Before we launch into the fiction, I want to point you guys to my bud Bunnygirl. Yeah, click on her name. She’s going to hold a flash fiction carnival and you KNOW you want to be part of it.

And now, the end of the Springer Saga. Sort of.

Springer stretched out in the hammock in the back yard, chewing on a piece of grass and fingering his pipe, wondering if he wanted a smoke. Who needed to smoke when they’d been on stage with the best band on the planet? The day was cloudy, and it seemed that every single cloud he saw reminded him of something from the night before.

That cloud over Springer’s head was his guitar. He’d changed the strings before the show. He’d polished the body, checked the pickups, made sure the knobs and dials were all working. It was a guess how to tune it, since ShapeShifter played in a bunch of different keys, but the roadies backstage had given everyone’s guitars a super quick tuning when they’d been assigned their songs.

Even though he hadn’t been able to pick out the sound of his specific guitar over the other two lottery winners on stage with him, not to mention Eric and that Walter dude everyone but him seemed to dig, he’d been there, onstage with ShapeShifter. The only time he’d been able to hear himself was when he’d hit that wrong note, but no one else seemed to notice. They probably figured it was that bass player who must’ve picked up a bass after he’d won the lottery for a spot onstage with the band.

That big, fluffy, high one was how he felt. He’d never been on stage before and being up there, with the lights shining down on his head until it felt like his hair would catch on fire and looking out at the crowd who was screaming, yelling, and singing along… He understood a lot more now, that was for sure. He understood why guys in bands put up with so much shit and what they meant when they said it was in their blood.

Problem was, Springer wasn’t sure it was in his blood. He’d watched Eric’s fingers and realized how much better the guy was. That the parts Springer was playing were dumbed down and basic. You had to be good to get as big as ShapeShifter. Better than Springer had realized. It was that simple.

That wispy cloud, the one that was hard to see, that was how he’d felt after the song ended, when the roadies or whoever they were came and herded him and the other two off the stage. There weren’t even handshakes to say thanks; the band kept playing and the next two were already coming out for their chance to jam. The roadies had helped him unplug, had given him his commemorative picks, and showed him to the safe place for storing his guitar so he could go back around front and watch the rest of the show. It had run smooth and all, but was it all it’d been supposed to be?

He didn’t want to say no. But saying yes wasn’t right, either.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t saving up for next year already. Maybe it’d be different. Maybe Eric would remember him. Maybe he’d find a better job and be able to afford some guitar lessons. There had to be a way.

Maybe there was the stage in his blood after all.

Yep, it’s Sunday night and Monday, so take a ride on Rhian’s Poetry Train! The only rules are that there are no rules, so come take part in the fun.

If you missed the start of the saga, go here. For more details about the Musical Hanukkah Celebration, go here. And if you want to know what comes next, stick around…

Springer froze. That had just not happened. That cop had not hit him.

And of course, since it was a cop and cops were never wrong, it’d all be Springer’s fault, even though he’d been doing nothing wrong, just sitting at a red light, behind another car. At least he hadn’t hit that other car.

The cop was out of his car, looking at the damage. Springer didn’t know what to do, since this was a cop involved. Cops hated it when you got out of your car. They tasered you and shit.

Then the cop was back in his car, on the radio. And his lights were on, too.

Springer groaned. He’d finally earned that last thirty bucks for the show. He’d even gotten lucky and won the lottery and was going to jam with the band. He needed to be home practicing, getting as good as he could get in a few days so that when he hit the stage with ShapeShifter, Eric would notice how good he was and offer to help him out. Give him pointers and shit.

And now… he’d have all these stupid repairs. As if working overnights for time and a half hadn’t been hard enough, now he’d have to do more of it. Months of it. Time and a half sounded good until you realized it was only three bucks more an hour, and most of that went to Uncle Sam.

The cop came over to him. “Pull over in that parking lot,” he said, and left just as fast.

Springer wondered if he smelled bad or something. He pulled the car to the parking lot the cop had pointed at and waited.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of what it would be like to be on that stage on Monday. It was the only way he could get through this without going ballistic. He couldn’t afford to get tasered. Not with the show so close.

As I said, stay tuned for more ’cause the concert itself is coming up on Monday night. (Just a reminder, this is all fiction!!) However, if you’d like to spread some Hanukkah love, check this:
Simonne at All Tips And Tricks is having a group writing project asking…’What is Your Best Blogging Achievement?’ You can see the entries here. I vote for Shelly to win. You should, too.

If you weren’t around last year for the Musical Hanukkah Celebration, NOW is the moment to catch up! Hanukkah starts Tuesday night, and I’ll have a little gift for you this year, too, along with some fun posts.

It hadn’t been hard to raise the sixty dollars. Take the girl out to Roach’s instead of Big Bucks. Skip a movie here, work an extra overnight there. And soon, Springer had tucked that sixty bucks away inside that one pair of underwear his grandma had given him, the flannel boxers with reindeers on them that she’d thought were so cute, she couldn’t resist. Even Springer’s mom resisted so much as touching them, making them a safe place to hide every important thing he owned. It wasn’t much: a pipe, his ShapeShifter guitar pick collection, and his precious sixty bucks.

If Grandma had given him the cash instead of those dreadful boxers, he’d be able to make up the difference he was now facing. Boomer at KRVR had gone on the air two weeks ago and said that since last year’s show sold out so fast and since it’s all for charity, ticket and jam prices went up. It was worth it, Boomer said. It was a chance to help kids who needed help.

What about him, Springer wondered. No one was helping him that he could see. He had to stop over at Grandma’s once a week and mow her lawn and take out her trash and do anything else around the house that she needed him, even though baiting the mousetraps in the basement grossed him out. Emptying them made him yak, every time. And then he had to clean that up, too.

It wasn’t fair. And what made it worse was that here he was, spending a year ponying up the cash he thought he needed, only to hear that nope, he needed fifteen bucks for the ticket and seventy five for the jam instead of ten and fifty.

He needed thirty bucks, and fast. Tickets were going on sale in a week, up at KRVR’s studios again. No lines, no sleeping out, no nothing. The only good news was that this year, there’d be an extra fifty people allowed in. But still, only fifty allowed to jam. They couldn’t bend on that one, or they’d be going all night long.

It wasn’t fair. If only Springer could get up there with ShapeShifter and show them how good he could play, they’d come up to him after and help him out, the way they’d helped out those guys in Deadly Metal Hatchet, who sucked. But because they’d toured with ShapeShifter, they were someone. Same for Hammerhead, even though they didn’t suck.

Thirty bucks.

Springer leaned over to the radio. Boomer was talking about it some more. People had questions. She was answering.

“The way the jam session will work is that if you want to jam, you’ll get a lottery ticket. If we pull your ticket, you have twenty-four hours to get your seventy-five big ones down here to the KRVR studios or we pull someone else’s name.”

Springer figured that meant he had a week and a day to round up that extra thirty bucks. Maybe his girl would front him the cash if he promised to take her to Big Buck’s once he paid it back. She had the cash. She always had cash, even though she wouldn’t buy dinner when they went out. Thirty bucks shouldn’t be hard. Maybe he’d cut back on the cigarettes. Work a few more overnights, as much as he hated them.

There had to be a way. Because once he got up there with ShapeShifter, it’d all start to happen for him. He just knew it. He could taste it.

Let me know if you like Springer and want to see more of him! I sort of like the dude, myself.

It’s been a hectic Wednesday in Chez Susan. That has me longing for some quiet, unassigned moments. Trevor thought he’d pipe up and share some suggestions with me.

Thirteen Ways in Which Trevor Whiles Away the Time Thanks to Casa Sosegad for the awesome header! 1. in strip joints like Moon Shadows 2. reading catalogs from Lyric‘s competitors and deciding what to bug her into ordering for him 3. practicing with Daniel. It’s easier without Mitchell‘s fancy-assed rhythms and attitude. 4. getting stoned, usually with Eric. It’s one of the few times they get along. 5. picking his nose — or so he says, but the pasttime is probably more along the lines of irritating others. 6. tinkering with his Vincent. 7. picking on Mitchell. 8. eating: at Harry’s Hoagies, Roach’s, or conning Val or Sonya Voss into cooking for him. 9. checking out girls and picking them up and bring them to … their homes (for quicker getaways) 10. dreaming of how big ShapeShifter will be 11. crusing town on his Vincent, looking for trouble. 12. Check out the competition playing around town 13. When all else fails, take a nap.

Uhh, I think I’ll only take him up on that last one, although heaven knows I’m itching to hear some live music.

As always, to learn more about a character, click on their name when it’s orange and you’ll be zipped to a cool bio page with links to other outtakes. Or scroll on down for this week’s offerings: Beached Whales and Letter G. Happy reading and may all our days quiet down a bit.

“R,” Trevor said.

Mitchell looked up from his guitar. “The fuck?”

“R.”

Mitchell growled.

Trevor gave an exaggerated sigh. “The prompt this week at that Writer’s Island place Susan likes to hang out on. It’s,” he took a deep breath and waved his fingers near his face. “The Letter,” he said in a voice that was supposed to be spooky.

“Oh,” Mitchell said. He looked down again, then gave Trevor one of those looks that would have been through his bangs if the guy was dumb enough to have any. “I like G,” he said, and strummed the chord.

Trevor considered. Gs were good. G marked the spot. G wasn’t a grade. Yeah, there was lots to like about G. And it wasn’t like he was attached to R in any way, shape, form, or sound. In fact, R was usually Mitchell’s sound. The one he made when he growled.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “G’s good.”

Mitchell smirked and Trevor realized what he’d said. Good. It fucking started with … G. So did almost every other phrase Trevor could think of. Go figure. Goddamn. Geez. Girl. Give me. Guitars.

Trevor turned his back on Mitchell and reached for a cigarette. Count on the asshole there to come up with a better letter than he could. Maybe that’s what made them such a … successful team. M took Trevor’s ideas and ran with them.

Trevor tried to tell himself that meant his ideas didn’t suck.

Gigantically.

Yep, a bonus excerpt this week! What can I say, I was inspired. In fact, I wrote a few more outtakes over the weekend and now my file of stuff for this here blog is about to burst. Stay tuned for all of it…

Kerri set down the dishtowel she was using to dry Val’s good china with, handed the last plate over, and walked into the family room. Daniel and Mitchell were being awfully quiet for two men who’d been all hyped about the big game.

She walked down the two steps into the sunken room and took in the scene.

The boys lay head-to-head on the L-shaped sectional. Mitchell had one leg thrown over the back of the couch; Daniel had one foot on the floor. Both men had extended their other leg, Daniel’s foot dangling off the edge of the beige leather couch.

Kerri chuckled as she noticed that they both hadn’t just unbuttoned their pants after that feast; they’d undone their flies, too.

“Hey, Val?” she drawled.

Mitchell’s head shot up and he slitted his eyes as if shooting poison at her. She smiled; he knew her tone of voice all too well.

“Yeah?” Val asked, wiping her hands on her hot pink dishtowel and crossing the kitchen to join Kerri. She stopped on the stair behind Kerri, one knee bent, the same hip jutted out in a classic model’s pose.

“Where’d you find the beached whales?”

“Wholesale district. Imported from Japan; they were cheap.”

Daniel burped. Mitchell smirked and put his head back down.

Kerri shook her head. “Waste of good veal, if you ask me. Whale stuffing ought to be cheap.”

“Actually, I think it’s the highest praise a chef can get,” Val said, tossing the dishtowel over her shoulder and pulling her hip back in line with the other. “When you can turn two grown men into beached whales, you know your cooking’s good.”

“Or that food on the road is that bad,” Daniel said. “Really, Val, come out and be our caterer.”

She winked at Kerri. As if there was any way to pry Val out of her house. “If I do,” she said, “will you change the name of the band to Beached Whales?”

“We may have to,” Mitchell said and, at last, burped.

The curtains fluttered, and Val and Kerri exchanged amused smiles as they went back to putting the plates away.

Want more? Click on the cast of character tab above. And don’t forget to take a ride on Rhian’s Poetry Train!

Afternoon.
I’m on the floor.
Hambone’s snoring in the bed.

Bed.

Did you miss that part?
Looks like I did.
I’m on the floor.
Hungover.
On the floor.

Hambone’s got the bed.

More’s got the other one.

I’ve got the empties from last night’s party.
There’s a lot of ’em.

Two beds.
Three peeps.
One’s my girl.
Explains why we’re naked.

But not

Why

I’m

On

The

Floor.

Want more Roadie Poet? Click on his name and whoosh, you’ll be visiting his character sketch page, where you can link to more adventures. And for more poetry and other cool self-expression, check out Rhian’s Poetry Train — and join the party!

Now, listen up, folks. Chelle here don’t often step outside her fictional world and into Susan’s, but today, she’s just got to. What Susan saw the other day just burned us both up too much for me to keep quiet. And since we all know that when Chelle talks, people listen, she let me have the floor for this one.

You see, Susan stopped in at the Borders on McKnightmare — she swears that’s the street name but ol’ Chelle’s got her suspicions — to pick up Nikki Sixx‘s The Heroin Diaries already. Good thing she got the chance; she’s only been reminding the Tour Manager to go and do it for her the past five weeks or so. Good thing that Tour Manager don’t get paid for his gig, or he’d be out on his hiney.

Back to the book ’cause this is what it’s all about. Mind you, that there book’s been on the Best-seller list since it came out, back in October. You’d think a best-selling book would be near the front of the store, right? On them best-seller racks?

Nope. Susan had to ask for help finding the book. Stuffed away — I gotta say it was face out on the shelf — in the music section.

Now, I ask you. Is that where you’d go look for a book about a drug addict? Hidden away on a shelf, not in plain sight? And what about this so-called soundtrack to the book? Where’s it at?

People, people, people. I don’t care how big a jerk Nikki Sixx might be — I hear he’s not, but even if he was — he deserves better than this. Susan’s not even a hundred pages in and already, she’s over at her own computer, typing away on a post about it. She’s gotta rave. She’s ready to make them kids she calls The Opening Act read it, even though they’re way too young to get more than “Drugs are bad” outta it. This book’s got power. This book oughta be required readin’ in schools ‘cept all them biddies who scared of their shadows would have a fit at the idea that Nikki Sixx is a bigger nudist than my good friend Mitchell Voss. But still, this is beside the point.

This is actually all about the marketin’ of this fine creation. ‘Cause let Chelle tell you, them marketers missed a hell of an opportunity to blow the roof off the way things get done.

First off, how many other books have come out with their own soundtrack? Where’s the push to sell the book and the music together? The music biz is so busy whining about how nobody’s carin’ enough to buy a CD, but here’s a chance to change that. Instead of makin’ someone pay full price for the music while you give ’em 20% off on the book, how about a package deal? Throw in a coupon for a free t-shirt while you’re at it. But for goodness gracious, you marketin’ wanna-be geniuses, don’t leave it up to rock writers like me to tell you how to do your jobs! You just might wake up and find that you’re outta your job and it’s now mine. Just ’cause I can do it better’n you don’t mean I want it. I like what I do.

And how many studies have we been seein’ lately about how people ain’t buyin’ books no more? I ain’t gonna go through the whole song and dance again, boys and girls. Go read the paragraph before this one. You might need the reminder already. This is where I mention that Nikki’s said he’s giving part of his bucks to charity, too. Hello? Raising money for a good cause? Why aren’t you with me, people?

Here was a chance for y’all to work together. Music and books, just like in Susan’s vision, comin’ together in this whole package where they make each other better even though the one can get along just fine without the other. Best of all, a lot of music people, they don’t read much. Same goes for a lot of book people — they don’t listen to a lot of music. Cross those folk over, show ’em a new way, people!

Here was a chance for y’all to sit up and smell a new day. And you blew it. Hidin’ a best-seller in the music section. Not offerin’ a package deal on the music and book together.

No wonder book sales are down and Susan and Rob Zombie are the only ones buyin’ CDs anymore. You people in charge, you just don’t get it. This was as plain on the noses on your faces, but God forbid you look in the mirrors.

Marketing people. Is this the sort of garbage they teach you in college? Then Chelle’s damn glad she didn’t waste her time.

Note from Susan: While I fully understand that those front displays are all paid placements and that the issue in my not finding the book was because someone at Pocket Books didn’t pony up the cash, maybe what Chelle and I ought to point out is that, with minimal publicity, this book sits at #16 on the November 18 edition of the New York Times Best-seller list for Non-fiction (see link above), and that this is its fifth week on the list. Maybe it’d still be in the top ten with a bit of help. And to be fair, I didn’t even see Slash’s new autobiography anywhere in the store, which is listed as debuting at #8 on the list. (Because let’s face it, if I’d seen it, I’d have bought it, too.) As for the Rob Zombie comment, I heard an interview with him on my beloved XM radio, and he admitted to being the only person left who buys CDs anymore. Since I still do, that means I’m in rare company; I think Zombie’s a genius.

And by the way, Chelle and I wrote this last week; I’ve since finished the book. Go get it.

A bit of scene-setting here: This outtake takes place during the early chapters of Trevor’s Song. It’s not essential to the story, so you won’t find a hint of it there. This is strictly backstory. Yet when you finally get to close the back cover (and scream in frustration at me over the ending), and you come back to this outtake, it’ll all click. I promise.

It was stupid, she knew, but when Mitchell reached for her hands, Kerri pulled them away and tried to stuff them somewhere he couldn’t find them. Unfortunately, other than her pockets and behind her back, any place her hands went, the rest of her had to follow.

“C’mon,” he said and tried again. “They’re supposed to be paint-covered, Ker. It’s what you do.”

Reluctantly, she let him take her hands, both of them, in his. Palm up, he started to raise the left to his mouth.

He stopped an inch away.

“I know,” Kerri sighed. “Turpentine, paint… It’s not the world’s biggest turn-on.”

Mitchell stroked her palm with his nose.

“A woman’s hands are supposed to be soft,” she said. “Pampered. Or else calloused from all the hard, honest work she does to keep her family afloat. Not…”

“Not?” he asked, his lips barely touching that same palm.

She turned her face up toward the ceiling and let herself drown in the sensation.

He didn’t linger long. “You know,” he said, slowly easing her hand, still in his, back to her side. Every bit as slowly, he pulled both hands from hers.

She shivered, feeling suddenly alone. Cold.

“Mine aren’t much better.” He picked up her right hand and tapped the back of it with the fingertips of his left. “A guy’s not supposed to be like this.” He turned his hand over, claw-like, fingertips exposed. “Shit, Ker, I’ve got fucking string marks in ’em. On top of callouses a mile deep.”

She smiled, not needing to see them. “What a pair we are.” Taking his right hand, she massaged it gently at the third knuckle.

He closed his eyes, his breath coming hard. “Ker…”

“No,” she said, not sure why or what it meant.

His free hand caught hers. As she massaged, he nibbled her fingertips.

And she knew he’d meant it. He loved her, paint and all.

Did you get to visit with Trevor over the weekend? Scroll down if you missed him! And remember, clicking on the link in the characters’ names will take you to their bio pages — and a list of links to more outtakes featuring them. Have fun!

For this week’s Poetry Train, Rhian asked us to come up with scary stuff. This situation, based on real-life happenings, has been giving me nightmares. Pretty scary.

Now listen up, girls and boys. We got a problem on our hands and it’s up to us music lovers to solve it.

Most of you know ’bout that chain of live music joints called Castle of Tunes. It’s a good chain; they ain’t the problem here, so don’t go burn them down. Good people work for them. They open their doors to bands you probably ain’t heard of yet, and they make sure the bands come from all walks of life and on one night or another, they try to suit the music fix for every single person on the planet. Castle of Tunes just might take over the world but that ain’t the problem here.

The problem starts with the people who own the land some Castles sit on. Those people decided that certain bands — like Hammerhead or Deadly Metal Hatchet, Carrion or Bitterness — don’t have the family values that the big, land-owning corporations like. That those bands I just mentioned, they aren’t good enough for people who spend money at the big corporation’s theme parks, movies, books, and all the other things they try to make us buy.

You see, music lovers. I know you do. They’ve crossed the line. They’ve gone from suggesting what we should buy to telling us what we can’t buy. Which in this case, that be music. Live music. The kind that feels good and is loud and ugly and noisy and some of it’s Satanic and some of it’s violent and Lord knows that in the case of Hammerhead, it’s sexual, too. Some of it’s the sort you wouldn’t be caught dead listening to. And some of it, you can’t get enough of.

That scares the big corporation people. So much that they won’t let these bands play in the places built on land they own. Because, you know, someone might have fun or find some sort of inner peace or something from music they don’t approve of. God forbid.

Music lovers, it’s time for us to stand up and put an end to this. Unless you’re under eighteen, no one’s got a right to tell you what you can and can’t listen to, and if you’re under eighteen, take a few minutes and educate those people who think they’re your dictators. You never know where a new fan will come from.

The big corporation’s gonna refuse to be educated. We gotta deal with them the way our parents dealt with us when we were kids and we were bad: ignore ’em. Ignore their movies, their theme parks, their cute cartoons and those stuffed animals you guys like to give us girls. Spend your money on the bands. Buy t-shirts. See if the boys in Deadly Metal Hatchet will stuff a Hatchet, and give that to your girl. It’ll hurt less when she uses it on you.

Take yourself to the other clubs. If you hear a band’s been thrown out of Castle of Tunes, go see ’em at the place that’s got the nerve to take ’em in. Make sure that place earns lots of bucks from that show. Let the corporation see how much green stuff they lost. Make ’em understand that they can’t control us music fans.

We got the power on this one, boys and girls. Let’s use it. And once you do, be sure to lobby for ol’ Chelle here. She might be out of a job once the big bosses at the Trumpet read this piece. That’s okay. Chelle’s got to fight. ‘Cause once people stop bands from comin’ ’round town, Chelle’s gonna be out of a job anyway.

Want more Chelle?

Here’s her bio.
The first Chelle piece: Jock La Feet
Bitty Bands

I’ll post links to past Deadly Metal Hatchet pieces, as this may be a bit of a jolt for those of you used to Trevor and his antics. The Hatchet is a young, up-and-coming band made up of four guys: Fozzy, Lido, Gecko, and Scott. They have a gimmick: the Deadly Metal Hatchet they are named after.

At any rate, as Halloween approaches, many of us are turning our thoughts to scary things. Here’s one for you, and I’m not talking about what the Hatchet gets up to.

Days like this were too nice to be inside. And it wasn’t like they could smoke inside anyway; those new rules about smoking were made by assholes in suits. Scott wished Fozzy could turn the Hatchet loose on them and the other upright and moral folk who’d decided that smoking was evil. Man, the world would have a few hundred million less assholes if he could.

The four of them were sitting on the curb outside the club, laminates on, blending in. Everyone else who milled around wore cargo shorts and black t-shirts, too. They were just four more guys sitting there, catching a smoke, not talking, soaking in the day and the nicotine rush.

“So what’re we gonna play tonight?” Gecko asked.

Fozzy shook his head. “Too early to do setlist.”

“Why are we wasting time with this talk again?” Scott asked. He sat back and adjusted his shorts. “We do the same fricken set for every same fricken show. Why don’t we just own up to that already and quit with the stupid setlist discussions?”

Fozzy screwed his face up. “It’s not like we have more than twelve songs in the first place.”

“…and time to play ten of ’em. Why don’t we ever play those last two?” Gecko asked. He ground out his cigarette on the curb beside him.

As he reached for the can of Coke he’d brought outside with him, two long-haired guys approached. They wore the code: black t-shirts, dirty flannel shirts thrown over top, cargo shorts, workboots left unlaced. “Hey, man, know where we can find Deadly Metal Hatchet?”

Gecko and Fozzy exchanged uneasy looks. Lido cleared his throat.

“Yeah,” the other guy said. “We want to hang with the Hatchet. We figure that when they make it big, we’ll be able to tell everyone we knew ’em when.”

Scott adjusted his shorts again; maybe it was time to find a laundromat already. “Got any clue who you’re looking for?”

The first guy, the one in the dingy red flannel, shifted his weight. “Deadly Metal Hatchet.”

“Yeah, we know,” Scott said. “But do you know what they look like?”

Red Flannel shifted his weight again. “Don’t they wear shirts with the Hatchet on ’em?”

Gecko smothered a laugh with his fist. Fozzy looked around. No one, band nor crew, was wearing anything with the Hatchet on it. Except their laminates, but then again, every person involved with the tour wore one of those.

“So,” the guy in the brown flannel said, “know where we can find ’em?”

“How can you be fans if you don’t know what they look like?” Scott asked.

The kid in red shrugged. “We’re not fans. Not really.”

“We think they suck,” the kid in brown said. “But one day, they’ll get big and we’ll be able to say we hung with them.”

Scott covered his face with his hand. Fozzy stood up; Lido jumped to his feet and the two went inside.

“Should we?” Gecko asked. “I mean, the band may not like it.”

“Fuck the band,” Scott said, wondering what the fricken hell he was saying. “They don’t need losers like you two.”

He and Gecko walked inside, shaking their heads.

“You join a fricken band to get noticed,” Scott said in the safety of the
band’s dressing room. “Not to get told you suck.”

“At least they think we’ll be someone,” Lido said.

“Dude, we already are,” Fozzy said. He ripped a sign off the wall and started drawing.

In short time, the Hatchet had gone to work on two guys in flannel: one red, one brown.

The members of Deadly Metal Hatchet cheered.

Some past links with the Hatchet:
Intro
Thirteen Hatchet Victims
Chelle and the Hatchet

Warning: today’s outtake was brought to us by the letter B and involves abuse of clothing. And ShapeShifter’s Mitchell Voss — but that’s not new..

It wasn’t unusual for the bus to pull up to the hotel, for Charlie to go inside and get everyone’s room keys, and then wake the band up and send them to their rooms to finish their night’s rest. Usually, it was hard to get to sleep in a bed that wasn’t rolling down some freeway. After all, they’d spent how many hours in a bed that’d been doing exactly that?

Trevor liked to break up the time between bus and bed with a third — better — word that started with the letter B: breakfast. Especially now that they were staying in places that would lay out these huge buffets and clear the plates while he went fucking nuts and crammed as much down his gullet as he could. Sleeping on a gut full of free food was paradise. Even your dreams were better when your belly was stuffed. And Trevor Wolff had good dreams in the first place.

Sure enough, this place had the free breakfast thing going. “One hour left,” Charlie told him in that solemn, Charlie way.

Problem was, he didn’t want to go alone. Eating by yourself was … stupid. So Trevor stretched, lit a cigarette, and waited for the daily soap opera that was better known as Waking Mitchell.

At last, the big idiot came out from the bunks, yawning, stretching, and scratching his chest. He wasn’t fully awake yet, which was a good thing, as far as Trevor was concerned. Conversation would be kept to a minimum, which meant they’d be able to eat more food in less time. Time which was ticking away; less than an hour before the free buffet ended.

“Gimme the room key,” Mitchell mumbled, holding out a hand, his eyes barely open.

Charlie grabbed his hand and shoved it aside. “Put some clothes on.”

Trevor snickered. It’d have been more fun if Charlie hadn’t interfered, but then again, he liked Charlie well enough. Letting Mitchell wander into a hotel in nothing but those gross boxer-things Rusty made him wear would probably mean a new tour manager for ShapeShifter. Not in Trevor’s best interests.

Mitchell shuffled back to the bunks, presumably for some jeans. Maybe even shoes, Trevor thought with a giggle he could barely keep in.

When Mitchell came back, his shirt was slung over his shoulder, his eyes were a little more open, and his jeans were buttoned and zipped, but his shoes weren’t tied. And he had Rusty with him, too.

That was almost enough to make Trevor lose his appetite.

“Hungry?” he asked the lovebirds as innocently as he could.

Mitchell nodded, zombie-like. Rusty just stood there, looking confused, like she usually did. She probably thought he was up to something but really, all he wanted was breakfast. Bagels, bacon, maybe even a banana.

He led the way into the hotel lobby, ignoring the stares. He was used to them: a bunch of long-hairs trekking through a pretty okay joint. It scared the respectable folk. Made them think the world was going bad, that they had to scramble to a hotel higher up the snob rating in order to be safe. Little did they know that ShapeShifter was planning on being right there with them.

Either Charlie had scared the fans away or else the band had shown up at the hotel before they were expected, because while the guests curled their upper lips at them, no one rushed over for an autograph or to just say hello. Sadly, there weren’t any girls who could convince Trevor to skip breakfast. Or better yet, come along as his guest and then help him get properly good and sleepy afterward.

Mitchell didn’t seem to care. “Which way?” he asked, squinting at the signs. Trevor sighed. Next thing you knew, the big idiot would show up with glasses, and how un-rock-and-roll was that?

“Over here,” he said with a sigh, wondering why Rusty didn’t take charge. She usually could be counted on to do that sort of crap. Maybe she was still expecting a prank.

It was almost a shame to disappoint.

Count on Mitchell to come through, though. As they walked into the hotel restaurant, the fine odor of bacon reaching Trevor’s twitching nose, the hostess stopped them. “Umm, sir?” she said, looking up at Mitchell like she knew he could morph into a dragon at any second.

“Problem?” he asked, puffing up his chest and slipping into Rock Star mode.

“When we say that shirts are required in the dining room, we generally mean that they need to be worn, not tossed over your shoulder.”

“Huh?” Mitchell asked as Trevor dissolved into laughter, losing it all the more when he realized that Rusty had been waiting for exactly this. Shit, she was good at setting M up. Better than he was, sad to say.

Rusty was the one who picked up Mitchell’s shirt and held it out. “Don’t gross out the guests before lunch, okay?”

“Why didn’t someone say something?” Mitchell asked. Trevor stared in fascination as the idiot actually blushed. So bad, it spread to his chest.

No wonder people wanted those parts covered, Trevor thought.

“Why didn’t you just get dressed?” Trevor asked him. “You put everything else on.”

“No, not everything,” Rusty said and pulled at the leg of Mitchell’s jeans.

Sure enough, the big idiot had skipped the socks.

Want more of Trevor and Mitchell?
Brotherly Love

Buying Chicken
Flags

And if you’re not entirely certain who’s who after all that, click on their names in any of the entries to read their bios. That should bring you up to speed.

So I’m just sitting down to eat lunch at the mall today and OmiGod, there’s Trevor Wolff. He’s strutting through with some lady who looked like she’s his mom, and she’s carrying all the bags, just like you’d expect, but she doesn’t look all harried or impressed or pissed or … well, anything. Maybe she’s not even with him. I don’t know.

I do know, though, that he walks up to me and says, “I’ve seen you around. Don’t think I haven’t.”

I about choke on my Coke.

And then he picks up my hot dog and gives me a big smile. We both know what he’s thinking. About hot dogs and my eating that one and how it all relates to him.

I don’t remember him asking for my phone number. I think I just somehow knew. I pull out my pen and write it on my napkin. And then I blot my lipstick on the napkin, too, before I hand it over. Just because you’re supposed to and all.

“You want to be home in an hour,” he tells me as he stuffs the napkin into the pocket of his leather jacket. Like it’s not a hot day out there, for Riverview, and he’s in leather? Made me feel better about being at the mall and eating a hot dog when I could, should, have been home having something healthy. What with certification coming up next week and all.

All of a sudden, I can’t think much about certification coming up next week, although it’s all I’ve been thinking about for weeks now. I can’t care about the new aerobic shoes I need, which is why I’m in the mall in the first place. I just nod like a ditz and watch him strut away, all full of himself, like he knows I’ll be waiting when he calls, like he owns the mall and being there in the middle of the day is completely natural. Maybe for him, it is. Maybe it’s just Mitchell who won’t move before noon. Or so goes the gossip about him, anyway.

I finish my hot dog and rush home. Just in case Trevor can’t tell time real well.

Which he can’t.

Any ideas on what to wear tonight?

For the background on Pam, go here:
Thursday Thirteen: Meet Pam Derbish

Meet Pam

Pam Gets Attention

And once you’ve done that, be sure to head over to Rhian‘s for more Poetry Train goodness. Let me tell you, there are some darn good people making up the Train. Come join in!

Thirteen Reasons why Daniel‘s a Drummer 1. His grandmother bought him a drum set to make him feel better about the divorce and having to live with her. 2. The pots and pans called to him, but not to cook. 3. Val thinks it’s the sexiest instrument there is. 4. His sense of rhythm is impeccable. 5. He likes to beat on things. 6. Drumming beats fidgeting, which he does anyway when not playing. 7. You look cool when you casually twirl a stick through your fingers. 8. You look even cooler when you learn how to bounce a stick off the sidewalk and catch it without missing a step. 9. Sticks thrown into the crowd go further than guitar picks. 10. Drumming can be loud as hell or soft as a whisper 11. The variety of sticks, drums, and cymbals is just darn cool. 12. Girls throw themselves at you because they want to experience your rhythm. 13. All sorts of bands need good drummers. From marching bands and orchestras at school to jazz bands and oldies bands and the ultimate prize: rock bands. Drummers are always in demand.

Yeah, it’s been one of those busy weeks over here, so nothing too terribly exciting today. Be sure to check back during the rest of the week for more fun!

Got a girl.
Name’s Maureen.
Guys call her Mo.
Friends call her Reenie. Or Reen.

I call her More.

Crew don’t get hotels,
Just a shower at the site.
I’m on Bus 1.
She’s on 7.
Anyways,
Nothing’s private on a bus.

Time’s hard to come by.
She’s busy around the show.
That’s my rest.

I tried to help her out some.
Band showed me the door.
Told me to be a good crew boy
And stop sniffing around their girls.

So me and More
We skipped dinner
Snuck off
Found a spot behind some empty cases.

She’s a great kisser.

Hambone saved me dinner.
But I want More.

Yep, another melding of the Weekend Wordsmith and the Poetry Train. I don’t know about you guys, but I dig the Roadie Poet. And as you can clearly tell, he’s now got a definitive gender.

Welcome back to the musings of fictional musical journalist Chelle LaFleur!

So Chelle‘s been keeping this spot humming lately, hasn’t she? And she’s not stopping now. She’s not allowed, not so long as the city’s humming like it’s going places. Wouldn’t that be nice.

That’s why it’s so important that all you out there in newspaper land get off your rears and get out to experience for real some of what Chelle’s so busy writing about. I don’t do this so you can stay home, peoples. I do it so you all know where to best spend your precious entertainment dollars. In other words: I suffer so you don’t have to.

The Gathering Rising is the latest discovery that Chelle just can’t stop raving about. A band out of Omaha, they look like Nerdvana would look if Nerdvana were trying to look like contemporary geeks. Yeah, you know the type; they’re what Chelle had expected Temple of the Book to be. Cerebral. Electronic. The sort you get stoned and listen to. Not that Chelle or anyone at the Trumpet gets stoned or advocates getting stoned, mind you. It’s just that anyone who does might get more out of the music. Ready for a big word? Aural. Grab a dictionary; Chelle di. Expand your mind. That’s what aural means. That’s what The Gathering Rising does. They may not have screaming guitars, but they’ve got a cool name and a sound that indie rockers will dig. And while Chelle hopes that indie rock never takes over the throne from good ol’ Rock and Roll, she’s thinking that The Gathering Rising can break away from college radio and make bunches more fans.

You heard it first and you heard it here: If you see Chelle in a Nerdvana or The Gathering Rising t-shirt, don’t be shocked. The best metalheads are those who know there’s more to music than heavy.

This was actually inspired by literary agent Nathan Bransford’s not-so-recent comment about book titles involving the words Gathering and Rising. That, of course, inspired this. I was going to make them a metal band, but just for Nathan, I made them more the sort I think he’d like. Which sort of explains right there why he’s probably not the right agent for me.

At any rate, for more top-tier writings and poetry, check out Rhian’s poetry train! And join in, will ya?

Now, you all know that it’s part of Chelle LaFleur’s job to be a busy girl. Bands come to town, Chelle’s there in the audience, reviewing the show for this here Trumpet newspaper. Bands get ready to come to town, Chelle’s on the phone with them, getting interviews so her precious readers have a clue or two about the bands playing our lovely city and might actually turn out to check out something new.

Anyone who’s been reading this here space for awhile knows how many different bands Chelle sees. And that being the music critic means that Chelle sometimes has to go hear bands who she wouldn’t download if you paid her to. Not that they’re not good. They’re just not her style.

That’s the case with a band just breaking into the national music scene. You say you love music? Then go check them out, but don’t be expecting to run into Chelle LaFleur out and about the town inside of one of their shirts. Actually, they have a pretty good name: Nerdvana. Maybe if they want to win this city over, they can comp me the 4XL ol’ Chelle needs and she’ll even wear it to a ShapeShifter show. Chelle’s used to sticking out in those metal crowds.

She stood out in the Nerdvana crowd, too. Turns out saying Nerdvana’s the polar different from ShapeShifter’s being gentle with you good readers.

They’re from Baton Rouge, of all places, so you’d think they’d rock. Their name Nerdvana screams of the irony and alternative rock you Tulane types dig so much. We’ll save the irony and alternative rock for another time ’cause there’s nothing ironic about Nerdvana. Alternative… yeah, they’re an alternative to most of what’s out there, but alt radio ain’t gonna be hugging these guys and making nice on them so fast.

Good thing I’m not Nerdvana’s manager ’cause for the life of me, Chelle can’t figure out which radio station to stick ’em on. They belong with the Golden Oldies and poodle skirts and sock hops. They got that harmonizing thing going, they’re four boys with crew cuts and ears that stick out and square glasses and probably pocket protectors, too. Their guitar player holds his axe so high that Mitchell Voss gets arm cramps just looking at them, but then again, if anyone wears their guitar lower than Mitchell Voss, I’d like to meet him. Or her.

The best way Chelle can put it is that these boys croon. The old men who sang the standards before they were standard? They’re up there in heaven, where all good crooners go, cheering these boys on. Seriously. You could play Nerdvana in the middle of any of those oldies and unless you listened to the words, you’d think their songs were as old as the others.

Maybe they’ll turn out to be nothing more than a novelty, which is fine with Chelle LaFleur, who refuses to put on a poodle skirt ’cause that’s just disrespectful to poodles everywhere. But you heard it first and you heard it here: Nerdvana’s doing something different. If you can take their kind of music, make sure you look into ’em.

I told Rhian last week that I’d post some high school antics for her in today’s Poetry Train. Come on and jump on the train — and don’t forget the Hidden Treasures Contest! We’re starting to wind down, so get your reviews in soon.

It was 3AM, right on the nose, when Patterson pulled into the driveway. He was so tired, he felt like he had to use his whole body to get the gear shifter, mounted to the steering column, up and into park. He hated these late-night calls, always had. He hated having to leave Sonya’s side, hated having to sneak in and out of his own house so he didn’t wake the kids.

Mitchell, at least, slept through anything. Short of pouring water over his head, that boy was near impossible to wake. An annoyance most days, on nights like this, it was a blessing.

With Amy at college, that should have been one less closed bedroom door to creep past. But she’d come home for a few days, needing to get away from the ruckus in the dormitory in order to study for one of her pre-med exams. He’d be sneaking for sure; she needed her rest.

Amy should have known better than to come home seeking peaceful surroundings, Patterson thought as he gathered up his briefcase and swung the door open. Since Trevor had moved in, the house wasn’t silent anymore. Even when the boy wasn’t home, it still crackled with his energy, as though he had somehow bewitched it.

That boy… Patterson sighed and heaved himself out of the front seat. Sonya had always wanted two boys to compliment her two girls, but Patterson didn’t think she’d envisioned a son like Trevor. He’d come to live with them as the result of another late-night call and while no one regretted it, it certainly hadn’t turned out as expected. The brightest point in a world made brighter by having Trevor in it full-time was that Mitchell was actually getting into less trouble these days. It seemed that having his partner in crime become a permanent fixture was making the novelty of their antics wear off. It was only a matter of time now before Mitchell straightened out the rest of the way. Nothing at all to worry about.

Patterson paused by the door, halted by what sounded like a cat in heat in the back yard. Since Mrs. Bretton’s prize Persian had been impregnated by the Wilsons’ tom, and since the coyotes had grabbed three cats from further up the street, the neighbors had been militant about keeping their pets inside, especially at night. It was doubtful that there was a cat, particularly a cat in heat, in the back yard.

What was back there — or more appropriately, who — didn’t surprise Patterson in the least. Trevor perched a good ten feet up in a tree, one of the boys’ guitars on his lap. Thankfully, given the hour, not even Trevor had been able to electrify it that high up.

Obstacles, however, didn’t stop Trevor. Patterson groaned as the young man, seemingly oblivious to his company — although with Trevor, one was never certain of anything except that frustration was imminent — began to sing.

“Son, come on down now,” Patterson called up to him.

“Finally home, huh? Did you catch the bad guys?”

“Nevermind that. Come on down before you fall and land on that guitar of yours.”

“Not gonna happen, powerful legal guardian. I’m busy serenading the neighborhood. Wrote the song myself. Like it?”

Patterson wiped a hand over his face. “Trevor, son, it’s late and we should both be in bed. You have school in the morning and I have work. Come down.”

“Actually, it’s early. And school’s a waste of time.”

“Regardless, you and I made a deal and I expect you to uphold it.”

“I want to see who else I can wake up.”

“So far, you would seem to have woken absolutely no one.”

Trevor shrugged. “So I’m starting small. But mark my words, one day, when I’m famous and the whole fucking world respects me, these treeside serenades will be what people all up and down the street remember. And every single one of these losers who’s too busy sleeping to appreciate my bad music will suddenly be my best friend.” He cocked his head. “Sort of like how until you Vosses came along, all the people who pretended to be my friend would bug out every single time I showed up with a new black eye. Only in reverse.” Trevor gave one of his satisfied nods, the ones that Patterson had learned meant he was hurting. “You watch. Every single person on this street will be able to tell you what songs I sang up here. Their memories will be so good, in fact, that they’ll fucking fight about them.”

“I suspect you’re right,” Patterson told him. This wasn’t the first late-night escapade Trevor had pulled, and it wouldn’t be the last, Patterson was sure of it. They tended to occur when the boy had nightmares and feared a return to sleep. This was probably the only part of the Trevor experience that he felt ill-equipped to handle; the boy’s scars ran deeper than anyone had anticipated.

“Well,” he said as Trevor began plucking away at the guitar again. “I am going to bed. These late nights may not be hard for you, but they are for an old man like me. I expect to see you at breakfast, ready for school.”

“I told you. I’m not going to school.”

“Then you will have to find yourself a new place to live.” He stepped back a few paces so he could see Trevor better. “That was our deal, and I know you’re not a deal breaker.” He paused to let that sink in. The boy’s pride would get the better of him; it always did. “Come inside with me and let’s go to bed.”

Trevor laughed, a brittle sound that carried farther and struck Patterson more deeply than his singing had. “Yeah, like I’ve even got a bed in this place. All you people gave me was a sleeping bag on blondie’s floor.”

“I seem to recall you being quite grateful for that sleeping bag. So grateful, in fact, that you refused our offer of a more permanent sleeping situation.”

Trevor stroked his chin and pretended to think that over. “Know what I’m thinking?”

“Trevor, your thoughts are entirely your own.”

“And that’s a good thing. Remember that.” Trevor pointed at Patterson like he was issuing an order. “Maybe I ought to go show some gratitude for that sleeping bag of mine.”

“Wise choice, son.”

Trevor monkeyed halfway down the tree, handed over his bass, and jumped, landing neatly beside his guardian. “But I mean it. One day, when the band’s the biggest of the big, all the losers on this street will remember this night.”

“Trevor, of that I have no doubt.”

… now that I’ve pretty well shredded that Alabama band, let me tell you about this t-shirt I got from the good souls who work for Deadly Metal Hatchet. They sent it in size 4X, so that right there tells you they’re serious about having me wear it and not use it to wash the car I ain’t got. It also tells me that they care about ol’ Chelle LaFleur here ’cause let me tell you, having something made in a 4x costs extra bucks.

Now, most of you know all about Deadly Metal Hatchet. They’re an okay band, one of those bands you always want on your bill ’cause they’ll help pack the joint and if you’re smart, you’ll take a cut off their merchandise sales, too, ’cause people can’t get enough of that Hatchet. They’re not dumb, either. They’ll be the first to tell you that they’ll never be able to pull in more than five thou peoples a night. They’re about the Hatchet more than the music, they know it, and they don’t care, so long as their merchandise sales are good.

This t-shirt they sent me’s got the Hatchet on it, of course. It’s sticking out of what my medical editor says is a lung and let me tell you, she had a good old time showing me all the different parts of a lung, all of which are right smack there, right where they ought to be. Anatomically correct and all that.

It’s a cool shirt. My medical editor said she’d have stolen it if it were her size, so I got on the phone and tried to mooch one for her. They’ll be in the stores soon, so keep your eyeballs peeled for ’em and keep off my medical editor’s clothes.

Before y’all go out, though, there’s one thing you need to know about this latest Deadly Metal Hatchet shirt. It’s a black shirt with white print. White print that glows in the dark and makes fat Creole women like yours truly here scream when they walk down a dark hallway and see their size 4x besom glowing at her.

I told you first, and I told you here. Chelle LaFleur screams. Deal with that fact, and get your own damn shirt. Mine’s hidden at the bottom of the pile ’cause if it’s not, it glows all night long and keeps me up, staring at all those anatomically correct lung parts.

You heard it first, and you heard it here. Deadly Metal Hatchet shirts and bands from Alabama. Both make ol’ Chelle scream.

If you haven’t heard, I’m at Cub Scout Camp with half of the Opening Act, so the Tour Manager’s in charge around here. Because the power’s going to his head, he probably won’t honor you with a return visit. I’ll have to do that when I get back, so look for a visit from me late into the weekend or early next week. Be sure to sign Mr. Linky even if you don’t leave a comment, so I know to visit you!

As for this week’s Thirteen… if you were here on Monday for Rhian’s poetry train, you’ll understand. For those of you who weren’t, Deadly Metal Hatchet is an up-and-coming band who have this gimmick: a Hatchet. Their fans are into them more because of the antics of the Hatchet than for the band’s music, and for good reason.

Really. Go read the outtake and then come on back. You’ll appreciate this all the more.

Thirteen places The Deadly Metal Hatchet’s been found 1. Lots of hearts. Deadly Metal Hatchet’s not quite the love-song type. 2. A lung (stop back for more about this!) 3. A full stomach, with contents in full detail, some of which a perceptive fan can make out but the rest of which make for unending discussion in fandom 4. A leg 5. In the breast of an otherwise curvy, attractive blonde whose come-hither face has been replaced by a scream of horror 6. Sticking out of the head of lead guitarist Fozzy, who is the only known survivor of a Hatchet attack. 7. Right smack in the middle of Scott’s bass drum. 8. A tour case. Rumor has it that the band has put the names of bands they don’t overly like on this case, but the truth is that the Hatchet went after one of its own band’s cases. 9. A beer keg. All involved agreed it was a terrible waste. 10. The driver of the band’s tour bus. This was actually a bit of an inside joke, as they had this driver who almost deserved his date with the Hatchet. He should have been in the Book of World Records for his complaining habit. 11. What appeared to be a CD put out by a boy band. Or a vanilla, generic girl who gyrated more than sang. Or both. 12. The logo for Treble TV, the hot music video channel that refused to play DMH videos. 13. A cover of Rolling Stone magazine. And this was before the magazine’s reviewers panned the DMH’s first three releases.