do that. Here. Take it with you.”

“And have you scream about how I stole it? Maybe not today or next week, but a few years down the road when you’re hard up for cash and you think about what you gave up? No. If you want to give this to me, then fine. We do it right. I’ll have my lawyer call.”

He stood up. Kerri and Adam, the photographer, walked out of the room with him.

“Are you sure?” Kerri asked softly as they left.

“Yes,” Mitchell said. “We do it right or we don’t it.”

“You’d kill for that guitar.”

“Yeah,” he said through an exhale. “I would. And that’s the problem.”

Kerri nodded. She understood.