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Old 12-14-2002, 07:18 PM   #1
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Join Date: Dec 2002
Location: Pennsylvania, USA
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An original short story by me...Take a look!

I've been working on this short story for my Advanced Composition class, and I think you guys will enjoy it. First of all, let me say that if I find this story on ANY sight other than this one, or if anyone copies and pastes this to hand in for an English class, I will personally hunt you down and make sure you are never allowed to post on this forum again. I will get your teacher's e-mail address, and make sure you get an "F" for plagiarism. Anyway, enjoy the story. If you have any questions about it, suggestions, criticisms (constructive), or thoughts in general, feel free to post.

Story by Jonathan <no I’m not telling you my last name>
Draft #2

IN THE KEY OF FUSCHIA MINOR

Callow Records, Inc.
42 Willow Lane
San Francisco, CA 94116
October 24th, 2002

I was only 18 when I experienced a night I’ll never forget. Now I know what you’re thinking, “Is this guy living in a creative vacuum with his ‘night I’ll never forget’ trash? What the hell kind of opener is that?” but hear me out. It’s not every day you get to see a 19-year-old kid tripping out on who knows what and playing an old bass guitar chewing out a club full of hicks. Got your interest yet? Good.
Ten years ago, I wasn’t exactly in the best of shape. There was no degree hanging on my wall, that’s for sure. I always wanted to be a street performer, like the kind you see on the street corners in my hometown, good ol’ New York. Whether they were playing the sax or juggling china plates, they always had this “magic” about them, you know what I mean? They didn’t have much money, but they had soul. That’s what I wanted.
My dad thought otherwise. He was a colonel in the army, and “no son of his was gonna make a living wandering willy-nilly around New York tootin’ on a kazoo, no siree.” His son was going to military school; his son was gonna do his country proud. He just never listened to me,
never.
To make a long story short, I flew the coop in ‘92. It was just me, my guitar, and the greatest city on Earth. To make another long story short, I didn’t find any soul. I did find out that not everyone wanted to throw money into the guitar case of the kid playing Clapton. Being hungry really, really sucked. I had to get out of the city, away from the stares and the drugs and the booze. Oh, the booze. That’s another thing I found in New York. That unshaved homeless guy with the whiskey bottle in the paper bag that I always used to laugh at? Well, that turned out to be me. I managed to sober up for a couple of hours and hitchhiked as far as I could go. I ended up in a town up in northern New York halfway between civilization and the boondocks.
Unfortunately, it was all of the Big Apple that I hated and none of it that I loved.
I didn’t realize that, though, even when the asshole driving the Chevy shoved me out of his door and onto the cold, hard ground of reality. Hey, it wasn’t the best entrance I’d ever made, but it worked for the moment. I saw a sign in the distance. “Welcome to Weltlich, an
All-American Town,” it said. Weird name. Anyway, by that time, that gnawing urge for a drink was back. Hey, gimme some credit; I didn’t have a drink for five hours. I wandered up to the nearest bar; I didn’t have to walk very far to find it. The sign said “er.”



Gerodi’s Bar was much like all the other bars in

Weltlich, and, as a matter of fact, much like all the other bars

everywhere. Just imagine a bar on the wrong side of the

tracks in your town, pretend it’s dirtier and more run down

than it actually is, and you’ll have a good picture of Gerodi’s

in your mind. The pink neon sign on the front was written in

cursive; the lettering would have been more appropriately

used for words like “hookers” or “peepshows $.25." Only

the “E” and the “R” of “Gerodi’s” were still in working order,

and the “R” was on its last legs, flickering on and off every

once in a while.

The building looked fairly small from the outside,

with pea green stucco walls gradually crumbling. An old

blackened ivy plant resiliently climbed the walls. It seemed

to be mocking the exhaust fumes that constantly tried to kill

it, daring them to come closer. The narrow street over which

the bar loomed looked like something straight out of a

Charles Dickens novel.

Gerodi’s was fairly large on the inside. It was so

filled with smoke that it could have made a good set for a B-

rated horror movie, had the smoke been fog. It boasted a

small dance floor and a pathetic excuse for a stage.

Occasionally, the bar utilized this stage for karaokee nights,

during which some of the patrons would stumble around the

stage and “sing” in a drunken slur. Speaking of patrons,

Gerodi’s had more than its fair share of alcoholics, no-

hopers, sluts, dirtbags, and other fine upstanding citizens.

They crowded the bar stools, they milled about on the dance

floor, and they drank their problems away, only to be rudely

reminded of them by mind-numbing hangovers the next

morning.

A van several blocks away trundled along toward

Gerodi’s. It contained the members of “Etc.,” a curious band

that was truly a labor of love by its creators. They were on

the way to their next gig. “I don’t like the looks of this

place,” said Cameron, the band’s drummer.

Kevin, a grungy-looking fellow with a goatee and

spiky necklace who played guitar in all its forms,

replied, “Cameron, lighten up. If any guy gives you trouble,

you know you could kick his ass any day.”

Cameron stuck out her tongue and playfully

punched Kevin in the shoulder. “If you weren’t driving, I

would’ve hit you harder,” she retorted. Cameron stood about

5 feet, 4 inches, and was slightly plump, although not

unpleasantly so. Her black hair was done up in 2 braids

which hung over her crimson shirt, which reminded one of a

painter’s smock. “Hey Perrin!” she said. “Perrin, yoo-hoo,

anybody home?”

“Huh, whuh?” said the figure in the back of the

van as he snapped out of his daydream. It was a nice

daydream, one in which he died, went to heaven, and played

guitar with Jimi Hendrix to entertain the angels. Perrin had

been having that one a lot lately, and it sometimes took

him a while to be “rudely awakened,” as he liked to put it.

He had the manner of an absent-minded professor, a sort of

detached nervousness about him. His dirty-blonde hair stuck

out in all directions, and combined with the 4-day-old stubble

on his chin, it made him look as if he was pretending to be

older than his nineteen years, although that was not the

case.

Bubba, who was sort of a “jack of all trades” for

the band, couldn’t resist chiming in. Raised on the classics,

he played keyboard and violin and occasionally did

turntables. Looking at him, you’d think he was a bouncer,

with his shaved head and 215-pound frame, not a violin-

player. “I think Perrin was daydreaming about all the fiiiiiine

women he’s gonna meet at, uh...where are we goin’ again?”

“It’s called ‘Gerodi’s,’ and from what I’ve heard

about the place, I wouldn’t touch one of those bitches with a

ten-foot pole,” Perrin said, suppressing a laugh.

SLAP! Cameron’s hand struck Perrin’s

face. “Why, Perrin Mandar, do you kiss your mother with that

mouth of yours?” she said. The whole van exploded in

laughter. Even Perrin’s red, stinging face managed to contort

into a grin.

“Ah well,” sighed Kevin, after the laughter died

down. “This place has to be better than our last gig. I think

you all remember Timmy’s birthday party; am I correct?”

Perrin’s eyes narrowed into little slits. “Yeah, I

remember. Little Timmy cried to his dad that he didn’t like

us, and they replaced us with that retarded clown. What was

his name again?”

“Jesus, what got up your ass? Calm down, man,”

said Bubba. “And I believe his name was ‘Mr. Bubbles.’”

“I know, I know,” said Perrin. “I guess it was kind

of funny, now that I look back on it. It’s just that, I don’t

know, it’s like nobody realizes what we’re trying to do, ya

know? I see these manufactured, no-talent

corporate ‘musicians’ on TRL every single goddamn day. I’m

not asking for some huge record deal; I just want to get a

decent gig for once.”

As the van approached Gerodi’s, the members of

Etc. silently consoled themselves with the hope that this

would be a “decent gig for once.” Kevin found a parking

space, and the band quickly sized the place up. “Hey Perrin,

I think that whatever you heard about this place is probably

true,” Bubba said as his face crinkled up as if he’d smelled a

long-dead animal.

“Er,” said Kevin.

“Er what?” asked Cameron.

“Er. Just look at the sign.”

“Hey Kev, that was almost funny!” Perrin quipped.

“Perrin, shut up.”

A burly man in an apron, apparently the

bartender, ran out of the bar as fast as his thick legs would

carry him. “You guys better get the hell in there and play

something! That crowd’s gettin’ rough!” he shouted.

Cameron smirked. “Nice to meet you too,” she

whispered under her breath.

Etc. walked through the bar’s swinging doors and

was greeted by the musty aroma of sweat, body odor,

alcohol, and cigarette smoke. The crowd cheered; they

hadn’t had a live band in quite a while. The band’s hopes

lifted, even though the people on the dance floor didn’t

exactly look like music afficionados. Maybe the band

wouldn’t be replaced by a clown this time.

Since the crowd was beginning to grow impatient,

the band set up their equipment in merely ten minutes.

Perrin picked up his bass guitar, walked up to the beat-up old

microphone, and said, “Are you guys ready to rock?” The

crowd cheered yet again. Inebriated though they were, they

were playing into the palm of his hand. Perrin was getting

good vibes.

Etc. started off with a song they had recently

written, “Amputate My Heart.” Perrin began strumming a

slow, ominous bass line. Cameron came in with a light

tapping of the cymbals. This went on for about two and a

half minutes. Someone in the back of the crowd yelled, “Sing

the damn song already!” Etc. kept playing; they had thick

skin. Ghostly pipe organ chords from Bubba’s keyboard

began to waft through the bar like the thick smoke. The

rhythm of the song was finally established, and Kevin began

strumming the main melody on his synth guitar. Perrin’s

heavily distorted voice floated through the tinny speakers,

completing the transformation of the bar from a roach motel

to an eerie, beautiful symphony hall.

The people on the dance floor looked at each

other nervously. Their line of thinking went something like

this: they could not dance to the music or sing along;

therefore, their chances of getting laid were markedly

reduced.

Seven minutes and forty-five seconds later, Etc.

finished their song. The crowd wasn’t “ready to rock”

anymore. When Bubba picked up his violin and began the

opening notes of the next song, someone screamed, “Go

home!” Etc. noticed that one, but they let it slip by; the

crowd would come around soon, hopefully. As Perrin reached

the climax of the song, a gorgeous reflection on the meaning

of death, something whistled through the air. A beer bottle,

which missed Perrin by a fraction of an inch, fell on the stage

and spider-webbed into a thousand pieces of glass. Silence

descended on Gerodi’s for the first time in years.

Miraculously, no one was hurt. Two years of rage that had

been building up inside of Perrin, shaken up by countless

taunting crowds, bubbled forth. “WHO THE FUCK THREW

THAT?!” he screamed. No one answered. Cameron grabbed

Perrin’s arm.

“Perrin, come on. Let’s go. This is getting out of hand.”

“OUT OF HAND? OUT OF HAND? I’LL SHOW THESE FUCKERS

WHAT OUT OF HAND IS!!!”

Cameron motioned to the band. They grabbed what they

could carry in one trip and left. They all knew Perrin, and he

was simply out of control.

“You fucking Neanderthals!” Perrin shouted. He

pressed his face up to the microphone, practically putting it in

his mouth, snarling at the audience like an angry pitbull with

a chew toy. “Why the fuck did God even put you on this

earth? You’re a waste of fucking oxygen! Go home and

vomit in the fuckin’ toilet, if you even have one! HOPEFULLY

YOU’LL PASS OUT IN IT AND DROWN YOURSELVES!!! The

crowd recoiled. Although they were intoxicated beyond

belief, they heard the suddenly imposing man on stage loud

and clear. But Perrin Mandar wasn’tfinished with them yet.

“You should all be CASTRATED, so you’re

DIRTBAG SEED WON’T GET SPREAD AROUND THE EARTH

ANYMORE!!” Sweat ran down Perrin’s body, which was shaking

with unbridled fury; his breathing became heavy. Perrin was

rapidly wearing himself out.

“AND ANOTHER THING!” He was beginning to

wheeze. “And another, cough, and anoth... Aw, fuck it. Why

am I wasting my goddamn time?” Perrin stormed off the

stage and out the side door. Just before he left, he thought

he noticed a man with a full beard and a guitar strapped to

his back. Didn’t Kevin go home already? Kevin’s beard

wasn’t that big, was it? Everything was starting to bleed

together.

Perrin stumbled into the alleyway. He didn’t think

anyone from the bar was going to come after him and didn’t

care if they did. He gazed up at the stars, a million points of

white light. They stung Perrin’s eyes. He spread his arms

out, Christ-like, and collapsed on a heap of garbage. The

last thing he remembered before passing out was the colors

dancing in his mind. A purple flat soared by a turquoise

chord in the key of fuschia minor. Normally, at a time like

this, Perrin would be grabbing a pen and any scrap of paper

he could find to translate the visions in his mind’s eye into

notes and words, a medium everyone else could understand.

Right now, though, he was just too tired. At that moment, if

he could’ve bored a hole in the ground and crawled into it, he

would’ve. Perrin’s eyelids sank; everything was sooooo

hazy. His head slumped back and he remembered no more.



Well, there you have it. Quite a story, eh? I told you I wouldn’t disappoint. Anyway, you’re probably thinking, “Yeah, yeah, great story, but what’s the point?” I’m telling ya, these guys need a record deal. They need to get heard, goddammit! They won’t be the next radio hit, but they could still make you guys a lot of money. In that dive bar in Weltlich, I found soul.

Sincerely,
Randy Cunningham


Randall P. Cunningham
514 W. 42nd Street
New York, NY 10138
October 24th, 2002



The vice president of Calloway Records put down

the folded up piece of paper. “You know,” he said, “these

guys sound like something...different. Something this label

needs. And that guy, you know, the crazy one, he could be

the next big personality in rock.” A smirk found its way to his

face. “It’s too bad we’ll never find the poor schmuck! Ha ha

ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

“That’s why I like you Jim,” said the president,

between chuckles. “You always had a good sense of humor.

I’m up for some coffee. Starbucks sound good?”

“Yeah.”

“Good man. I’m buying.”

The president and the vice president, arm in arm,

like father and son, stepped onto the elevator, but not

before sharing a final guffaw.

In a small cubicle several floors below the

president’s office lurked a small figure. He sat, bleary-eyed,

staring at his computer monitor. His fingers hammered

across the keyboard like pistons in a finely tuned machine.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap. He concentrated hard on

the productivity charts, the projected sales graphs, and the

financial estimates for the next fiscal quarter. Tap tap tap

tap tap tap tap. Who knows? Maybe someday, he would get

his own office.

Every once in a while, the colors still swirled in his

head, but he quickly shoved them aside, which was becoming

easier to do by the day, and replaced them with sales figures

and numbers. Who knows? Maybe his new office would have

its own coffee maker, and maybe even a nice view. Tap tap

tap tap tap tap tap tap.
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Old 12-19-2002, 09:53 PM   #2
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Join Date: Nov 2002
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Good story, though a little confusing until the end. Perhaps in normal paper form, the narrative shifts in voice would be easier to identify. I like the idea of a letter telling most of the story, with the last section omnipotently resolving the story, dividing the shiny, soul-seeking, starry-eyed optimism from the coldness of reality. I just read Frances Burney's Evelina and the whole thing is told in correspondence; it was the 17th century, though, so that's what people did. It takes balls to put your work up for criticism, so I'm going to criticize a little bit.

As stated before, your story begins confusedly. Though form may have something to do with it, the narrator does not traditionally speak in the second person, to "you". Of course it is a letter, but I didn't know that until the end. Also, the letter was written by this street performer, so he doesn't necessarily know that the way to address record company execs is impersonally with a knife hidden behind your back. The diction and grammar of the street performer was too good to be completely ignorant, though. I don't know how this problem can be resolved - maybe dirty up the tone; make it seem like this is written on cocktail napkins at "er". One small quibble - the name of the record company changes from Callow to Calloway.

Other than that, I'd say it is a good story, although a little disunifying to be "the story" of one man finding soul. He could be selling his soul to the devil and find a lot more of what the Mississippi Delta Blues players call "soul."
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Old 12-23-2002, 11:30 AM   #3
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Join Date: Dec 2002
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Hmmm... It shouldn't be too difficult to realize that the story is a letter, being as there is an address at the top of it. Also, the narration of the letter is single-spaced, while the third-person omniscient sections are double-spaced. However, to make it clearer, I think I will add a salutation at the beginning of the letter, such as "Dear Sirs." I'll definitely have to fix the inconsistency in the name of the record company. Thanks for pointing that out; I didn't notice it. I didn't want the narrator's diction and grammar to be "completely ignorant" because, as you may recall, the narrator's father was an army officer, so it is safe to assume that the narrator grew up in a relatively educated home. Because of the date at the top of the letter, you know that the letter is written in 2002; the narrator says that the story happened in 1992. Remember, the narrator was a street performer in 1992; he never said that he is still a street performer in 2002. Through the narrator's grammar and diction and the fact that he knew how to compose a letter, I tried to show that he had "cleaned himself up" in the past ten years. There are really two stories going on in the story. The story of the narrator, of a man's journey to find "soul," is like the frame; the story of Perrin, of the death of "soul," creativity, passion, and dreams, is like the painting. Thanks a lot for the tips. My Advanced Comp teacher really scrutinizes papers that our class hands in, so he should give me some additional pointers. Thanks again for the pointers; they will help me as I polish my story until it shines.
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