Mitchell Fiction: Camping

Mitchell rested his hands behind his head, cradling it over the flat pillow Eric had given him. The cool night air felt good on his arms and the exposed part of his chest that stuck out of the sleeping bag. Maybe there was hope for this camping idea yet.

He hadn’t wanted to come. Hell, he’d laughed when Eric had suggested it; he liked to be outside, sure, but to find a spot in the middle of the woods and spend the night? Doing what?

The lead guitarist hadn’t backed down, no matter how grumpy Mitchell got. Camping, it seemed, was going to happen. Just the two of them, a couple of sleeping bags, a tent that Eric damn well better know how to pitch, some food in a bear-proof container, and two acoustic guitars.

It had been obvious that Eric knew what he was doing. “It’s how Dad escapes from the congregation,” Eric had said as he’d slid the poles in place. “Everywhere else he goes — even if he’s in another city — he runs into people who know him. So he comes up here instead. Jared used to come with him until he got a life, then it was my turn.” Eric had shrugged. “I may have a life, but it includes this now.”

Mitchell thought he was nuts. Once the tent was up, he got bored. Picking up firewood wasn’t exactly stimulating, although actually getting the thing started had some fun points. Like when Eric had pulled a stick out of the fire, its end glowing orange, and challenged him to a swordfight.

That hadn’t lasted long, so they’d roasted their weenies, toasted the buns, and threw a few ears of corn on the edges. Somehow, it all tasted better out there. Mitchell didn’t want to admit it, but he sort of was digging this. Being able to take a piss wherever he felt like it wasn’t a bad thing, either.

Going to bed before sunrise had sucked, but he’d actually been too tired to care. And now here he was, awake at the crack of dawn, listening to the birds start singing.

Part of why Eric had dragged him out here was because lately, the songs weren’t there. The band had a new album due, but whenever they sat down to write songs, they all sounded like shit. Flat. Or fake. Forced. Definitely not the Fuck You, World that ShapeShifter was known for. Worst of all, the music that was always playing in Mitchell’s head had stopped.

This solution of Eric’s had seemed stupid at first — songs about birds chirping weren’t exactly Fuck You, World. But now, as the world woke up and dragged Eric along with it, the birds weren’t the only music Mitchell was hearing.