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.

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.

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!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants

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

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?

“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.

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.

I don’t know how many of you guys read Edittorrent and their neat blog. All you writers, you should be.

But anyway, someone other than me offered up the first three lines of a manuscript for their comments and a discussion ensued. A question arose: how can you create heat visually? Short of just posting a picture of Mitchell, this is what I wound up with. While it doesn’t fully answer the question, I like it. Hope you do, too.

Mitchell slid his sunglasses into place and waited for Charlie’s nod. The first car had left without him and Daniel when Charlie had decided to play Papa Tour Manager and order them back upstairs to change into shorts. Now, they were stuck waiting for a lift.

The same car pulled up, easily recognizable by its sun-faded red, and Mitchell went outside first, understanding immediately why Daniel kept dawdling. It was like walking into a wall of heat, a studded one that attacked every pore on his face so that they constricted, more parched than the worst hangover. He was suddenly all too aware of every single last eyebrow hair — including the ones the makeup people had waxed off three weeks ago for that damn photo shoot. And he swore the cleft in his chin got deeper as it, too, sought the shade of his sunglasses.

His arms were instantly slick with sweat that didn’t cool, the small of his back turned into a puddle, and his legs tried doing the same shrinking thing as his face. His lips felt like dried-out glue: fragile, brittle, and broken.

All in the two steps it took to get into the car’s front seat.

“Holy fuck,” he said, leaning toward the vent and adjusting it so it blew directly on his face. He gasped at its nominal coolness, alerted to the fact that he hadn’t been able to breathe at all while out there. “You live here?” he asked the driver, lifting his sunglasses so they’d stop sliding away. Fuckers just might dangle from his ears if he wasn’t careful.

Daniel and Charlie slid into the back seat. Daniel pulled a ponytail holder out of his pocket and peeled his curls away from his face.

“M, want one?”

Mitchell slid his hand underneath his hair and encountered a swamp. It wasn’t a bad idea, but who knew who’d see him? No one had ever seen him with his hair off his face. Maybe Kerri, but if she did, she was the one who’d shoved it away.

“I think I want to be in Europe already,” Mitchell said, leaning away from the air and angling it more toward the back seat. “We are idiots for touring the States in the summer.”

“We’ll be there in two weeks.”

“If we don’t fucking melt first.”

“Is it supposed to cool off by showtime?” Daniel asked.

Mitchell reached for his lip balm and looked over his shoulder at Charlie. Who was squirming.

It was going to be a brutal show, Mitchell thought. One of those nights where he took the stage in shoes, shorts, and guitar and spent most of the two hours wishing he could take even more off. At least he’d be slick with sweat and his skin wouldn’t try to shrivel up again. That had sucked.

And they still had to get out of the car and into the backstage area.

Talk about things that sucked.

Now, you may not have heard this here first, but you’re hearing the truth here first. That counts for a lot in Chelle’s book.

I just got off the phone with my favorite rocker, Mitchell Voss, and this is what he had to say:

For some reason, we couldn’t take the bus from the hotel to the arena, so the promoter sent a limo for us. It should have been a twenty-minute drive. An hour later, our tour manager gets out of the limo and walks up the side of the road to see what’s going on.

Turns out, a car broke down. They can’t even move it off to the shoulder, it’s the middle of rush hour. Traffic’s a disaster. Our tour manager comes back to the limo and says the car’s driven by three girls on their way to … you guessed it. Our show.

Trevor, Daniel, and Eric aren’t stupid. They’re also lonely. Or, they were.

That’s right, girls and boys. Those ShapeShifter boys smelled opportunity and they didn’t let anything stop them. Those girls with that broken-down car got the star treatment on their way to the show. They got to watch the show from the special VIP section with Mitchel’s wife, the most amazing Kerri Voss, and they got to be the after-show party, as well.

Chelle here knows how many of us dream of this happenin’ to us, even you guys out there. Like any good music reporter, I tried to find those girls and get their take on the night, but that handsome Voss man wasn’t coughing up any names.

So girls, if you’re out there and reading this, drop me a line, will ya? You just went and lived yourselves a dream and the rest of us, we want to know all about it.

You heard it first, and you heard it here. ShapeShifter loves their fans.

Another one inspired by the Weekend Wordsmith prompt, and posted in time for the Poetry Train. As always, if you’re new here and need some background about who is who, click on the names the first time they appear and you’ll be magically transported to a bio page. Just don’t forget to come back!

Mitchell was whistling when he got home after his guitar lesson; whistling was better than dancing, even though that’s more what he felt like. Since he’d graduated from lessons with Randy, things had been a million times better. Now when he and Trevor hung out down by the river and dreamed of making it big, he believed they’d get there, all right.

He stopped in the kitchen, snagged the bag of potato chips sitting on the kitchen table, kissed Ma on the cheek, and headed upstairs.

Ma called after him, “Get your homework done!”

“That’s where I’m going!” He put his back to the door, tenderly put the bag of potato chips under his arm, and shoved against the broken latch.

He turned around, stopped whistling, and dropped both his guitar and the potato chips.

Trevor was sitting at Mitchell’s desk. Well, it was supposed to be their desk now that they shared the room, but Trevor refused to use it. Something about being too cool for desks and homework and if the jackasses at school didn’t agree, they could throw him out already and save them all the daily hassle of chasing him out of the john when he needed a smoke.

“What’d Ma bribe you with?” Mitchell asked, lunging for his guitar. It didn’t matter that he had it in a hard case, it still might have been damaged.

“Nothing,” Trevor said and held up Mitchell’s civics notebook. The page was covered in what looked like chicken scratch.

Mitchell set the guitar gently down on his bed and went for a closer look at Trevor’s masterpiece. It looked even more like chicken scratch. He told Trevor so.

“Good.”

“Good?” Mitchell handed the notebook back and turned to his guitar, determined he’d actually look it over this time. No more distractions.

“Yes, good,” Trevor said with that sniff Mitchell knew all too well. “Have you seen one single rock star with an autograph you can make out?”

Mitchell didn’t bother to answer. No more distractions, he reminded himself.

“Of course you haven’t,” Trevor half-yelled, jumping to his feet and tipping the chair over backwards. “There aren’t any! And I’ll be damned if I’ll be the first.”

“Why not? After all,” Mitchell added with a sniff that mocked the ones Trevor handed out so freely, “you’re Trevor Fucking Wolff. You can’t be like everyone else.”

“Well, this time, I can be.” Trevor hugged the notebook to his chest. “Do you know how long it took me to write this messy? Fucking hours.”

Mitchell looked up from the guitar. “Shoulda spent that on your bass. You might actually get good.”

Trevor sneered and fixed the chair. “Here, golden boy,” he said. “Maybe I’ll go work on that.” He stalked out of the room, trying to slam it shut as he went. Between the broken latch and the fix Mitchell’s dad had put on it, the door just bounced back open.

In the hallway, Trevor kicked the wall. Ma yelled at him for it.

Whatever, Mitchell figured, so long as he had the desk back so he could get his homework done — once he was sure the guitar was okay. Trevor might not get any better on bass, so it was up to him to carry them both.

Maybe later, Trevor would show him ways to change his own autograph. Make it cooler. Which meant harder to read.

Chicken scratch, the handwriting of the rock star.

Mitchell grinned. That had a good ring to it.

Eeek. This is major rough draft. But it’s an outtake and that’s the idea. One day, I’ll clean these puppies up and let you take them home and sleep with them. Just don’t call them George.

Tour’s in full swing.
No clue where we are.
One city, another
All look the same.

Inside.

Days pick up a rhythm
Bus moves with one
Rhythm drives you up the ladder
Takes you back down
Across the stage.

No clue what the sun looks like
Or if there’s snow on the ground.

Who cares?
Days move with a rhythm.
Set up
Show
Tear down
Hit the road.

This is when a roadie learns
What’s in his blood.
If the road is there or not.
If his blood moves
With
The rhythm of the road.

Don’t forget to take a ride on the Poetry Train! Grab yourself a car while you’re at it, too. The only rule is that there are no rules, so join in, why don’tcha?

So while ShapeShifter’s busy takin’ some time to themselves, not that they should or anything, it seems their techs went and got all antsy on us. Just like a lot of us ShapeShifter fans do when there’s nothing new to report.

Instead of sitting around and moaning about how they can’t wait until the band is active again, Bobby, Cookie, Creek, and Chuck decided to make some noise of their own.

That’s right. These four brave souls who put up with my ShapeShifter boys night in and night out have decided to form their own band. They called themselves Tech Support, which is a clever enough name if you don’t know what they do and the ways in which techs really do support the men they work for. The women, too.

So this new Tech Support band’s busy playin’ all the spots around Riverview. Never more than a day’s drive away, just in case their bosses need ’em for something. You know: fix a string, tune something, tighten a drum head. Doesn’t sound hard. But yours truly guesses that once you get used to the prima donna treatment, there’s no going back.

Not that Chelle’s calling those ShapeShifter boys prima donnas.

Well, okay, she is.

She’d love to do it in person, too. Face-to-face and all that. After all, how’s a rock writer supposed to write about rock if she don’t get a chance to listen to it?

That means that any of you who’re thinkin’ of takin’ your pretty little selves out to Riverview to check out Tech Support live and in person, check with me before you jump in your rental car. Chelle here don’t drive. She needs a lift to the gigs. And you can be there to watch what happens when she calls the ShapeShifter boys prima donnas to their faces.

I bet those Tech Support boys will laugh the whole time they’re agreein’ with me.

What? You STILL haven’t joined the Monday Poetry Train? No rules, people, no rules! (or is that the problem?? Hmmm? Also, scroll down a post for a new thing I’d love to see the world join me in: Sunday Best. You decide what’s best and talk about it on Sundays. How easy is that?

You probably want to go take a peek at this week’s Weekend Wordsmith prompt in order to fully understand the ending of this. I stared at that thing for a good hour or so before this bubbled forth, sort of like a mud pot in Yellowstone (yes, pictures to follow). And for those of you who are confused, DMH means… Deadly Metal Hatchet. You got it.

Scott stared at the girls. “You for fricken real?”

“Well, yeah,” the skinnier of the two said. Skinny wasn’t the right word; skeletal was more like it. It was all he could do to keep from staring at her collarbones and the way they stuck out. This girl had problems.

Scott figured he had to have problems, too, because he was seriously considering her offer. Hang at her place, she’d said. She had a pool.

It was a hot August night. A pool would feel a hell of a lot better than the Winnebago.

Gecko came up right then, a beer in one hand, his index and middle finger of the beer hand holding a cigarette. He clapped Scott on the far shoulder and left his arm draped there as he leered at the girl. “Who’s this?”

“My friends call me Chapeau,” she said, thrusting her chest out. Like she had tits, Scott thought. There was the barest bump under her tank top, and it was a close-fitting tank top.

“Chapeau?” Gecko said, lifting both the beer and the cigarette to his mouth. He blew smoke at her. “That means hat or something, dunnit?”

“Think about it,” she said and winked at Scott. “We leave in ten.”

Scott didn’t have much to explain to Gecko. “She has a pool.”

It took him exactly four minutes to round up Lido and Fozzy. Chapeau was ready to go.

They should have stayed home, Scott thought as soon as they got there. There was no food in the fridge, and Chapeau got all nervous when they talked about ordering a pizza. And the pool?

The pool was one of those plastic wader things, barely big enough for one of them to sit down in, let alone the four of them plus Chapeau.

Fozzy said it felt good to just be able to stick his feet in. Then again, it was probably the first time in a month that Fozzy’s feet had gotten near water other than his own sweat. Lido muttered something about the Hatchet being needed here. This was a joke, he mumbled, something that the Hatchet needed to fix for them.

They stayed like that, not talking once Lido was done, sitting in folding chairs that made a circle around the stupid blue wading pool, drinking the beer they’d brought and staring stupidly at each other, until Chapeau showed them how she’d got her name, one at a time, in a not-so-private viewing that went around the circle to each Hatchet member in turn.

Hats, it seemed, covered heads. Pretty well, for someone as skinny and gross as this girl looked.

After Scott’s turn, he looked over his shoulder. Even though no one had moved, a set of wet footprints led away from the stupid blue wading pool.

It seemed the Hatchet had realized it wasn’t needed on this girl after all. And that the Hatchet walked on human feet.

Trevor barely waited for the garage door to finish going down before he was in Susan’s chair, swirling four fingers over the touchpad.

Mitchell stuck his head in Susan’s office. “Trev, the fuck you doing?”

“Having fun.” Trevor nodded firmly. “When the cat’s away and all that.”

“Trev,” Mitchell said slowly, “if you fuck up Susan’s blog, she’ll rewrite the end of the book so you wind up dead. Hear me? Dead. D. E. Fucking A. D. Dead.”

Trevor glanced at Mitchell, then at the screen. “She would, wouldn’t she?”

“Yep.”

With a heavy, exaggerated sigh, Trevor turned off Susan’s monitor. “You people are no fun. Hear me? No fucking fun at all.”

Mitchell shrugged. “I hear Susan’s already come up with two new outtake ideas. Sounds to me like we’ll have plenty of fun when she gets back.”

“And between now and then?”

Mitchell grinned. “We make music.”

What? You thought I could leave town and not say a proper goodbye? Keep an eye on me here. And have a safe, healthy and happy New Year! I’ll be back around the fifth or so; don’t forget about me while I’m gone. Mitchell’s right; there’ll be plenty of fun when I get back.

Christmas break.
Two days in a hotel.
Little box of a room.

It’s a room.
Hambone and me, we don’t complain.
We know better.

More’s staying with us, too.
Tour’s happy about that.
Saves ’em the cost of her room.

Hambone pretends to sleep.
We turn the TV on for noise.
Try to be quiet.
None of it works.

Tour rented out a room
For a crew Christmas dinner.
A bigger box of a room
But at least we’re not on our own
Since we can’t be home.

Me and Hambone and More, we’re glad of that rented box of a room.
We’re a team now,
Musketeers of the road.

It’ll be hard to find tours like this
Until word gets out about us.
But so what.

Right now’s what matters.
Best Christmas present we could hope for.
Me, Hambone, and More.

Musketeers of the Road.