Glass.

If he closed his eyes, that’s what Mitchell visualized. Shards of glass, poking their pointy, broken ends into his throat. His sore, tender throat. The one that needed to be able to sing for two and a half hours.

Last time he’d felt like this, Amy had sent him medicine. It had worked just fine on his throat but fucked with the rest of him. Not in a good way for a guy on the road. Eric hadn’t minded the extended guitar solos the first two nights, but when it dragged on for eight, not to mention how it’d slowed down their travel with Mitchell’s constant need to stop, even the guitarist, the most tolerant of all of them, had had enough.

As if Mitchell hadn’t. After all, it was his body the medicine had fucked up.

He wasn’t calling Amy so fast. Not if she was going to do that to him again.

Still, he had two interviews to give before the show later that night. Sucking on lollipops helped a bit, but not for very long, and it was hard to talk with a sucker in your mouth. That wouldn’t work with the press, even if most of them were dicks. It wouldn’t wash later, during the show, although it might be fun to flick a sucker from your mouth into the crowd, just to see what would happen.

Probably fall in that safety zone between the fans and the stage.

“Dans? Where’s the honey?”

The drummer crossed the room; he’d been primping for an interview of his own and the dressing room felt empty with just the two of them in it. Eric would show in another hour, to give some face time himself, and Trevor would appear… whenever King Trevor felt like it.

“Right there, by your right hand,” Daniel said, surveying the catering table set up in their dressing room.

Mitchell figured that was how it went. He was busy looking at the set-up for the tea, the bags and the sugar and the powdered flavored creamers for coffee, the real milk in the ice tubs with the beer and Gatorade. The honey was… there with the ketchup and shit. Made perfect sense.

It was one of those honey bears. They were fun to fuck around with; Daniel was constantly coming up with new things to do with the stupid things. Mitchell picked this one up, turned it ass-up, and poured a dollop of honey directly onto his tongue.

“Slick,” Daniel said.

Mitchell swallowed and shrugged. And then he closed his eyes and swallowed again. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better.

He set the bear down — near the tea and coffee shit this time — and eyed the back of its head. That same spot he liked to whack Trevor in. He swallowed again, and gave the bear an affectionate pat.

It may have been an old wives’ tale that honey soothed a sore throat, but those old wives sure knew a thing or two.

Whoever the fuck the old wives were.

“Mitchell, ready?” Charlie asked, sticking his head in the dressing room. “I’ve got one reporter on the hook for you, and a quiet spot for you to inflict the torture.”

Mitchell turned to go, then stopped. He twisted and picked up the bear. It could come with him. Maybe he’d have some fun with it and the reporter.

Maybe the reporter would know who the old wives really were.

Honey on glass. He’d take it.

“Springer,” Trinity said, biting back a sob.

He looked up from shelving tissues. “Trinity. Haven’t seen you in awhile.”

“I’m a shit, I know,” she said, staring up at the ceiling. She blinked fast a bunch of times and took some deep breaths that made her chest move in big motions.

It was all Springer could to to keep from staring at her tits. Trinity had great tits. Most girls did, come to think of it.

“I need help, Springer. I’m in trouble.”

He paused, looking at her face. Her green eyes were dark. They almost matched the purple under them, stretching from one end of her eyelashes to the other. She chewed her upper lip, something he’d never seen her do before. Not that he’d spent that much time with her. Not nearly as much as he’d wanted to.

“Trouble?” he repeated, feeling stupid.

“Yeah,” she said. “Trouble.” Her eyes slid down until it was impossible for him to miss her meaning. Her belly.

“We’re not talking about something like your appendix, are we?” he asked weakly. He put a hand on the stock cart to steady himself. Stupid thing was on wheels and almost pulled him off his feet as it slipped away, like it was trying to escape this conversation.

It was a good distraction. Regaining his balance helped Springer think again.

“No,” she was saying. “It’s what you think.”

“Well, it’s not mine!”

She smiled. A little bit. Maybe it was funny to her, but Springer couldn’t figure out why else she’d picked him to come to.

“Would you… could you…” She stared up at the ceiling. Springer noticed a faint ring of dirt around her neck.

“How long since you been home?” he asked her.

She looked at him, her eyes flashing like he’d told someone else her secret.

“This is bad,” he said.

She nodded slowly, chewing her upper lip again.

“You can’t go to anyone else?”

She shook her head, teeth still pulling at her lip.

“The dad?”

She shuddered. At least she let go of her lip.

Springer held his arms open and let her fall into his hugs. For a second there, it felt the way he’d been hoping it would: like he was in the arms of an angel. But then he reminded himself that he was the one doing the holding, and she had a huge mess that it was up to him to fix.

Of course, he didn’t have the first idea how.

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is Adventure, and Springer’s sure about to embark on one. Carry on Tuesday‘s found its way in here, too. And that’s all. For now.

“Shame it had to end like this,” Kerri said, looking out at the quiet beyond the stage. Usually, this sort of quiet was reserved for late, after the band had showered and was getting ready to move on to the next town.

Mitchell grunted agreement and squeezed her hand.

“Dumbfucks,” Trevor said, an unlit cigarette dangling off his lip. A breeze blew the scent of scorched sod their way.

“Who?” Kerri asked. “The fans, or Hammerhead?”

Mitchell snorted. “Fucking Howard,” he said. “Get a break like this one and fuck it up. What an idiot.”

“Rub it in,” a voice said behind them. The three turned to look, finding Howard the Hammer standing off to one side. “I didn’t think they’d really do it.”

Mitchell glared at him, a rumble deep in his throat.

“Okay,” Howard said, blowing out a breath. He shook his head quickly, a familiar gesture that utterly failed — as usual — at getting his dark wooly hair out of his eyes. “I sorta wondered what they’d do. But I didn’t think… didn’t believe…”

Mitchell let go of Kerri’s hand and crossed the distance to Howard. He stopped in front of him, chest to chest. “Do you fucking know how much shit you’ve caused here? Who do you think is gonna get charged for resodding this entire fucking lawn?”

“I’ll pay you back,” Howard said, shifting from foot to foot.

“Not good enough,” Mitchell said. “We didn’t even get to fucking play tonight, thanks to you.” He gestured widely, meaning Howard to see, Kerri guessed, the fact that Mitchell should have been wearing skin-tight black jeans and a guitar instead of knee-length baggy camo shorts and a black tank top. “Our manager’s going to have to fucking bend over and grab his ankles for months before we’ll be allowed here again. As for you? You might be done, man. This will follow you around. I bet right now, as soon as you get near that production office, you’re going to be handed a list of shows that’ve been cancelled. Assuming JR hasn’t just decided to pitch you off the tour in the hopes that people will get that this wasn’t my band behind this shit. Because every single news source out there is saying this happened at a ShapeShifter show. That’s what this was. A ShapeShifter show. With special guest, Hammerhead. See how that works?”

Howard winced: face, shoulders, arms. Even his legs bowed with his chagrin.

Kerri itched for a pencil and sketchpad.

Trevor strolled across the empty stage, slowly. He turned to Howard. “I had plans tonight. You fucked me up.”

“I… I’m sorry.”

“This is only the start of being sorry, man,” Mitchell said. “You might have just effed up your career for life. Even if you fold Hammerhead and start another band, you’ll always be the asshole who told a worked-up crowd to set the field on fire.”

“Not to mention the only other person who’s managed to get a ShapeShifter show cancelled,” Trevor called from center stage. “This band doesn’t cancel.”

“I’m in good company?” Howard offered weakly, then bowed his head when he noticed Mitchell’s face. Kerri knew she’d have to get him away from Howard, and fast. Not that she blamed him in the least. It wasn’t supposed to have gone this way. It should have been a routine show, spiced up by whatever Trevor had planned.

Trevor, who suddenly seemed a lot more middle-of-the-road than he could probably stand being. Whose hijinks always had something behind them, some point he was trying to make, a statement he wanted others to get. Trevor pulled his shit deliberately. He’d never encourage twenty-three thousand people to rip up a lawn and set it on fire — if only because they’d be looking at the flames and not him.

Mitchell took her hand again and they crossed the stage to join Trevor. Kerri bent her knees slightly and kissed Trevor on the cheek.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said to her, putting his fingertips over the spot her lips had just touched. There was no wiping off, no screaming about cooties. Kerri made note of that.

Mitchell took a swipe at the back of Trevor’s head. None of his anger at Howard came through. “Come help me fix this mess, will ya?”

Trevor flicked his unlit cigarette off the edge of the stage, into the security area between where the fans should have been and where the band should have been. “I fucking hate cleaning up after dumbfucks,” he muttered.

As they matched Trevor’s speed off the stage, Kerri looked back for one last glance at Howard the Hammer. Head bowed, shoulders sagging, he looked like someone who knew his dreams had gone up in the same flames as the lawn.

It dawned on me that we haven’t seen Chelle around these parts in eons. The music reporter for the (of course fictional) Trumpet newspaper, she’s always got an opinion that may or may not mirror my own. That’s the fun of fiction, after all!

Now, you all know that Chelle here won’t be spreadin’ no rumors to you. Not through this here Trumpet newspaper. That means what I got to say’s important, so listen up.

Boys and girls, we got us a problem here in our city. A darn big problem, one we all gotta come together and chase out of town.

I’m talkin’ about junk. I’m talkin’ about all that garbage, most of it moldin’ up a storm, that’s been sittin’ out on our sidewalks ever since this city started cleanin’ up after them floods. Yeah, THOSE floods. The ones that saw more’n half the city leave and not come back. The one that saw most’ve the rest of us livin’ in trailers. The only reason Chelle’s still in her home is ’cause she’s on the thirteenth floor of a building on one of the city’s only hills.

Which means Chelle looks out over a lot of junk. Wanna know a secret? Junk ain’t pretty.

Once upon a time in this city we all love so much, we had men drive these ugly brown trucks up and down the street. They’d stop beside every single driveway, or pull into the driveways of the millions of apartments this city used to have. Two men would pop outta those trucks and they’d haul all our junk away. Who knew where, and who cared. The simple point was that our stuff went away.

Now, these days, it sits on the curbs. Some streets’re so cluttered anymore, cars can’t get up and down ’em. And sidewalks? For-get it. If there’s room to walk, the mold on everythin’ll do your lungs in right fast. Who needs the piggy flu when we got mold to take a population down?

That’s why Chelle’s callin’ all her readers to stand up and get busy. Let’s all take November first and clean up. Start with the candy wrappers left from the night before. They won’t mold overnight, Chelle’s hopin’.

Once you got all them, fill a trash bag with some of that there moldy junk in front-a your house. But then don’t wait for some garbage guy who ain’t gonna come. He’s too busy lookin’ for a new job, Chelle hears. Them garbage guys went on strike right before the floods and there ain’t no sign of ’em comin’ back.

So let’s do it ourselves, boys and girls. Pick up one bag of that trash and take it yourself to the dump. Between now and then, Chelle’s gonna find out where that dumpin’ place is, and she’ll let you know.

And come November first, don’t you be surprised if Chelle herself walks up to you and hands you some swag courtesy of some of Chelle’s favorite bands. ‘Cause sometimes, we gotta clean up our city ourselves and show we got some civic pride.

You heard it first and you heard it here: No more junkin’ up our city!

Yep, a Sunday Scribblings for you while I am causing other trouble. Be sure to leave a comment wherever you visit!

Been on the road about three hours now.
Most of us asleep
when it happens.

Crash.
Thud.
Thunk-a Thunk-a
Bang.

Bus sways.
Swerves.
Doesn’t tip.

You can feel people are up
but no one knows what to do
So we stay in our bunks
and wait.

Word comes down:
we’ve got a flat.

Busdriver’s pissed.
He takes care of this thing
like it’s his baby.

Shit happens,
we tell him.
Then duck;
he’s a bit grumpy.

Anyone who didn’t get up yet
Is woken by the still of the bus.

Are we there?
they ask,
rubbing sleep from their
eyes.

No.

Side of the road.
It’s raining.
We wait for help.

It comes.
We’re on our way again.

We’ll be late to load-in.
But at least they’ll all know why.

Something went
Bump
In the night.

If you haven’t met Deadly Metal Hatchet yet, they’re the *other* band around here. Young and hungry, but also incredibly stupid, they’re musically inept but they have a great gimmick. Read on!

“No. I don’t like it. Every single freaking heavy metal band out there has pictures taken in front of a gothic gate like this one,” Scott said.

“Do we have to take pictures?” Fozzy asked.

Scott, Gecko, and Lido turned and glared at their guitarist.

Fozzy wandered off toward the gates. Scott followed, taking in the sight. Heavy dark brick, probably stained with some sort of smog or soot. Maybe it was moss; it didn’t matter. It wasn’t something you’d see at home.

Scott still couldn’t believe the record company had flown them out East just for a stupid photo shoot. They’d claimed the woods behind the gate was the Hatchet’s natural environment. That the sand and brush of the desert had nothing to do with the Hatchet.

Fozzy had tried to explain that the Hatchet was a city dweller, born on a wide asphalt street. No one at the label had cared. They wanted the Hatchet associated with all the usual gothic shit. Iron railings connecting the two tall columns of stone. Yawn.

“How many other bands have taken their group pictures right here?” Scott asked Fozzy, who lit a cigarette and stuffed his lighter into the front pocket of his jeans.

“The Hatchet could like it here,” Fozzy said after a minute. “Lots of hiding places. Lots of victims probably come through here.”

“Yeah,” Scott sniffed. “All our competition.”

“So where do you want to do this photo shoot?” Fozzy asked. He narrowed his eyes like he did when he was expecting something good but stayed ready to brace himself for something less than okay.

Scott turned in a circle, his face tilted up toward the sky as he thought. It was easier to give Fozzy something good than spend the next five hours waiting for him to draw the Hatchet. They had a schedule to keep. This stupid photo shoot. “In a ferris wheel,” he said at last. “A shot from a distance. That’ll go over easier with Mr. camera-shy.” He slid a look at Fozzy, waiting for a reaction. None came. Lido bit back a smile. Gecko lit a cigarette of his own and scuffed at a leaf on the ground. It was damp; it turned his work boot dark brown.

“The Hatchet can be… anywhere,” Scott said. “In a car of its own, digging the ride. Jammed into the electronics and ready to strike the poor suckers stuck at the top. Taking freaking tickets for all I care.”
Fozzy held his cigarette like it was a joint. “That could work.”

“Now we’ve got to get the label to go along with it.”

Fozzy smiled, that ugly, thin smile that was the only one Scott had ever seen. “Let the Hatchet handle that.”

This actually compiles three writing prompts. There’s the Easy Street Prompt from September 25, the Your Photo Story, and this week’s Sunday Scribblings.

Links to more Deadly Metal Hatchet (in order!):
Thursday Thirteen — The Hatchet
Anonymous
Chapeau
Thursday Thirteen — Bits about Deadly Metal Hatchet
Fozzy’s Skateboard
Somewhere
Late Invite?
Fozzy’s Accident

Daniel was trying to get away from Stan the Stud when Val ran over to him. She grabbed his forearm and kissed his cheek. “You’ll never believe what I just found out!”

Stan leaned in. “You’re pregnant?”

Val curled her upper lip and drew away from Stan, closer to Daniel.

“Maybe this isn’t something I want to say in front of jerks.”

“Ouch. Color me wounded,” Stan sneered.

Daniel turned away, not caring if he was rude to Stan. He’d be forgiven; after all, he had something Stan wanted. He had a drum set. And there was nothing more that Stan wanted than a band. Stan and His Studs. They’d wear black leather jackets and jeans and play good old-fashioned rock and roll — which to Stan meant songs like Johnny B. Goode.

It was a good song, but Daniel wanted to rock. His drums were a way to…

“Why aren’t you listening to me now?” Val asked, still holding his arm. She’d planted her other fist on her hip and if Val could look angry, she was there.

She was still pretty cute, though.

Daniel bent his knees to kiss her. “Sorry. What did you find out?”

“There’s these vocational classes I can take. They’ll teach me how to be a chef.”

“A chef? Val, I thought you wanted to …” Daniel paused. What was it she’d wanted to do last week? Zoo keeper? Model? He couldn’t keep up anymore, it changed so fast.

Him, he wanted to play drums.

“But think about it,” she was saying. “If I’m a chef, I can feed hungry people.”

He eyed her.

“I can maybe open a restaurant, one where all the people with too much money go. And I can charge a lot of money and use the extra to fund a food pantry or a soup kitchen, and then people like us. It’d be okay. I’d make it okay. I’d make it so it’s not so bad when we have to go there. But of course we won’t have to go there. We’ll be rich from it, only we’ll actually give back and try to help out and–”

“Val, not here,” Daniel said. He glanced around, hoping no one was listening. It probably wouldn’t be news to anyone, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be something worth talking about. The last thing he wanted was to give anyone a reason to talk about him.

She seemed to understand, taking a step back and looking down. “It’s… It’s not just you, Dans. It’s us, too. My family, I mean. There’s been times and … oh, never mind!” She stamped a foot, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and ran off down the hall.

Daniel watched her go. Actually, he thought a chef was the best idea she’d had so far. When his band got big, she could come work for them as their personal chef. And they’d be together forever.

He liked that last part the best.

Day off yesterday.
Hambone went and got a tattoo.

Flaming road case.
Hard to describe.
It fits;
no one loads or unloads a truck like Ham.

Made me look around.
Most of the crew’s got tats.
Lots of tribals.
Cuffs circling ankles
wrists
upper arms.

Nothing meaningful.
At least,
not the way Ham’s is.

Me,
I don’t need a tat.
Not a physical one.
This life,
the road,
the shows,
the travel,
the food,
the people,
That’s my tattoo.
It’s inside me.
Living
breathing
beating

along with

my heart.

Truth be told, Trevor had better things to do than keep Amy company when she busted Mitchell’s balls. The Vincent needed a tune-up and some time on the road. There were girls out there who needed him. The world to dominate.

Cliches like truth be told aside, Trevor knew better than to believe in Truth, Justice, and the American Way. It was nothing more than some loser’s idealistic dream of the way things ought to be. It had nothing to do with real life.

Still, busting on Mitchell was one of the best ways to eat up some time now that the band was officially on break. For two-months, but a break was a break. After the past year and a half of non-stop touring, two months was paradise.

It was also time he had no fucking idea how to fill.

Good thing Amy brought him, they realized fast. She didn’t have the key to Mitchell’s place. The big idiot had locked her out, probably knowing the master ball-buster was jonesing for some action. The druggie’s kid wouldn’t let them in, even if he could. The kid had long ago decided he was the guardian of the apartment building — and Mitchell’s place, in particular. Which meant no one got past this little twit of a kid unless Mitchell okayed it.

Mitchell usually okayed Trevor. He really must have needed some peace.

There was only one way in: Trevor had to pick the lock. No problem.

Blondie was sitting in front of the TV, eating cold pizza, when the door opened. “Hey, Trev,” he said, “Want so–” He put the pizza down on the coffee table in front of the couch and stood up when he saw Amy. “What the fuck?”

She walked right up to him and did that chin-grab thing she always did. And just like always, Mitchell looked annoyed and batted her hand away. “What do you want?”

“Mom sent me to unpack you. You’ve been home three days, she’s finished with all Trev’s laundry–”

Trevor beamed at Mitchell, for once fine with being Mommy’s Little Pet. The Good One.

The truth was, he’d run out of clean socks. Okay, he’d done that a long time ago, but they’d started to get crusty, he’d worn them so many times. He was afraid to look at his feet, in case something had started growing there.

“So where is it?” Amy was asking when Trevor stopped thinking and wiggling his toes, sighing at the softness of the cotton. He’d never take clean socks for granted again.

Mitchell waved his arm at the bedroom.

“Well, come on,” Amy said.

“Just take the whole fucking thing,” Mitchell said. “You’re going to, anyway.”

“You have clean clothes?” Trevor asked him.

“Enough,” Mitchell said with a shrug.

“Last time,” Amy said, her voice hard. So was the corner of her jaw, the spot where Mitchell would start throbbing when he got pissed. “Last time, you made Mom go through all the magazines and stuff you’d bought before she got to the clothes. She only wants the clothes this time.”

Mitchell shrugged again. Even though Trevor knew it was Mitchell’s default comment when Amy was around, it still pissed him off. He wanted to grab the guitar player and scream, “Speak!” in his face.

Amy seemed every bit as frustrated. Not that Trevor blamed her. So far, no balls had been busted. If anything, Mitchell had the upper hand so far, what with the mystery of the door and now… His eyes grew huge as he followed Amy into Mitchell’s bedroom.

The suitcase sat on the floor beside the dresser, open. Clothes spilled out of it like they had exploded out in their haste to escape the tour-induced funk. And sure enough, peeking out from the jeans and underwear, Trevor could see guitar magazines and all the other shit Mitchell lugged around with him.

Amy sighed, pulled a laundry bag out of Mitchell’s closet, and sat down on the floor to sort through it.

“One dirty black ShapeShifter t-shirt, one dirty black ShapeShifter t-shirt, one dirty black ShapeShifter t-shirt,” she said as she stuffed each thing into the laundry bag.

“See a theme?” Mitchell asked. He grinned like he was proud. Probably was, the big idiot.

Trevor sat down on the edge of Mitchell’s bed and lit a cigarette. Mitchell helped himself to a light and sat down beside his bass player.

“Aren’t you sick of me?” Trevor asked.

Mitchell just shrugged.

Amy had gotten to the socks. She turned to Mitchell. “You know, this thing you have with the color white is scary. Where do you find this many black socks?”

He shrugged again. “Ask Ma.”

Amy shook her head and moved a few magazines into a stack in front of the bottom drawer of Mitchell’s dresser.

It went that way, with Amy saying very little and Mitchell saying even less. Trevor was considering curling up for a nap in Mitchell’s bed when Amy got to the bottom of the suitcase. “Is this really all of it? It doesn’t seem like enough.”

Mitchell, of course, shrugged. Trevor didn’t offer the explanation that girls had helped themselves to most of the Big M’s clothes, wanting their very own precious souvenir of their quick five minutes with the wanna-be stud.

Amy patted a pocket in the side of the inside of the case. It made a strange sound.

Trevor leaned closer. Maybe this would be the thing that saved this whole stupid-assed excursion. So far, it had been a major bust. The Vincent was calling him; he could feel it.

“What’dja find?” he sing-songed.

Amy got up on her knees and pulled at the elastic holding the pocket shut. She peered in, then gasped. “Mitchell!”

“What?”

Trevor had to give the big idiot credit. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. If there was any way of calling Amy’s bluff, he was ready.

“C’mon, Aim,” Trevor said. “Let’s see it.”

“It’s no big deal,” Mitchell said.

Trevor figured it had to be a deal — a very big one. That was the longest sentence the big idiot had said in almost an hour.

Amy reached into the pocket in question and pulled out a handful of hotel room keys. The plastic kind, with the stupid-assed strip that usually worked only one out of three times. Which was about how often Trevor managed to get them in the door the right way.

One at a time, Amy tossed them on the bed.

By the time she’d finished emptying out the pocket, there were over one hundred room keys sitting on the bed.

“I should make you mail these all back,” she said.

Mitchell shrugged — only one shoulder this time. Amy was bitch enough to make him do it, and they all knew it. “They tell you to just throw ’em out,” he said. “They’re no good after you leave. So, I figured, what the fuck. I’ll be old-school. Chi-Check says you can tell a musician’s road doggedness by how many hotel keys he’s got.”

“He meant the actual keys. The metal ones. On those plastic tags. Like the ones they gave us way back when we went to …” Trevor looked at Amy. “Umm. Nevermind.”

She let him off the hook. “Mitchell, you’ve got every flyer from every show you’ve done so far. You’ve got t-shirts with the cities listed on the back. What do you need room keys for?”

“To remember the girls?” Trevor suggested as he lit another cigarette.

Mitchell just shrugged. Which was fine with Trevor; the one thing Amy didn’t need to know was that most of those keys had been his at one point. A few had been Daniel’s. Even fewer were goody-goody Eric’s, who most often stood at the front desk and handed the key into a warm hand.

This was more than a collection showing how road-worthy ShapeShifter was. It was a band bonding thing.

Trevor wondered if maybe he ought to stick up for Mitchell a little bit. But Amy was standing up, Mitchell wasn’t helping with his own dirty laundry, and it was clear the adventure was over.

Somehow, he felt like the only balls that had been busted were his.

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is the key. When we were a the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame last April, I was — as always — struck by the suitcase overflowing with hotel room keys. Put it together and … it’s like a ready-made outtake.

Okay, you need the set-up for this one. I was Twittering with Carrie Lofty and one thing led to another and I promised her I’d have one of my characters speak the penultimate line here. Now, the dude who speaks it isn’t a regular character; he’s just passing through — no matter HOW much you like him. So… I still owe her that. It’ll come around Halloween. Yep, I’m planning early this year. In the meantime, blame ALL this on Carrie. And then go out and buy her book.

Look. I own what’s essentially a porn store. I mean, I sell plenty of other things, like my signature massage oils and candles, and there are days when my wigs and outerwear sell more than the sex toys in the back room. Not many, but they happen. It’s the bath salts and the silk stockings. Once you start using them, you’re hooked forever.

So what I’m trying to say is that I get plenty of shady characters in my store. Over the years, I’ve come to know most of them, if not by name then by sight. Most usually by preference in brand of rubbers. Not all of them are as shady as they look. In fact, the metal heads are usually the ones who’ll turn the shoplifters in.

Having a band like ShapeShifter come from this city’s been good for us in a lot of ways.

Mom and I were alone in the front lounge when he walked in. We didn’t know what to call him other than Robin Hood. I mean, he was wearing green, even down to the tights. He sorta looked like that cartoon version of Robin Hood where Robin was played by a fox. A cartoon fox.

It wasn’t Halloween. It wasn’t a night when the drag queens would be flooding the Rocket Theater. And even if they had been, no one dressed up like Robin Hood. Maid Marion, definitely. I’ve had to order those fancy dresses for some of my regulars.

I slid around the counter and followed Robin Hood into the toy room. Allegra was taking inventory of the movies; talk about shady characters. This one guy had been in last week, wearing a trench coat, of course, and pumping Mom for everything she’d give him about making flicks. It wouldn’t surprise any of us if he’d lifted a few DVDs; we’d found a bunch out of place after he’d left. Nothing had turned up missing that day, but one thing you learn in a business like mine is that these guys like to case the joint and come back later.

I studied Robin himself more than the way he moved through the store — how a person takes my store, with its rooms that get increasingly sexually explicit tells me a lot about the kind of customer I’m dealing with. I was hoping I’d pick up a clue about who he was, but I couldn’t help it. I kept staring at his legs, right above where they disappeared into the green suede ankle boots.

No help there; I rarely if ever see a guy’s legs below the middle of his thighs. If I even seen that much; I’m not really a leg girl.

His ass, his back, his arms, his jawline… nothing. As far as I could tell, this guy had just walked into town.

Allegra looked up at Robin Hood and licked her lips before giving him one of Mom’s special welcome smiles.

Robin looked from Allegra to me and back again. Right then, I knew I was right: he wasn’t from here. Everyone in Riverview knows Allegra and I are twins. We’re as legendary as Mom. Mom made sure of that, and now with the store, the legend continues. Not that I mind so much; if it gets people to come into the store and spend money, I’m all for it.

I didn’t say anything. Neither did Allegra. At this point in our lives, we’re over the whole twin thing.

“Need some help?” Allegra asked.

I leaned against a wall and watched the guy shake his head. He had shaggy red hair, reminding me again of the cartoon Robin Hood. I don’t know why; I haven’t seen the movie in years.

He got busy with our harnesses, pointing to them and waiting for Allegra to take them out of the case. He even tried a few on over his hose, measured the opening with his fingers.

Allegra shot me one of those looks. The WTF look.

I shrugged. By this point, I didn’t think the guy was shady. Just one of the harmless weirdos we get from time to time.

He proved me right when he picked his harness and carried it carefully up to the counter. I followed him again, slipping behind the counter and ringing him up. He paid cash, of course; I do a huge cash business when it comes to the stuff in the toy room.

And then, he finally spoke. He had this amazing English accent and he said, “Thank you. I doth rock out with my cock out.”

Mom and I managed to not laugh until the door had shut behind him and we couldn’t see his cute little green hat anymore.

If you don’t remember Lyric, click on her category over to the right. You’ll be seeing a LOT more of her at some point in the future. What that point is, exactly, I’m not sure. But the pieces are lining up on my hard drive, waiting for the perfect time.

“Roberta! Roberta, where are you?” Daniel yelled as the band dragged into their dressing room.

That had to be, Mitchell thought, one of the truly dumb questions in the world. Ma always said there were no dumb questions, but come on. Daniel knew damn well that Roberta was behind them, handing out the towels and bathrobes as they came off stage.

“She’s not here,” Loren said, peeking around a corner. “She’ll be back in a few. What can I help you with?” A hip appeared around the corner. Nothing more. Just the hip.

Loren wasn’t long for employment by ShapeShifter, Mitchell thought. Not if that hip was some sort of sexual thing.

Daniel plopped down on the couch, pulling the hood off his robe and tossing his towel beside him. He crossed his right foot over his left knee and pulled at a flap of rubber on his shoe.

Mitchell and Trevor peered over the back of the couch at it.

That flap of rubber made up the edges of a hole square over the ball of Daniel’s foot. He’d worn through his favorite pair of stage shoes. Mitchell peered more closely. Sure enough, he could see skin through there.

“Are you fucking crying?” Trevor asked, attention focused on the drummer’s face.

Mitchell shoved Trev so hard, the bass player stumbled a few steps to the side. He bit back the smile; it had been a good line. Daniel did tend to get a little bit too attached to certain things. These stupid shoes were one of them. If they’d been Mitchell’s, they’d have been trashed awhile ago.

“What’s wrong?” Loren asked. This time, they could see all of her. Skinny black jeans. Black t-shirt that clung. Why did they keep hiring these skinny twigs as wardrobe assistant? This one looked more like a boy than a girl. She even wore black Chuck hi-tops and an earring in only one ear. Her dyed-black hair was still short enough to be gelled into spikes on top.

“My shoe,” Daniel said, plucking rhythms out of the raw edge of the rubber.

Mitchell had to give the guy credit for not whining. To Daniel, this was the same sort of tragedy as a bad review — something to sulk about and get cranky over. Only this would last for days. Maybe longer, if the new ones took awhile to break in.

Loren shrugged. “I’ll go out with Roberta tomorrow and get you a new pair. What’s your size?”

“I want the same style.”

The girl held out her hand.

Mitchell gaped at her. Eric audibly gasped. She was actually asking Daniel to take off his shoes? While she was right there, in front of him? She really wasn’t going to be long in this job, but this time it was because what was going to come out with Daniel’s feet was going to kill her. Already, Eric and Trevor were moving off, and Mitchell was straightening up, ready to bolt.

Daniel shrugged and pulled at the laces. Mitchell retreated to his wardrobe case. It was past time for a shower, anyway. Maybe he’d get lucky and be gone when the shoes came off and the funk came out.

No such thing. Holding his breath, he darted for the shower. On the way, he noticed Loren, cradling the shoes to her chest, oblivious.

He froze. Eric did the same thing beside him. They couldn’t help but stare at the girl. She acted like this was some prize she’d been handed. Something precious, like a newborn baby.

Mitchell knew she wasn’t cut out for the roadie life.

“Maybe she’s got no sense of smell,” Eric whispered.

Mitchell nodded agreement. It was better than admitting they’d hired another groupie.

Roberta arrived, her nose squinching up. “Let me guess. Daniel’s shoes are off.”

Loren held them out. “He got a hole. We gotta get a new pair.”

Roberta waved at the offering. “What we need to get is a couple of pairs of the same style, like Mitchell has. Give them time to air out between shows.”

“No!”

“Yes,” Roberta said.

Daniel stood up and turned to face the wardrobe manager. “No,” he said again.

Trevor chuckled and lit a cigarette. “This could be good,” he said.

Mitchell agreed. Daniel didn’t get assertive very often, but when he did, look out. Same for Roberta. Watching these two go at it was going to be worth the delayed shower. Even if his back was starting to itch.

Loren still cradled the shoes to her chest.

“We’ll buy them and set them out the way we do Mitchell’s shoes. What you do from there is up to you,” Roberta said.

Daniel looked at Mitchell. “Is it awful? Can you feel the difference?”

Mitchell shrugged. Like he cared about his shoes when there was so much else to worry about during a show. Was he hitting his marks? Reading the set list right? Controlling the crowd? Playing well and singing better?

Yeah. He had time to freak about his shoes. Uh-huh.

With a heavy sigh, Daniel stood up and unbelted his robe. Eric took that as a sign and moved off. Mitchell turned to follow, but stopped when he noticed Loren.

She was rubbing Daniel’s shoes over the front of her t-shirt, her face screwed up in the pain she hadn’t shown earlier.

“That oughta keep that fucking creep off me,” she muttered and tossed the shoes into the trash. “I gotta fucking job to do. I’m not here for him.”

Mitchell made a mental note to find out what that was about. First, he had to take care of his back. An itch this bad meant it’d break out for sure. And then his guitar strap would rub, making the zits hurt every time he moved, which was pretty fucking often during a show.

Daniel, Mitchell decided, was getting off light if all he had to worry about was his feet.

Yes, this is one of the scenes that Iron Maiden inspired! Don’t ask how or why; I couldn’t even begin to tell you. I will say, however, that there’s more. I’ve been intrigued by Loren and while I don’t think she’ll be a regular around here, we’ll definitely see more of her. In the meantime, as I play with Loren, you should go visit the other people who took up the Sunday Scribblings challenge this week.

Kerri had just gotten comfortable holding up a new section of the wall when she heard the fan say it.

“Admit it, dude. Your voice’s weak.”

She wasn’t the only person to stare, open-mouthed, at the kid. He was Mitchell’s height, but with one of those beefy, burly builds and short dark hair that made him look almost menacing. The ugly tattoos on his arms didn’t help, either. Kerri wasn’t sure, but she thought he actually had a mermaid on the left forearm. Clearly, the guy’s brains had migrated to his muscles.

“Weak?” Mitchell growled. “As in you can tell I’ve been on tour for nine months, or weak as in–”

“As in,” the guy said, nodding. Like this was a happy conversation he was having and he totally wasn’t insulting the singer of ShapeShifter. The notoriously asshole singer of ShapeShifter. The one who’d think nothing of removing the guy’s head from his shoulders.

“What the fuck’s your problem?” the guy next to the rabid fan asked. Kerri looked him over, taking an immediate liking to him: short brown hair the same color as Trevor’s, wire-rimmed glasses that made him look almost nerdy. A black ShapeShifter t-shirt and in his hand, a silver Sharpie that he’d respectfully asked Mitchell to return.

“I think the guy’s got a weak voice.” Rabid fan turned to almost-nerd. “Got a problem with that?”

Mitchell crossed his arms over his chest and looked back at Kerri. He cocked an eyebrow at her, as if to say, “Get a load of this.”

“Yeah,” almost-nerd shot back, taking a step forward.

Tony, the band’s head of security, appeared out of nowhere and hovered over Mitchell’s shoulder. Kerri frowned; he was blocking her view. She wanted to ask him to move but knew he’d go ballistic if she did. He was, after all, only there to make sure Mitchell stayed safe.

“You see,” almost-nerd said. Kerri could see one of his long-fingered hands come up, index finger extended and poking in Rabid fan’s shoulder. “It’s harder than Hell to get a backstage pass to meet this band–”

“You’re telling me?” Rabid fan asked. “Know how long I’ve been waiting for this? To look him in the eye and tell him he’s not the god everyone makes him out to be?”

“Wow,” Mitchell said, stroking his chin. “Thanks a fucking lot.”

Kerri caught the edge behind the friendliness in his voice. She braced herself and noticed that Charlie did as well.

Almost-nerd was shaking his head. “Thousands of real ShapeShifter fans out there and this asshole has to win the backstage pass. Where’s the fucking justice in that?”

Mitchell snorted. “I’ll say.”

Kerri bit her lip; laughing right now would be bad. But Mitchell’s performance was stellar. Almost Trevor-like.

“You know,” Mitchell said in his most innocent way, “maybe we ought to start giving out a quiz to anyone who wants to win a pass. We can weed out the assholes.”

“I am a ShapeShifter fan!” Rabid fan yelped. He took a step toward Mitchell, his own hand held up the way Almost-nerd’s had been, but Tony stepped in the way and pushed the guy’s hand down. Rabid fan didn’t seem to notice. “This band would be so much better with another singer. I’m allowed to be a fan and not like the way certain things get done, you know!”

“Oh?” Mitchell crossed his arms over his chest. “Another singer, huh? Like… say, you?”

“Yeah!”

Kerri didn’t bother to hide her grin. Rabid fan was about to be very sorry.

Mitchell took a step back, bumping into Tony. He tossed a confused look at the security guy as if he hadn’t been aware of him until just then, but didn’t let that stop his fun. He held his hands up and yelled, “Hey!”

The entire hallway they were standing in went still. Even Trevor, Daniel and Eric looked up, startled, as if they were expecting to be told they needed to evacuate immediately. A few crew members stopped walking and stared, questioning looks on their faces.

“This guy thinks he’s a better singer than me,” Mitchell said. “Let’s give him an audition, should we?”

“I’m not warmed up!”

“So? Neither am I,” he said and launched into a few lines of Behold Me. “Shut the fuck up and sing!”

Kerri wanted to laugh at the panic that flashed across the guy’s face. The rest of the fans broke out of their carefully ordered line and began to gather around. More ShapeShifter staff appeared and Kerri helped them form a barrier between fans and the band.

“Well?” Mitchell asked. “We’re waiting, you know. Some of us have shit to do tonight.”

The guy glanced at his audience. Almost-nerd was softly suggesting ShapeShifter song titles that Rabid fan could sing.

“Oh, fuck it!”

“That’s some good singing,” Trevor told him. “I’d hire you over M, any day.” He nodded.

In one of those casual, easy movements that Kerri loved, Mitchell swatted the back of Trevor’s head.

Rabid fan turned red and opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

“Go on,” Mitchell urged. “It’s not like we’re gonna fucking judge your ass or anything.”

Rabid fan opened his mouth again. This time, a small, trembling tenor emerged — straight from the guy’s nose.

People laughed and went back to their spots on the wall, some people trying to slide down a bit so they’d get another shot at chatting with the band. Others called them on it and made them go back to where they’d been. Tony jumped and suggested that he’d be glad to escort anyone back into the venue’s public areas. Ducking his head, Rabid fan took him up on it.

Mitchell winked at Kerri and turned to Almost-nerd. “Thanks for the backup, man. Charlie? Do we have anything we can give this guy? He probably saved that dude’s life.”

“I’m sure we can find something,” the band’s tour manager said as Almost-nerd sputtered a thank you. His face turned red with the shock and pleasure of being singled out.

With things returning to normal, Kerri went back to holding up her wall. Mitchell could sing for her later on; if anyone knew how to best appreciate the Great Mitchell Voss, it was his wife. She’d make sure he forgot all about Rabid Fan — at least until he saw the sketches she was already busily drawing in her mind.

Someone commented that Mitchell and Trevor are their favorite members of ShapeShifter. No wonder, I thought. You guys rarely if ever get time with Eric and Daniel. So here’s something from Daniel’s viewpoint.

It was lucky, Daniel thought, that Val was with them on the road when they got the news. Massive had just gone Platinum. ShapeShifter finally had their first million-seller. Celebrating with your girlfriend rather than some faceless, nameless tits and lips was definitely the way to go.

“Here we go!” Val cried, opening a tin of pate. “We’re the big time now. Gotta party like rock stars!”

Daniel didn’t ask where she’d gotten it. Or the caviar. Or the little squares of cracker-like bready stuff that she said they needed in order to eat it properly. He figured it was some chef’s magic. Some secret knowledge of where to buy it all, even when you were in some city you’d never been to before in your life.

Mitchell leaned over the pate and took a whiff, his nose wrinkling and his face paling. “Uhh, no thanks. I’ll be over here with the strawberries.”

“You are what you eat,” Trevor told him. “Fucking fruit.”

Mitchell picked up a strawberry by its green top. “Dip this baby in some chocolate and girls’ll be all over it. Dip that in chocolate and what’ve you got?”

“Wuss,” Trevor said. “It’s about the image. Who cares how this shit tastes when it means you’ve made it? Would Val have showed up with it if we weren’t a Platinum band? Fuck, no. So shut up about the stupid shit and focus on what it means already.”

Mitchell shrugged and ate another strawberry.

Trevor took a step closer to Val, looking over her shoulder. “So that’s what a fish egg looks like, huh? Are they really as salty as jism is?”

“Trev…” Mitchell growled. He tossed the top of his strawberry at the bass player.

“Hey,” Daniel said, stepping between the two. “Let’s not ruin this with the usual shit, okay? We’re here to celebrate.”

“Where’re the girls?” Trevor asked. “We can’t celebrate without the girls.”

“Charlie’s rounding some up,” Mitchell said. “They’ll get here.”

“We trashing the room?”

“Only if you’re paying for it.”

That meant, Daniel knew, that Trevor wouldn’t even move the chair away from the desk. He wouldn’t even mess up the bedspread until the girls showed up. Once they did, though, forget it. Bedsheets weren’t the only things that would be flying.

Despite the very real threat to his wallet, Trevor was grinning. “Look at this. If we do this for Platinum, what are we gonna do for multi-platinum?”

“More,” Mitchell said and picked up a third strawberry. “Bigger.”

“We’ll give Val a budget,” Daniel said and leaned around from behind her to kiss her cheek.

Eric popped the cork on the first bottle of champagne. “Before the girls get here,” he said. “Just us. We need to drink to our first Platinum album.”

Daniel expected someone to hand the stupid plastic cups around. Instead, Eric held the bottle up in a gesture of a toast, took a swig, and handed it to Val.

Trevor sulked at that move, but he also didn’t take the bottle away from her.

“To Platinum!” Daniel said when it was his turn.

“To Platinum!” Mitchell laughed. “No,” he said, stopping with the bottle touching his lips. “To our first Platinum! All the old shit’s gonna follow, and so is everything we do after this.”

“May the good Lord be willing,” Eric said and dug into the pate. “Am I doing this right?” he asked Val, who beamed and turned to help him out.

And then the girls arrived, led into the room by Charlie, who cracked a smile at the sight of the caviar. He picked up the little spoon Val had produced and shoveled some of the dark eggs onto it — and then right into his mouth.

“Mmm. Man, I love this shit,” he said and started to go for seconds.

Daniel grabbed the spoon away from and immediately had a girl hanging on his wrist, asking him to feed her a taste.

And the party was off, with the food the center of attention, at least to start.

It was official. ShapeShifter. Rock Stars. One and the same.

Behind him, he could hear Eric saying, “Dream on. For dreams are sweet. But the champagne you get when the dreams come true is way better.”

Daniel freed himself from the girls Charlie had rounded up and grabbed Val. Dreams may have been sweet and the champagne better, but having Val there was best.

Not only did this indulge the Sunday Scribblings, but it also works for Carry On Tuesday. Gotta love it. And don’t forget to ride the Poetry Train!

Reader alert: there’s the middle part of the old sex, drugs, and rock and roll happening in the following fiction. If that bugs you, stop reading here. I’ll understand. I’ll think you’re missing out on a really good moment, but I’ll… make fun of you when you can’t see or hear.

There was nothing comfortable about lying on a picnic table. Nothing. Apparently, a guy couldn’t get stoned enough to make a picnic table comfortable.

They were only here because it was a band bonding moment. Trevor and Mitchell had agreed: no matter how much they liked Daniel and Eric, they weren’t going to bring them to their spot on the river. Since Mitchell knew the way into the Park after sundown, this was where they’d come instead. Even if Daniel had wussed out on them. Again.

It was a pretty cool place once it emptied out of screeching little girls and whining and crying babies and their not-so-hot-at-the-moment moms. He’d seen a few bats before they’d smoked much. And Eric had been convinced they’d heard a coyote.

The park was definitely cooler after dark. It had this edge to it, like something deliciously bad lurked in every shadow. And there were lots of shadows. Trevor had wanted to explore them. Mitchell had said no, not this time.

So here they were, three guys on three picnic tables, getting stoned. Whoopee.

Eric mirrored Trevor’s position of flat on his back, knees bent – and the joint held in the air while he examined it. “What is it,” he asked, “about the condition of being human that makes it such a hard state to be in?”

“Everyone else around us sucks,” Trevor said before he could think. But that’s how it was when you were stoned, sometimes. The words slipped out.

Good thing he was here and not at Hank’s. It was bad when words slipped out around Hank.

“No, not everyone,” Eric said slowly, like he was trying to think and talk at the same time. “I’m not an asshole.”

“Yes, you are,” Trevor said and sat up. He had to turn to face Eric, but that was okay. It let him put his feet on the bench. “You’re such an asshole, I don’t know why I let you in my band.”

“Whose band?” Mitchell asked from Trevor’s other side. “And Eric’s not the asshole. You are. Remember? You made me promise to not let anyone in the band who’d take that title away from you.”

Trevor stood up, lunged for the joint Eric was still holding but not smoking, and delivered it to Mitchell’s face. “You need more.”

Mitchell batted him away.

“See?” Trevor said, resuming his seat on his picnic table. “I’m an asshole!”

“Yes, Trevor, but why are you an asshole?” Eric asked. He, too, sat up.

Trevor figured the guy was looking for his stolen joint and didn’t bother to answer. No real need to. Not when he held the remains of the last joint.

“Is it because of your home life?”

“My home life is with the Vosses.” Trevor looked over at Mitchell, who hadn’t gotten off his back yet. That wasn’t like Mitchell. This was the sort of talk he loved to be part of.

“Do they remind you of what it means to be human and not some… some…”

“Eric, let it go,” Mitchell said quietly.

Trevor felt, somehow, the force of Mitchell’s words ramming through him on the way over to Eric.

“So what is it about being human?” Eric asked.

“It’s about me knowing it’s time to split,” Trevor said, jumping off the table. He liked the way it felt, with his hair flopping behind him, his wallet chain jingling, and his boots thunking on the concrete pad in the picnic pavilion.

There was no way to put it in words, let alone words that Eric would understand, but that was what it meant to be human. It was all right there, in the act of jumping off the table.

Maybe Mitchell got it, Trevor thought, because the big blonde was right beside him. “You know you can’t go home without me.”

“You’re just worried your precious ass will get in trouble.”

“I get in more trouble when we’re together.”

Mitchell threw a look over his shoulder at Eric, who was starting to catch the drift. Time to go. “I think it’s part of being human.”

“Yeah, but…” Eric sputtered, then trailed them out of the picnic pavilion without another word.

Feel free to see what other people are scribbling about.

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is toys. I was flummoxed by this prompt, as I’d had my heart set on posting this. And then I realized I could: Kerri and Trevor toy with each other. Is it a stretch? You tell me.

One more thing before we get to the fiction, and that’s the subtext here. There’s a lot being alluded to but not said. How much can you pick up on, including a reference to our latest friend, Soul Bendorff?

Rusty and Mitchell stood side by side, not touching. That fact alone was enough to make Trevor stop and stare at them. Then he noticed what was on the TV.

Jackson Alcott had died. He’d been fifty-four.

Trevor lit a cigarette and came to stand beside Mitchell. He nodded at the TV. “What’s up?”

“They’re saying massive heart attack. I can believe it.”

“Did he sniff too hard?”

Mitchell shrugged. “Mighta swallowed wrong.” He grabbed Trevor’s cigarette and tossed it on the floor. The sound of his stomp broke up the hypnotic chatter from the tube. It also broke the trance Rusty had fallen into.

“He was supposed to do some shows next month.”

Trevor groaned. Rusty couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d tried to be.

“We’re fine,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t say it.

She arched an eyebrow at him.

“You think with Amy hovering over us like some fucking worried mother, we’re not okay? You’re fucking stupid if you think she’s not watching every last move we make.”

“She called me about ten minutes ago. As soon as we get home, she’s sending me to a cardiologist for a stress test,” Mitchell said. He snorted. “Like I need it. Onstage two hours a night. In the pool a couple days a week. I’m in good shape.”

“You smoke,” Trevor pointed out, holding his thumb and index finger to his mouth.

“Not as much as I used to,” Mitchell said. “I used to smoke a lot more than that.”

“Score one for me,” Kerri said.

Mitchell pulled her into his arms.

Trevor fought the need to gag. Of course these two could turn death into something sappy. Of fucking course.

“Oh, honey,” he said in his best fake-woman voice. “I couldn’t live without you.”

“But you won’t need to,” he said, switching over to a male voice. “Even if I die, I’ll be here. With you. Right here.” He put a hand over his heart and raised his head as if he was swooning.

To his surprise, Rusty broke away from Mitchell and kissed his cheek. “Whether or not you mean it, Trev, you will be there. I couldn’t get rid of you if I hired an exterminator.”

“Tried, huh?”

“Everything but,” she said.

He wandered off, not thinking about Jackson Alcott nearly as much as he was thinking about the fact that no matter what happened to him now, Rusty was stuck with him for life.

Alive or dead. He’d never leave her alone. There was something perfectly delicious about that.

Those of you who remember my recent introduction of Soul Bendorff have been wondering just why I felt the need to create him. Here’s your answer. This was inspired by a true story.

Lately, new people been contactin’ Chelle. Seems there’s more goin’ on in the music world that has nothin’ to do with shows and new CDs and all the musical goodness we be used to.

Chelle’s thinkin’ this is some good stuff that’s happenin’, even if it’s got to do with someone Chelle wouldn’ta thunk of. That’s probably good, too. Even Chelle needs her eyes opened every once in awhile.

It’s them schools up in Riverview that’re behind this. The same schools that educated our four favorite boys in ShapeShifter. Seems they’re smart enough to understand that people’re pouring into Riverview right about now, and all because they want to get close to where the latest music revolution began.

Them educators in Riverview know this. They thought they’d praise one of the influences of ShapeShifter. They want to remind their teachers to get off their duffs and open their eyes. Try new things that’ll benefit not just their kids, but every last body in the world.

They put pictures of Soul Bendorff all over the schools. The administration offices, their mission statements, even the stuff to hang in the schools. They want the teachers and the students to think beyond.

That’s a good idea. Chelle thinks everyone oughta think beyond.

Of course, not everyone be seein’ things the way Chelle does. There’s been some people who think that a drunk like Soul Bendorff ain’t the best role model for the kids of Riverview. They been openin’ their mouths and soundin’ off.

The school answered them by sayin’ that Soul was brave enough to be a revolutionary. That if he was a kid today, maybe the way things is right this second, with everyone so uptight about every last thing, Soul woulda turned out different. Maybe sober. Maybe with a minimum wage job and a lot of regrets.

By usin’ Soul as an example, they say, they’re pushin’ kids to be different. To think big and reach for something great. To think about the tragedy that Soul turned into, drinkin’ himself to death and all the way he did. Greatness takes discipline, they say. The school ought to be teachin’ their kids both greatness and discipline.

You heard it first and you heard it here: Them schools in Riverview are aimin’ to be every bit as revolutionary as Soul himself was. Chelle’s so into it, she’s thinkin’ of movin’ out there and goin’ back to high school, herself.

Party on the bus
After the show.

Too many beers
And cookies.

The kind with the
Great
Big
Blob
Of icing
On top.

Beer and cookies
Don’t mix.

Or beer and icing.
Who knows.
Doesn’t really matter
Except that
Whoever brought those cookies
Ought
To be
Shot.

I’d like to remind everyone that this Sunday Scribblings prompt does not necessarily reflect the views of Susan. Only of Trevor, since this is in his point of view.

They’d been summoned to dinner. Trevor fucking hated being summoned, even if Sonya had tried to soften the blow by making pot roast. She’d made sure Trevor knew that was on the menu. After all, no one summoned Trevor Fucking Wolff. Not if they actually wanted to see his ugly mug.

Bribery with pot roast, however, was completely acceptable.

“Boys,” Patterson said after dinner but before dessert.

Mitchell burped, turned red, and immediately said all the polite shit that Sonya liked so much.

Patterson ignored him.

Trevor waited.

“You’re both eighteen now,” the elder Voss said. “You know what that means.”

“You said we didn’t have to move out until we’d graduated, Dad!”

Patterson chuckled. “This is a lot less painful than moving. Unless the country goes to war.”

Mitchell drew back in his seat. Trevor reached for his cigarettes, then reminded himself he wasn’t allowed to smoke in the house. Even though he had the feeling he was about to need to. Maybe even something stronger, more soothing.

“You need to register for selective service,” Patterson said. He put the forms on the table. Where he’d just pulled them from, Trevor didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. If he wanted anything, it was for those stupid pieces of paper to go away.

“No can do, powerful legal guardian,” he said. He shook his head slowly from side to side, exaggerating the motion as much as possible. “I am what you’d call one of those conscientious objector people, ready to bolt for Canada.”

“What do you object to?” Patterson asked. Trevor admired his patience; if he’d said that to Hank, it would have been a quick left followed by two rights. And another shirt with too much blood to bother trying to wash. Not to mention what would happen to his nose. Again.

“All of it. Cutting my hair. Saying yessir to an asshole. And guns. I object to guns.”

“Maybe what you need is to be taught to use a gun properly.”

“Why? Planning on sending me back so I have to use one again?”

Mitchell cleared his throat. “Dad?”

Trevor looked at Mitchell. Blondie had turned a new shade of white; now, he looked like something fresh out of Sonya’s washing machine.

“Do you… do you really think…” Mitchell swallowed so loud, Sonya turned and looked at them.

Or maybe, given her proud smile, it was just coincidence. But it gave Mitchell enough gumption for some of that color to come back into the guy’s face.

“Thinking’s bad for your health,” Trevor said. “That’s the only good thing about the military. They don’t let you think. They turn you into mindless automatons who can’t do a damn thing for themselves except maybe, maybe wipe their asses when they take a dump.”

Patterson leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.

Mitchell mirrored him.

“Trevor, I spent many years in the military, and I can promise you that’s not true. In fact, if I weren’t doing my present job, I’d still be a military man. Our military’s important. It’s part of what makes this country so great.”

“I don’t care. I still object. They come after me, I’m outta here. Canada, get ready. Trevor Wolff’s on his way. I’m not killing for anyone, hear me? And fuck anyone who says I’ve got to.”

“What if you could serve without killing?”

“Yeah, right. Like they let you do that. Like they’d let me do that. Fuck, no. They’d take one look at me and tell me I’m the unit’s crazy SOB who lives and breathes just to kill and I’d better suck it all up and be a good little soldier boy and do it. Who fucking cares what Trevor wants or thinks? It’s for a greater good than one fucked up, beat up kid.”

“Mitchell?” Patterson asked as Trevor stopped for a breath.

That was, of course, Trevor’s cue to stuff it and shut the hell up.

In response to dear old dad, Mitchell the idiot uncrossed his arms and pushed at his hair. It was starting to be long enough to sit on his shoulders; at last, he looked sort of cool when he shoved it out of the way. “You know, Dad, I want to see the world one day. I just…” He looked at the piece of paper on the table and, again, swallowed loud enough for them all to hear it. “I just thought I’d do it with a band.”

Patterson patted Mitchell’s hand.

Trevor stared at their hands. Some stupid photographer somewhere probably totally dug that picture they made. Family love. Ahh, how sweet it was.

Trevor wanted to gag.

“Son,” Patterson said, “the chances of this country needing to use a draft are very slim. Registering is the law, and it’s one I’d like to see you both not break.”

Trevor peered at the form. If Mitchell was…

No, he told himself. Doing things only because someone else was? That had to be the world’s stupidest reason for doing anything. A man should stand up for what he believed in.

He’d come scarily close to killing a man once. He’d come scarily close to being killed. More than once.

There was no way anyone was handing him a gun and inviting him back to that Hell. No fucking way. He’d sooner be a Canuck.

A few weeks ago, I introduced you to Mona’s Middle Eastern Eats. I had so much fun creating this new restaurant in Riverview that I wanted to explore it further. So… here goes.

1. Mona’s is actually owned by Steve Greenblatt, who grew up in Hackensack, New Jersey.

2. Steve was identified in first grade as being of gifted intelligence.

3. Sadly, Steve was adopted by parents of average intelligence, who assumed that their boy would be fine.

4. Steve graduated in the top 100 of his graduating high school class of 839 and went to college at Columbia University. His major was listed as Undecided.

5. Junior year, Steve dropped out of Columbia without having ever declared a major.

6. He found his way across the country and landed in Berkeley, CA. Tune out, drop in, dude.

7. A rich Marin County woman found him in a bookstore one day three years later and took him home. She needed a pretend son for an upcoming trip to the Middle East.

8. So Steve went.

9. Steve found his calling, at last.

10. Upon returning to the Bay Area, the Marin County woman proved too smothering. San Francisco wasn’t big enough for the two of them.

11. Steve made his way to Riverview. Went to work in a homeless shelter, where he lived. Nights, he went to the library and read cookbooks. He smoked a lot of weed. And he dreamed.

12. A return to the Bay Area was brief. It lasted long enough for Steve to milk the Marin County woman for the start-up costs for his dream.

13. And Mona’s Middle Eastern Eats was born.

Be sure to leave me a comment so I know you were here. And then, it’s off with you to visit all the other cool Thirteeners out there!

It used to be that if you wanted tickets to a show at All Access, you either stopped by Guitars by Gus or at All Access. You handed over the ticket price and walked away with a ticket. An actual, honest-to-God, printed up ticket. All professional and shit.

Springer knew he wasn’t the only one who didn’t like the way All Access had signed on with TRA. He’d heard from damn good sources, folk who’d stop in after they finally kicked the last drunks out, that they hadn’t wanted to use TRA at all. Problem was, they didn’t have much choice. No one did anymore. Not if you wanted to sell tickets to things.

He guessed he wasn’t the only one who’d gotten the early word about tickets going on sale a day early. He’d sat down at nine-thirty, getting up at nine so he could be awake after another all-night shift filled with plenty of coffee and not nearly enough pick-me-ups of the illegal variety. He’d made his TRA account, gotten his brand-new credit card approved and on file. He hadn’t wanted to get a card; Springer preferred cash. He’d seen too many people come into the store and hand over credit card after credit card, hoping one of them would be approved so they could buy their groceries. Credit cards got people into trouble. Springer didn’t want to be one of them. This card was for a twenty-dollar ticket. Nothing more.

Credit was the only way to get tickets, and dammit, he was going to be there. Everyone was talking about Deadly Metal Hatchet. About how cool The Hatchet was. About how they were doing this show here in Riverview, their first time this far North, as a thank-you to ShapeShifter. Rumor had it they’d be opening for ShapeShifter on their next tour. Given that the guys in ShapeShifter turned out for shows all the time, it was certain they’d be there.

Springer knew it was stupid, but he wished he’d be able to hand Eric a demo of his own one day. First he needed a band, then the cash to make a demo. Not to mention the music. But he could dream. And besides, musicians needed to go out and hear other musicians. They needed to sit and dream about when it’d be his turn up there.

Right now, there was no dreaming. Just a lot of pushing the F5 key, waiting for the screen that he’d use to buy the tickets.

And then, it happened. The dreaded white page with the little box near the top. Connection Interrupted.

He’d been disconnected from the TRA site.

He couldn’t buy the tickets.

For half an hour, he clicked on the button, getting more and more frantic.

And then he got through. One ticket, twenty bucks. It was his. They were charging his credit card … Two hundred eighty bucks? What the hell?

He looked more closely. Somehow, all those F5s had loaded seven tickets into his cart. For a second, he thought about buying them and scalping them. With his luck, he’d probably get caught and thrown in jail. Besides, what if he got stuck with them? He wouldn’t have two hundred eighty bucks for months.

Springer logged out and logged back in. Ten more minutes of Connection Interrupted. And finally, one ticket in his shopping cart. He hated the whole shopping cart idea; cool people didn’t use carts. They loaded up their arms and dumped everything on the belt.

The ticket price caught his eye just before he pressed the confirm button. Forty bucks?

He logged out and back in, getting frantic. It was well after the time the tickets had gone on sale. They’d be gone fast. But forty bucks for one ticket? No way in hell was that right.

He fumbled for his cell phone. Trinity was going to get her own ticket. Long story why.

“Forty bucks?” Trinity asked. “Do you believe this shit? TRA, man. I fucking hate them.”

“I get why.”

“Let me try two… see if it’s cheaper… Holy fuck, it’s more!”

“You can get through? I keep getting disconnected.”

Just then, Dad yelled up the stairs for him. “Your grandmother needs you. Stat!”

Springer curled his upper lip. Dad cleaned bed pans. He had no reason to use words like stat. But he did; he thought they made him sound smarter.

“Let me finish this, Dad,” he called through the closed door. “One second and I’m Grandma’s all day long.” Grandma napped every day after lunch. She liked it when Springer stretched out on her couch while she laid down in her bed; she said it made her feel safe. She’d made noises about Springer coming to live with her because we all knew that those home invasions never happened where there were young kids in the house. Not that a young kid who worked the late shift would be around when most home invasions happened.

“Now!” Dad thundered up the steps.

Springer told the computer to charge his credit card.

Connection interrupted.

He screamed and dropped the cell phone, Trinity still on the line, into his coffee cup. Dad came running.

It wasn’t just TRA that Springer was disconnected from.

Time for some Sunday Scribblings! Be sure to see what the DISCONNECTED prompt inspired in others. And gang? Leave a comment. Let them know you were by.