For you regulars around here, a new fictional face — Melody, Lyric‘s mother. (And a welcome to you newcomers! I hope you’ll stay awhile.) I’ve been working on her backstory some; I’m quite intrigued by the soon-to-be famous Melody Maker. I hope you are, too.

Melody put the phone down and gave the boss a sultry look. “Was that good enough for you?” she purred.

He swallowed and nodded.

Melody was pleased with the glazed look in his eye, with the way he was having trouble catching his breath. She’d wowed them both, the person on the other end of the pretend phone call and the boss. It hadn’t been hard. Men who called phone sex lines wanted to be encouraged. They wanted to do most of the talking. This was, after all, their own fantasy that they needed to hear come to life. They didn’t care if it was her on the other end of the phone. Not yet. Maybe one day, once they’d talked to her a few times, gotten off in a good way, and weren’t so drunk or stoned or high that they’d remember they’d talked to a girl named Melody.

Right now, she was disposable.

That was how she felt, too. Not strong, like she had that day she’d done that photo shoot. Not desired, like she’d felt when she’d seen the pictures.

No, she thought. For all those callers knew, she could be some fat dumpy housewife in curlers who was ironing as she spoke the come-on lines.

This outfit was billed as having the most guarantees for anonymous callers, but when she’d walked in and asked about working for them, she hadn’t realized she’d be one of those anonymous callers.

Melody Maker, as she now called herself, wanted more. She wanted to be known. To be strong. To be desired.

But mostly, she wanted people to see her, not simply hear her voice on the other end of a call. There was nothing special in that. In being invisible except for her voice.

“We’ll start you at a higher pay,” the boss said, finally coming back from the glaze she’d left him in.

“No, I don’t think so,” Melody said, trying to come off as being thoughtful when all she really wanted was to run back to that photographer’s studio and tell him she was ready for the more he’d promised her.

“I haven’t told you how high,” the boss said. “Don’t you want to know?”

“Save it,” she told him, patting his knee. She couldn’t help the glance, couldn’t help smiling to herself when she noticed that any effects of her phone call had returned in full force. “I think I’m meant for bigger than phone calls.”

She slid off her stool, smiling brightly as her breasts jiggled. The boss couldn’t take his eyes off them.

The photographer it would be, then.

Mitchell handed his guitar to Bobby and grabbed the nearest roadie by the shirt collar. “Phone! I need a fucking phone right fucking now!”

The roadie’s eyes got huge and he shook a little bit. Might even have peed on himself until Charlie, ShapeShifter’s tour manager, came to the rescue. “Just push SEND,” he yelled over Eric’s guitar solo.

Mitchell let go of the roadie and took the phone from Charlie. It was huge and weighed a ton; one of those new cellular phones. They’d only gotten it for Charlie after things with Trevor had gone so haywire. Mitchell hated it.

But he had to admit it had its uses.

He had no idea what time it was at home. Frankly, he didn’t care. He only had another minute or two before he had to go support Eric and lead the band into their next song. There was shit to do after the show, and then it was off travelling to the next town. It was now or never.

“Ma?” he said when she picked up. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

A little bit of Mother’s Day fun for all my fellow moms out there. Hope your day is full of pizza, bicycles and Penguin victories!

From an excerpt of an interview with ShapeShifter’s Mitchell Voss…

Voss leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Exactly,” he said. “Our music is ferocious. It’s supposed to be. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be the release it is.”

Music as a release. It’s a concept that has lost steam over the years, replaced by the phenomenon of self-mutilation. But it’s a concept Voss holds to.

“We all need that release. We all need something that takes us outside ourself and, in a way, soothes us. Something that when we come back to ourselves, things are okay again and the problems are manageable.”

What sort of problems can someone like Voss have? After all, the man’s an international superstar. He’s got security to keep overeager fans away. He’s got people to take out the kitchen trash at the mere snap of his fingers.

“That’d be nice,” he says. “I f—– hate taking the trash out. My parents used to make me do it just because they knew how much I hated it. They’d tell me to suck it up and remember that every beautiful thing has its hidden, ugly side. And then they’d launch into this lecture about being lazy and the importance of doing chores around the house and how if I hate it that much, I’ll understand how wonderful it is to have kids of my own and blah blah blah… Suddenly, the idea of taking out the trash becomes appealing!”

Still, Voss doesn’t smile. The famous frown deepens. “It doesn’t matter who you are or how you earn your way in the world. We all have those times when we need to break free of being polite and let it all hang out. Our fans get that. That’s part of what makes the bond they have with us so strong. We’re leading the way, almost. Showing them how to cut loose and let it all out. Come along with us and get the s— out of your system for the length of a song, a CD, a show. You’ll feel better afterward.”

Yep, it’s fiction. But it’s fun to show off my journalistically trained chops every now and then!

Every now and then, Trevor and I play by the rules. This week’s Thursday Thirteen asked us to Choose a letter of the alphabet and write thirteen words that describe you that begin with that letter. Be creative and have fun! Trevor trembled at the thought.

T is for Trevor. Trevor Fucking Wolff, thankyouverymuch. T is for Holy Terror. T is for terrible. T is for Touring. T is for Tremendous. T is for tortured. T is for Ten inches. T is for trouble. T is for tenacious. T is for Tight. T is for tragic T is for Trail Blazer T is for Total Package. More Ts… teetotaller, terrible, terminal, thread, thirty, three, twenty-some, trusting, travel, thorn, trustworthy, thrash metal, thunder, thing, thundering, threesome, tired, tumultuous, thoughtful, trait, thoughtless, tasteless, timely, talkative, turtle, tundra, the, tissue, than, trouble, tithe, Thursday, thirteen, three, Tuesday, tape, why, the, fuck, are, you, still, reading, go, leave, a, comment, already!

A while back, I brought you some of the Lyric/Mitchell agreement. Here’s how it all got started.

Mitchell was collecting cords, thinking he looked pretty cool, the way he knew to coil them by using his palm and his elbow as posts. Roadies did it this way; nevermind that he was band, roadies had the look down. Besides, if the band tanked… Dad always was telling him to have something to fall back on.

Eric was there on the stage with him, yawning and grumbling to himself.

“We headed to Roach’s after this?” Mitchell asked.

“Think so,” Eric said. “At least, I am.”

Mitchell nodded, like it was all decided. Going to Roach’s after shows was becoming a ritual — and the growing number of fans were figuring it out. Daniel didn’t think they’d be able to do this much longer. Mitchell didn’t care. It was all about right now, and right now was pretty damn fun.

“Hey,” someone said behind him.

He looked over his shoulder at a girl with brown hair that looked like it had been braided when wet, then let loose when it was dry. She wore jeans and cowboy boots, and a tight t-shirt that was some faded out orange color. He couldn’t call her hot, but she had something about her…

“Need something?”

“Yeah,” she said and lifted her chin, like she was expecting a fight. Mitchell fidgeted; this might be good.

“I need a body.”

Eric and Mitchell exchanged looks, trying to figure out who was willing to volunteer. After all, there were bound to be plenty of other, hotter girls at Roach’s… Hopefully.

“I’m training to be a massage therapist,” she said into the silence. “I need someone to practice on and I thought that someone who thrashes around as much as you guys do would want some free massages.”

Mitchell stretched his arms over his head, then put his hands on his waist and twisted. “Yeah, that could work.” He looked harder at the girl. She looked familiar… “Hey, you’re Melody’s girl!”

Eric turned to look at her at last. His jaw dropped, as though Lyric was Melody herself.

“I’m Lyric, yes, and if you think this is some invite to be in one of Mom’s movies or something, forget the whole deal. This is real massage, not massage-your-peter. Got it?”

“Whoa,” Eric said and, grabbing the cables from Mitchell, hurried off the stage.

“Let me get this straight,” Mitchell said, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down from the stage at Lyric. “You’re Melody’s girl, but you’re not offering sex.”

“That’s right.”

“For free.”

“No.”

He arched an eyebrow at her and waited. She’d figure out soon enough what he was waiting for.

She did. “I want a ShapeShifter t-shirt and my name on the permanent guest list.”

“Is that all?”

“I could charge cash. Everyone else in my class does.”

Mitchell didn’t bother to hide a smile. Everyone in town knew you didn’t fuck around with Melody and her girls. “But you won’t.”

“Does that mean you’re in?”

He glanced around, not sure why the guys weren’t around. There was more gear to pack up and he’d be damned if he was doing it all himself. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m in.”

He half-expected her to squeal and throw her arms around his neck. But all she did was nod like she’d known he’d go for it.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“Now?”

“Got a date?”

“Yeah,” he said, wondering if hanging at Roach’s with the guys counted. “Tomorrow. Noon. You tell me where,” he added, hoping she wouldn’t pick some public place and humiliate him.

“I’ll call you in the morning.”

“You have my number?”

“Melody’s kid knows who Patterson’s kid is. Don’t worry about it. I’ll call you.”

Mitchell stared, speechless, as she turned on one of those cowboy boot heels of hers and walked out of the club like she owned it. If she didn’t now, Mitchell didn’t doubt that with an attitude like that, one day, she just might.

In the meantime, he’d be getting himself some free massages. Damn, but the guys were going to be jealous when they heard that. Assuming they got their asses back inside and packed their shit up, anyway. If they left it all for him, Lyric was going to be his own little secret for as long as he could swing it.

He grinned and picked up the last of the stuff he was responsible for. Fuck ’em. Fuck all three of ’em. They snoozed. They loozed.

Why haven’t you joined the Poetry Train yet?

And stay tuned; I’m going to try to make time to start giving you some of the fun stuff I picked up at RT.

New tour.
Big one.
Stadiums.

Shows this big,
They’re spectacles,
Not simple shows.

Vid screens,
Extra sound,
Pyro.

Band’s gotta rehearse extra
So they don’t step in a flashpot.
Burned to a crisp
By their own show.
Spectacle.
Whatever.

Extra rehearsal for them means
Hotel rooms for us.
A little bit easier
Before the grind begins.
Time to bum around.
Have some fun.

But watch
For those flashpots.
So we don’t step in ’em.
And get
Burned
To
A
Crisp.

It was the bumps that woke Mitchell. That really sucked; he was exhausted, they were headed home, and he just couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. Except he couldn’t sleep while being tossed around like this. He was stuck in this awful state, unable to do a fucking thing.

Across the aisle, Trevor had made a pillow of his denim jacket. He still slept, but then again, when Trevor wasn’t acting weird lately, he was sleeping. Having him sleep went over better than trying to deal with his latest round of weird shit. If someone had to sleep, no one minded that it was Trevor doing it.

Daniel gave Mitchell a thin-lipped sort-of smile. “I was wondering when it’d get to you.”

“How long’s it been going on?”

“Too damn long,” he said and shifted in his seat, like his legs were stiff. Mitchell doubted that was the problem; the guy probably wanted off the stupid plane. “The pilot’s been on a few times. He’s been trying all sorts of different altitudes, but none of them are any good. He made a few noises about turning around, but I guess they wouldn’t let him.”

Mitchell didn’t know how to respond to that. Flying wasn’t his thing. At most, it was the way to get from the US to Europe, or maybe from Riverview to New York or wherever the tour was starting. Anything more than that and he was lost.

“I just hope we get there soon,” Eric said from Mitchell’s other side. He’d pulled down the shade over the little window, which Mitchell didn’t understand. Why ask for the window seat if you weren’t going to look through the window? At least the views were cool. When you could see more than a cloud, anyway.

“Can you see anything out there?” Mitchell asked.

Just as Eric got his hand on the window shade, the plane bucked.

Eric’s hand moved from the shade to the arms of his seat so fast, it was a blur. He grabbed hold — even though Mitchell already had a good grip on the one they shared — and turned pale. “Not really, no,” he said softly.

Trevor didn’t stir.

The plane calmed. Daniel gave Mitchell a weak smile. “Are we there yet?”

“Fuck, I hope so.”

How perfect was this? I wrote this last weekend for the Flash Fiction Carnival, but it applies to the Writer’s Island and Sunday Scribblings prompts this week, too. Really. Amazing. Smell those changing winds… Ahhh….

And while you’re there, check out the free download!

As I said over the weekend, the winds are starting to bring some changes around here. While I’m waiting to evaluate what those changes are (and if I find them acceptable; so nice to feel in control of SOMEthing!), I’ve been playing with my characters.

I’ve been trying to come up with something for a Flash Fiction Carnival I’d like to take part in. I’ve got some things in mind — I hope they correspond to this weekend’s writing prompts! — but somehow, inspiration for some fiction came in the guise of Roadie Poet. Not that RP is going to write fiction anytime soon.

Anyway, it dawns on me that many of you who hang around here on Thursdays haven’t met the Roadie Poet yet; he tends to come out for the Poetry Train.

So… Meet Roadie Poet.

Thirteen things about Roadie Poet 1. His poetry is often the only poems many of my groupies read. 2. He’s definitely a male. For a while there, I wasn’t certain. My groupies helped me figure it out. 3. I adore this guy. Read on and see what you’ve been missing. 4. He doesn’t have much of a life off the road. He lives and breathes roadie. 5. Even over the holidays. 6. Even when the hours are long. 7. When he’s not on the road, he lives at home. 8. He’s got a best friend named Hambone. 9. And a girl named Maureen, who he calls More. 10. She’s often working when he’s free. 11. But they find ways. 12. He can party hard. 13. But he sleeps better on the bus.

Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!

The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will try to link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
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How many of you faithful readers remember that day when a href=”https://westofmars.com/Chelle.html”Chelle/a was waxin’ poetic about how we all flip CDs over to read the track listing on back, even though the track listing don’t mean doo doo until you hear them songs?br /br / Here’s another puzzle for you to spend some free time thinkin’ about. And that’s the pictures of the band. You ever stop and look at them? I mean really span style=”font-style:italic;”look/span, not just notice what band’s t-shirt they wearing or whose hair is longer than yours, or if the chick is hot or not.br /br / Chelle LaFleur looks for more than that stuff. Every time she sits down to review a new disc, she takes out that booklet and leafs through it. She reads them liner notes — and she knows who’s smart enough to thank her in ’em, too. She reads the lyrics, and you betcha, she studies them pictures. You can sometimes get a lot outta those pictures. When you gotta write a review of that music blarin’ outta your speakers, you gotta do more than say whether or not it’s good. You gotta say why. And you gotta sound smart, too. No easy feat when you’re Chelle LaFleur.br /br / Let me share a secret with you since I’m in a good mood and all. Lookin’ at those musicians, boys and girls, helps a music writer figure out what to say. And to sound smart doin’ it, maybe even smart enough to get a bonus from the bosses ’cause your quotes get picked up all over the place and you be giving the paper a good name. br /br / Try it at home. The picture staring, that is. Go on, you be Chelle for a few. Just don’t go on expecting to be like me and see them words you’s about to write in this here span style=”font-style:italic;”Trumpet/span, you hear? That gig’s reserved for yours truly. You, you’re just tryin’ things out. You on a mission to find out how right old Chelle is.br /br / Sit and stare at that picture as you listen up. Really span style=”font-style:italic;”stare/span. Can you figure out what that band’s tryin’ to tell you? They for real, or is there some poseur action happenin’? You wanna hang with them? Even if they ain’t what you’d listen to every day until the laser wears a hole in the disc, are they any good? And you gotta answer span style=”font-style:italic;”why/span or span style=”font-style:italic;”why not/span for all these questions Chelle’s throwin’ at you. br /br / What’s with this music you be hearin’? Can you figure it out? That picture helps, don’t it. You get it all sudden-like. It goes into new dimensions. br /br / You peeps in bands out there, you think about that picture you busy dreamin’ of and posin’ for when you’re home alone, just you and your mirror. What you tryin’ to tell us out here, safe in our cars and our bedrooms and blarin’ in our earbuds? Use that picture of you and talk to us. It don’t all have to come outta the speakers.br /br / You heard it first and you heard it here. Pictures really span style=”font-style:italic;”are/span worth a million words. br /br /br /br /br /span style=”font-style:italic;”Ahh, the a href=”https://creativegoddesses.blogspot.com”Poetry Train/a. Hop aboard!/span

Most guys, Mitchell figured, would freak out the first time they woke up in their new girl’s place. It wasn’t familiar, the bed felt a bit weird, nothing was where it should be.

Enter the touring musician, he thought as he stretched his arms over his head, kind of digging the lack of a head board. He’d woken up in so many strange places — including, once, curled up around one of those outdoor chiminea things with a hangover that made his mouth feel like the inside of the filthy, ash-filled thing — that he only freaked out the first few days he got to spend in his own bed.

Now, though, it was all about the fact that there was supposed to be a woman beside him in her bed. His woman. He was finally ready to say that.

He lifted his head and tried to squint through the Chinese panel things that separated her futon-thing from the rest of the loft. It was a heavy panel thing, the kind that girls slipped behind while they changed their clothes. He couldn’t see Kerri, but a little bit of light slithered around the edges of the screen. Her loft had been fully dark when they’d finally gotten too tired to do something as simple as kiss, hard as that still was to imagine. Fuck, he wanted her.

Emerging from behind the screens, he saw her, seated in front of a small pool of light that was focused on the paper on her drafting desk. She was busy drawing, her head bowed. She’d thrown clothes on, too: a paint-spattered button-down shirt and grey sweatpants that had become a piece of art on their own. She couldn’t have looked hotter if she was still naked.

Quietly, so he didn’t startle her and make her mess up the picture, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed against her back.

She rested her head against him; he felt her spine elongate as she straightened. “Hi,” she said, pursing her lips to give him one of those sideways kisses that was more intention than contact.

“I thought I was the one who liked to work all night.”

“Mmmm,” she said. “I love to work like this. Here, tell me what you think.”

He thought he hated that she sat forward. His belly and chest immediately felt cold.

Just as fast, he was distracted by the picture she held up. The first was of him, probably meant to be from the awards show the other night. It was just him; there was no background. Him and his guitar — and his middle finger raised as he chorded. So she’d noticed that he did that. He could usually get it by the TV censors. Clearly, she was savvier than they were.

“Did I get the guitar right? I’m new at them,” she said.

“Damn close,” he said, afraid to touch it and wrinkle the paper or something. She was amazing; that was all there was to it. Before the awards, they’d been on, what? Two dates — if you could call them that. Maybe he’d grabbed his guitar and played when they’d gotten smashed on that second … uhh, whatever, but for the most part, all she knew of him and his guitars was what she’d seen two nights ago now, at the awards.

She slid her hands down his legs, then turned to look at him. “You’re not wearing anything.”

“Yeah. So?”

She pointed to the windows. “Neighbors can see in.”

“Neighbors can sell tickets once it lightens up outside. They’ll make a fucking million or two. You might, too, if you keep drawing like that.”

“You may not say that when you see this one…” she said, sliding it out from underneath a clean sheet of paper. “I’ve never done anything like it. I mean nothing. So if you hate it, I’m trashing it. I can’t even believe I’m showing it to you; I barely know you!”

This one, he did take from her, but only because he couldn’t stop himself. There was no doubt it was a drawing of them, even though all you could see was two naked torsos. It was one of those perspective things, where you felt like you were falling into the crevice their bodies made, their shoulders apart and their bodies slowly coming closer together until they joined.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed and took a step backwards. He needed that distance.

She reached for it. “It sucks.”

He held it out of her reach. “If that’s your idea of suck… This… This…” He shook his head, as if that would help clear the image from his brain. He was ready to swear it was seared there, forever. “It’s amazing.”

“You think?”

He looked over at her; if she wasn’t ready to bolt and run, no one on the face of the Earth ever had been. “Yeah,” he said, wondering if she’d make good on that look if he talked about how he wanted to hang it on a wall in their bedroom, in the house they would buy. For fuck’s sake, they’d been together how long now? It was still in the range of hours. And here he was, like a lunatic, thinking about forever.

Trevor, he knew, would laugh in his face and call him a loser.

But that picture. If Trev saw it, he’d shut the fuck up. And then be jealous as hell.

Now, I don’t get what all the howlin’ and cryin’s about. Seems legendary singer Sammy Spencer is reuiniting with the last two living original members of Scarred Heart. That ought to be good news and we all oughta be celebrating this. Scarred Heart was, for you too young to know your roots as proper as you should, one of the bands that brought the words Heavy Metal into our world. They took Johnny B. Good and taught him how to bang his head.

Scarred Heart’s die-hard fans been yowlin’ for a reunion for years now. Chelle here been one of ’em ’cause she never got to see them live the first time out, and that’s one of those things that’s gotta get fixed so Chelle can die a happy woman. News of the reunion was met with a big cheer here at the Trumpet’s office, and around the world, too. It was a heck of a sound; I’m surprised you missed it. Cows in heat don’t often walk around New Orleans, you know what Chelle’s sayin’ here?

Now comes word that fans are threatening to boycott. Seems that Sammy Spencer can’t reach those high notes that make Chelle’s kinky hair stand on end. Seems that in thirty years, Sammy Spencer had the good fortune to grow himself up. For men, that means their voices get lower and they can’t get up to those high notes no more.

Oh, sure there are a few who can. But Chelle wants to know if they can do it outside of a recording studio and with the taped voice track turned off. If so, she wants to see what they got in their pants. It’s either nothing ’cause they’ve been snipped so their voices stay high, or else there’ve got something making them mighty uncomfortable…

None of those options fit the Scarred Heart style. Remember, boys and girls, this was the band that was all about keepin’ it real back before keeping it real was a trendy thing. This was the band who made us all sit up and realize that not everyone kept it real.

That means there won’t be vocal tracks piped in over Sammy’s real voice. That Sammy’s not going to hurt himself to bring us his famous high notes.

What it means is that the band’s changing the tuning of their songs, so that Sammy can sing ’em the best way he can. ‘Cause we all know: Scarred Heart’s gotta keep it real.

Keepin’ it real is what you so-called fans are now having hissy fits over. Seems you’d rather have fake music in the name of it bein’ like the albums you probably never replaced once vinyl went out of fashion. You don’t want to know that your hero’s gettin’ old and can’t hit those high notes. You want it fake.

You peeps are spoiled. Let Scarred Heart tune it down. Let ’em show us that they can still rock with the best of them. And quit your bitchin’. Save it for the next time ShapeShifter’s resident hottie Mitchell Voss refuses to take his shirt off during a show. Now that, that is a thing to whine about.

You heard it first, and you heard it here: Let Sammy sing it the best he can. He’ll still rock your socks off.

Why aren’t you riding the Poetry Train?

“I just don’t get it,” Eric said. “I’ve done this for years. Why’s it a problem now?”

“Because we’re ShapeShifter,” Mitchell said with a small shrug, like it was no big deal. But it was.

“We were ShapeShifter before yesterday! What changed?”

Now Mitchell sighed. “The number of records we’ve sold, the number of people who come to see us every night, the security staff, the type of hotel we stay in… do I really need to keep going?”

“It’s called success, wanker,” Trevor said, leaning around Mitchell so Eric could see his face.

Eric was privately glad when Mitchell gave the bass player a shove back into place. He understood it, and Mitchell knew that. Lord knew, they’d had these talks often enough. They were starting to be routine — until the reason for today’s talk. There was nothing routine about this, about what had happened.

Worst of all, their manager said if they didn’t start being more careful, there would be more of them. They were lucky this was the first time.

He shook his head again. “I just don’t get it.”

Trevor sighed loudly. “What you don’t get,” he said, standing up so he could pose and vogue, “is why the band’s in trouble over something you did. You’re the good one, the one who never creates waves. So now that some chick’s pissed that you threw candy into the crowd when she was busy begging her boyfriend to suck her face or something so she wasn’t watching you and took one of your stupid candied eggs to the face and now she’s making noise about suing us, you’re pretending it doesn’t make sense. What doesn’t make sense is why no one’s bothered to see how bad the girl’s hurt–”

“JR told us not to try to contact her,” Daniel said quickly. “Because she’s got her lawyer involved.”

“We still ought to know,” Trevor insisted. “Did a corner of the wrapper put her eye out? Does she have a bruise she could have gotten when some crowd surfer dropped his foot? Did the stupid chocolate egg make her swallow her own tooth?”

“I don’t throw that hard!”

“Maybe you should have,” Trevor spit at him.

Mitchell growled. Trevor sat down.

Eric tried to understand what that had been about. It made about as much sense as this girl, who was having a tantrum about being hit in the eye by one of the chocolate Easter eggs he’d thrown into the crowd. He’d been throwing Easter candy for years. He’d done interviews about it. Every single ShapeShifter fan out there knew that for a few shows before Easter, Eric threw chocolate eggs. That was just one of the things ShapeShifter did.

And now this girl, who had been there only to make her boyfriend happy, was having a hissy fit. Trevor was right: she hadn’t been watching the band.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, “what about that bit about ‘Enter at your own risk’ that’s on the back of every ticket? Is that still there?”

He was met by three dumb looks.

“I’ll call JR and ask,” Mitchell said after a painfully long minute of silence. “You might be onto something.”

“A ticket,” Daniel said. “Shit, I’d forgotten all about those things, it’s been so long since we’ve needed them.”

“That’s because we’re ShapeShifter,” Trevor said. He tapped a cigarette on its box. “I told you idiots I’d make this band big.”

“Yep,” Mitchell said, standing up and heading for the hotel phone. “It’s all because of you, Trev.”

“I hope this doesn’t mean the end of my eggs,” Eric said.

“It does,” Mitchell said. He paused and put the phone down. “Look, it sucks, but is it such a shitty thing to have to give up? Think about it, Eric. Can you give up the eggs if we’re getting all this other stuff in return?”

This conversation, too, was starting to have hints of déjà vu to it. They were having to give up going in the front doors of hotels, of being able to move around without a bodyguard shadowing them. Every time someone complained, that was the answer: all this other stuff in return. Our dreams, they’re coming true. It’s worth it.

They were only chocolate eggs. But that didn’t mean he was ready to give them up.

“Walter,” Lila said, “the equinox is next week.”

“I know, love.” He looked up from the crossword puzzle in the morning paper. “We’re set for it.”

“Are you? You haven’t left the house in a month. How can the band be ready for next week if you don’t practice?”

“We’re pros.” Of course it would be fine. It always was. He’d been playing with this group of guys for years now. The Vernal Equinox Celebration always went well.

Lila knew better than to push it. Just as spring came slowly every year, so did Walter and his music. Spring meant the beginning of his touring season. Come August, when they’d all had enough, he’d take another month off, join everyone at the Autumnal Equinox Celebration, and then spend the winter holed up in his basement studio, creating a new album.

And then, just like the way the Earth turned, Walter’s musical cycle would begin again.

If the Earth didn’t need to practice for all this, why did he?

Springtime, awakening… how aware of the changing seasons is an aging rocker, anyway? That’s what inspired this. For more Walter, visit here, here, and here. And stay tuned; in my file of saved stuff I need to post one day, I’ve got at least one more piece that features him.

Mitchell stopped at the top of the steps and sniffed, then inhaled as deeply — and as quietly — as he could. “Something smells,” he said, wrinkling his nose and pretending the reek was bad. He even waved his hand in front of his face as he leaned forward so he could see Amy and Beth on the family room couch — and so they could see him.

“That’s why you’re supposed to say excuse me when you fart, Pipsqueak!”

“Oh. Sorry,” Mitchell said and shut his bedroom door behind him. He didn’t have to hear Amy’s laugh to know it was following him. She thought she was so funny.

“When’s the cookie raid?” Trevor asked.

“Give it an hour,” Mitchell said and reached for his guitar. “Don’t want to strike too soon or they’ll just eat what’s left of the dough again and we won’t get shit.”

“We’ll get to lick the bowl.”

“Not last time, we didn’t. Trust me, Trev. We lay low, we get the goods.”

Trevor stood up and was out of the room before Mitchell could stop him.

“Bring me three!” Mitchell called after him, chuckling. He’d gotten them all that time.

March is International Women’s History Month, or something like that. Since that dovetails nicely into the discussions around here over the past few weeks, I figured I’d invent thirteen women who will one day be discussed. By someone.

Some of these women you’ve met before. Others I created just this week. Let me know who you’d like to see more of and, just like the list of bands the other week, I shall do what I can to oblige.

Thirteen fictional women who changed the world 1. Zeynep Goldstein. This not-terribly-observant Muslim woman married a not-terribly-observant Jew and, without meaning to, found a way to begin to bridge the centuries-old hatred between the people of the two religions. (Although, as a Jew, I didn’t know of this hatred until about ten years ago, at most. Must be a hidden hatred, or am I that sheltered?) 2. Toni Lauren Smith — One of eight children, Toni and her husband Leon decided to seek fulfillment by not contributing to the world’s population problem. Instead, they work tirelessly to promote the conservation of the world’s green spaces and the flora, fauna, and wildlife that dwells within in. (If you think she wasn’t inspired by a certain blogger, you’re nuts.) 3. Maureen — Also known as More to Roadie Poet, she is helping (along with the real-life women out there) that women do belong in the often-sexist world of roadies. 4. Aliyah — Created last week, all I know about Aliyah so far is that she’s a chemist, doing research in a New York City lab into alternates for petroleum. Her partner is a big-shit record producer, also in New York. She keeps him grounded and proves, yet again, that it takes a good woman to make a man great. 5. Sara Deaver — a single mom who teaches her community and social circle how to live with grace under pressure. 6. Alina Kozlova — A historian by training, Alina brings history to life, with the help of a team of sociologists, pyschologists, and every other -ologist she deems necessary. First through articles in a national news weekly magazine and then through her own books and later podcasts, Alina makes history sexy — and reminds us of the relevance of the past in today’s world. 7. JC Montecino — The US Government’s top IRS fraud inspector. Despite long hours on the job, JC raises a family of seven children. With the help of her stay-at-home husband who somehow finds the time and energy to constantly be renovating at least one room of the four-bedroom house. 8. Pauline Smolinski — A Holocaust survivor, at 80 she begins a new career as a Food TV host. As a judge of Iron Chef America and all those food competitions where people create crazy things and win ten grand for it, she’s not afraid to show what’s what in terms of the importance of food and nourishment. 9. Beverly Buck — Big Buck’s wife. Those of you who hang around know that Big Buck’s Best Barbecue is one of those places in the fictional city of Riverview that no one can get enough of. Beverly is responsible for creating Bodacious Sauce. She’s also the one who takes the mobile barbecue on the road, proving that women can barbecue with the best out there. 10. Sassy Brody — A lawyer whose rising star has people hoping she’ll be named US Attorney General. 11. Ruby Red — fashion designer to the stars, she helps turn the musical culture into something other than sex and the ghetto. 12. Bunny Fitzgerald — At the tenderish age of 20, Bunny Fitzgerald took the skateboarding scene like a storm. The first female pro with a reputation as good as Tony Hawk’s, Bunny takes that board and flies with it. Rumor has it that Shaun White thinks she’s hot, but the idea of being Bunny White scares her sleepless. 13. Lyric Maker — You’ve met Lyric on these pages before. Stay tuned; there’s more of her to come. LOTS more.

“Okay, Val! Let’s see it!” Daniel called when he got home from practice, not that he’d had far to go, since the practice space was in their back yard.

She tried not to panic. “Are you alone?”

“I promised you I would be,” he said. As if that meant anything; Trevor and Mitchell would ignore promises Daniel made her. They didn’t care. Worst of all, they’d look at this disaster she’d made and laugh. This was one of those things they’d never let her live down.

Val looked out the window, just to be safe. Both Mitchell’s Bronco and Trevor’s ugly-assed motorcycle were gone. Not that letting Daniel near it would be any easier.

“Let’s see it,” Daniel said again as he entered the kitchen.

Val burst into tears.

The cake had been supposed to look like a Southern Plantation — the sort of place that Val wanted to marry Daniel in, if getting married was ever something that seemed the right thing to do. But the end result hardly looked like the idyllic setting for a romantic wedding between two people who’d been together for so long, they didn’t know what it was like to be apart.

“Well,” Daniel said, folding his arms across his chest and cupping his elbows with his fingers. “We could always throw it in a bowl, pour some rum over it, throw in some whipped cream, and … what else do we do to your other cakes?”

“I wanted this one to be great!” she wailed.

Daniel turned his back on the cake just as the front porch finished sagging. It fell lazily to the side, right on top of what was supposed to have been some sort of shrub. He held Val by the waist, not pulling her too close.

“What’s great,” he said, “is that you tried.” Very slowly and deliberately, he kissed the tip of her nose. “We both know that dessert is the one area you may never master. But you tried it anyway, and it’ll taste just fine.” He pulled back a bit and eyed her. “Won’t it?”

She shrugged.

With another kiss, this time on her lips, Daniel sent her off so he could turn the mess into something edible. Val knew that once he had, he’d proclaim it a shame to not share, and while Val was working up menus, he’d call Mitchell and Kerri and invite them over for dinner.

Best of all, there’d be nothing for anyone to make fun of. Maybe the whole thing could be forgotten. Maybe she’d learn and not bother with any dessert more ambitious than chocolate chip cookies.

But most probably, she’d try again.

This was inspired by this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt: Experimenting. For more Val, check out Soy Sauce, Beached Whales, and Val’s Tantrum. Oh, and Smoke Break. How could I forget Smoke Break?

Don’t forget to ride the Poetry Train!

“The problem,” Kerri said, pausing to catch her breath and glare at her brother, “is that she wants me to be Cinderella. But I’m nobody’s servant!”

“Maybe there’s a way…”

“No, Stevie. Do you hear me? No.” She pulled her favorite Steelers sweatshirt off the hanger and folded it carefully, hugging it to her chest. Maybe when she returned, she’d have the upper hand. She’d have some sort of power over that woman, and she wouldn’t have to spend all her time and energy fucking around, the way things had always been, up to this point.

Maybe she’d even be spoken to in a civil manner, just like that woman always insisted on. “What goes around comes around,” Kerri thought as she stuffed the sweatshirt into her bag, refusing to care when it came unfolded. Everything else had come undone. That’s why she was packing.

It was hard to believe she was thinking so clearly. She hadn’t been when she and Jason had been interrupted, down in his basement. Then again, it was hard to think clearly when your clothes were off and your legs were wrapped around someone’s waist and all your thoughts were about how you wished the rubber would stop finding all the dry spots — and then suddenly, there she was, face blank, mouth open like fresh roadkill. As if Kerri could have possibly gotten that lucky. That woman would never be roadkill. She was too fucking mean to die.

Amazing what an hour could do. Kerri had the bus schedule to Riverview, had her duffle bag already full of the things she couldn’t leave behind, and was ready to start in on the things she’d want Stevie to send her later on. The rest…

It would probably get thrown out. Kerri knew that, but owning up to that fact wasn’t so easy.

Yet that was how it was with her. Really, Cinderella wasn’t a stretch, except there was no step to this mother. There weren’t step-sisters, either, who were her rivals. Nope, this was all about Mom and daughter. Not even adopted daughter. Born of the woman who hated her.

Getting out of town would be a relief.

Kerri fantasized about it for a minute. Her own place. All the art she wanted, and classes to make her better. A job, sure, but jobs weren’t so bad. It sort of sucked that she had to leave the garden center now instead of at the end of summer like she’d planned, but these things happened. Maybe she’d even find someone better than Jason, which wouldn’t be too hard since she was pretty much only with Jason for the sex.

“What time do we have to leave?”

Kerri glanced at the door to her bedroom. “The sooner, the better. You know Dad’ll start in soon.”

“Yeah, but …”

Kerri arched an eyebrow at him and reached for her alarm clock.

“He’s not as mean,” Stevie said, ducking his chin to his chest and mumbling. Like this was something he had to be ashamed of.

Well, Kerri thought, not anymore. She was eighteen, she had a partial scholarship to the art school of her choice, and she had enough cash to take a bus to Riverview and find a place to live. A place where she’d be left alone.

A place where she’d finally be able to do something right, for the first time in her life.

****
This is our first look at Kerri before she moved to Riverview and before she met Mitchell, which happened years after the move. Already, she’s very much the woman she becomes.

Once again, this is my Poetry Train and Weekend Wordsmith rolled into one. Good thing the Poetry Train has no rules; I’d go nuts.

At any rate, this was partially inspired by the Wordsmith prompt, but also partially by the discussion we’ve been having in the comment trail in my BTT: Heroine post, about strong women. I’m still working on ideas of how we can band together, girls. If you’ve got any, drop me a line.

This post is R-rated!! Come back later if you’re under 18, please!

So we’re there in my bed, me and Trevor Wolff, and he sniffs the back of my knee. I die; it’s like being touched with that feather he likes so much.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks, sitting back on his heels and giving me this look like I’ve totally let him down or something. It’s almost enough to ruin the whole moment or something.

I prop myself up on my elbows and stare at him. I have no idea what’s wrong.

“You girls are supposed to go all weak at the knees,” he says. He’s pouting and it’s cute.

“Oh, I am,” I tell him. I can barely get the words out, in fact.

“Yeah, well, you smell like flowers back there. What the fuck’s that about?”

I shrug. Come on. The guy’s got to know about perfumes and body sprays. It’s not like I’m the first girl he’s ever met.

“You really think it’s a turn-on?” he asks.

“It turns me on,” I tell him, shimmying a bit so the girls shake. My leg, still propped up on his shoulder, does too. It rubs against his ear and he shakes his head like it’s annoyed him.

He gets annoyed way too easy.

“And what turns you on should turn me on?” he asks and turns away, holding my leg as he lets it down. I’m bummed; this probably means the end of it, but he lights up and turns back. “I hate to break it to you girls, but us guys like you girls to smell like you. Yeah, that natural smell you’re always trying to cover up. Now that, that is a turn-on.” He nods like it’s all settled and I’ve learned my lesson and won’t ever put perfume behind my knees again.

“It’s a horrid smell,” I tell him, and he grins.

And I’m not going to tell you what happened next, but it was proof that he didn’t mind the perfume so much.

As for wearing it next time… well, catching up with him tonight wasn’t exactly planned, and I’m not dumb enough to change the way I live my life for him.

For Mitchell, maybe I would, yeah. But not for Trevor.

This weekend’s Weekend Wordsmith prompt was the unneeded puzzle piece. This seemed to fit — at least in my little brain.

Want more of Pam? Forgotten who she is? Click on this link and it’ll take you to her bio page and links to other, older posts.

No Sunday Best this week. Sorry for that; I was too busy with the family. And the agent hunting. And the writing. And the…

I’ve been on this Deadly Metal Hatchet kick lately, wanting to make the time to explore them more, learn their back story, bring more of them to you.

Thirteen Things about Deadly Metal Hatchet 1. Deadly Metal Hatchet is four guys who have created a gimmick for themselves that works. Think Iron Maiden’s Eddy, only more gruesome. 2. That gimmick is the Deadly Metal Hatchet, their mascot. 3. Here’s links to other DMH posts. The first. An earlier Thirteen. Chelle and the Hatchet. The perils of being a baby band. And meeting a groupie. 4. Fozzy, the lead guitarist, is the only known survivor of a Hatchet attack. That’s why the Hatchet lives with him now. 5. Fozzy founded the band as a better way to cope with a bad motorcycle accident. The alternative was to crawl into a bottle. Which he tried. 6. Lido’s the singer. 7. He figured that being in a band would take him out of town and away from the woman he loved — and who loved him back. 8. Scott’s bass drum was a Hatchet victim. Thankfully, Scott wasn’t playing it at the time. 9. Unfortunately, though, the Hatchet did its work before a show. Scott’s tech was one busy man, but it wasn’t enough and the band had to take the stage without the drums. They returned in the second song. Thankfully. 10. By that time, the audience was booing. It was an ugly show. 11. It took them awhile to get booked again after that. And when they did, they had to play the frat of one of Lido’s friends. 12. Fozzy and the Hatchet had a long talk about desecrating the band’s equipment. 13. Notice how there’s nothing about Gecko yet? Like I said, I’m still working on these guys.

The movie ended. The band and Kerri sat, unmoving, staring at the tiny screen as the credits rolled into black.

“Wow,” Daniel said at last.

“No shit.” Mitchell dropped the handful of Kerri’s hair he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “That was … some intense shit.”

“So,” Eric said from his spot down by Mitchell and Kerri’s feet, “if you could travel through time, where would you go?” He stood up and fiddled with the TV suspended over Trevor.

“I’d go be the famous Daniel. Daniel in the Lion’s Den.”

Mitchell tipped his head backwards, trying to see the drummer. The only thing in view was the roof of the bus. “Didn’t he die or something?”

“Eventually, yeah, but who cares? The story’s immortal,” Daniel said before Eric could jump in and correct things. Or, worse, preach.

“So’s ShapeShifter.”

Eric cocked his head like he had to consider that. “But Daniel’s story was worthy of immortality because he was pious. Why are we worthy of immortality?”

“Because we’re ShapeShifter,” Mitchell said. Like they needed to ask?

“Time travel, M,” Kerri said. “Where would you go?”

He didn’t need to think about it. “I’d go work with Les Paul in the early days. I’d be a guitar master.”

“Some say you already are,” she said.

“Yeah, but I’d be more of one. I’d be more than just a player.”

She looked at him and rolled her eyes.

“Me, I’d go back and meet Jesus,” Eric said.

Mitchell hoped no one would ask the guitarist to elaborate. Every now and then, the guy went on these religious tears; clearly, the movie had awoken a new one in him. He’d have to make sure their copy of the flick disappeared somewhere. Maybe some fan would want it.

“What about you, Rusty?” the supposedly-sleeping Trevor asked. “Want to go back and be the hot, passionate woman who made Van Gogh cut his ear off? Want to inspire someone to do something even dumber?”

“Do you have any idea,” Kerri started, vibrating with a sudden passion that Mitchell hadn’t expected, “how women artists were treated back then? If — and that’s a huge if — they were allowed to paint, they were outcasts. Usually, they were told to forget about any ambitions they had for themselves. Go be a wife, they were told. Have babies. Run a house. Be invisible.”

Mitchell grabbed at her as she stood. He wasn’t sure which was worse, a religious sermon from Eric or a rant from his wife.

“So what the fuck do you think I’d gain from going back in time?” Kerri shrugged off Mitchell’s hands and stepped away, closer to Trevor. Who still hadn’t opened his eyes or moved. “Do you really think I’m dumb enough to think that this isn’t the best time in world history to be a woman? Do you really think I’d trade in everything I’ve got for that?”

“For a day?” Eric said. “Just one day, Kerri, and then you could come back.”

“I’m not going to work with Les Paul for just one day!”

“Mitchell, please. And no, Eric, I wouldn’t, and don’t start in on that bit about how I’ll better appreciate the here and now. I appreciate it plenty, believe me.”

“Funny,” Trevor said. “I thought you only appreciated Mitchell.”

Kerri left the front lounge at about the same instant that Mitchell lunged for Trevor. There’d be no sleeping for the bass player for awhile yet. Which was, of course, why Trevor had put on the whole sleep show in the first place.

But it didn’t change the outcome.

How many prompts can one piece of fiction cover? We’ve got Sunday Scribblings, Writer’s Island and, of course, Rhian’s Poetry Train. No Weekend Wordsmith this week; the prompt wasn’t for me.