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| Stitch Posts: 2593/2785 |
Hint for readability, try broader spaces in between paragraphs and quotations. Online readability is key to holding a reader.
The entire second section was a pain to read. If you're not going to have a purpose to a whole conversation, it's best to summarize it as non-conversation. Less is more. Otherwise, it's unnecessary banter that just makes the reader go puh, what the hell? I like your attempt at first person omniscient, and feel that it has quite a bit of potential, if you shy away from blatantly telling the reader what is happening. "He is standing by the door, waiting for us to go upstairs" seems unnecessary. That's fine, but I don't think it's a good observational sentence conducive to moving the story forward. Try to avoid common-use similes and clichés. "He stands head-and-shoulders above...us". There are other ways to convey height in a more impactful way. I'd say, if you kill the unnecessary dialogue or make it more meaningful, even in a foreshadowing way, you've got a greater story. Great story, though. Hard to write for the subject matter, of which I won't give away here to preserve for any other readers. |
| cityondown012510 Posts: 9/201 |
"A DENIAL!" screams Alan in a barely distinguishable, guttural voice.
As Alan and I hit the final chord in perfect harmony, Dan wails away on the drums like a madman, and Tommy strikes his final bass note, looking as calm as always. We had just finished playing our new cover of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" the whole way through for the first time. I look over at Alan, to see him panting slightly as he loosens the strap of his guitar. His long blond hair hangs over his flushed, sweaty face. Even in our practices, Alan plays like we're on stage at Madison Square Garden or something, thrashing around and headbanging like he's a true rock star. "I think that's enough for today, huh boys?" he pants. "After all, it is Jack's birthday, we might as well have the night off." We all voice our agreement, and begin to pack our stuff up. As I put my Gibson SG into the case, I look back at Danny Carter. I notice that, yet again, he's died his Mohawk. It's a vibrant shade of purple this time. Jesus, that kid changes his hair color more often than he changes his underwear, I think to myself. He puts down his drum sticks, and stands up. Only a small portion of his body is visible over the drum set even though he's standing. Despite being very small, he's one hell of a drummer. Tom Backus, my best friend since grade school, is already finished packing up his bass. He is standing by the door, waiting for us to go upstairs. The strong and silent type, he stands head and shoulders above the rest of us. Back in our early days, before Alan joined, Tom wrote most of our lyrics. He's brilliant, but gets excessively shy around people he isn't comfortable with. He's never been comfortable around Alan, who is a much more controlling person than me and Danny. Alan Hawk joined the band about six years ago, and has completely taken over. We started out as a crappy garage band of high school punks from Hamilton, New Jersey. We met Alan at a show in Trenton. We asked him to come chill with us one day, and he showed us what he could do on guitar. At the time, we weren't too great, and I wasn't much of a lead guitarist. So, we asked him to join the band, and I stepped back to play rhythm, while he took the lead. He also declared himself the singer and lyricist, because "Jack's voice sounds like a bunch of dying rabbits and your lyrics suck more than that chick in the front row". He's also the one that convinced us to come out to California so we could "make it big". Apparently, his version of making it big is playing in the same kinds of dive bars we did in Jersey, and having the four of us crammed into a shitty, three bedroom flat in Long Beach. Ever since he joined, we've been playing more of his music than ours, including a lot of Nirvana covers. Alan is completely obsessed with Nirvana. The only thing that he hasn't done to be more like Kurt Cobain is heroine. And, of course, shooting himself in the face with a shotgun. "Well come on boys, what do you say we head upstairs and have a few drinks to Jack's 27th birthday?" he says enthusiastically. We put our instruments in their storage areas, and bound up the stairs to the kitchen. ------------------------ "Dude, we should not be drinking this much the night before a show," Tom says, slurring his words as he does so. "Nah man, it's all good. We just gotta drink LOTS of water before we go to bed," laughs Alan. "Dude, I gotta take a piss, I'll be right back." Alan walks out of the room, and I turn to Tom. "So what're your thoughts on this?" I ask him. "On what?" he replies. "This whole deal, man. Comin' out to Cali to make it big hasn't gone quite as well as we would've hoped." "It could still turn around. We're getting better and better every day, you know?" "The eternal little optimist, aren't ya?" I sneer at him. "Come on man, even you have to see that this is a joke." "I will admit, it's not going quite as well as I expected." "We're not getting anywhere. This whole thing is just a waste of time! The best pay we ever got was that lame-ass ice sculpture in the kitchen!" I say shrilly. We sit in silence for a few minutes, both of us contemplating our unfortunate fate. "I think it's just about time to head back to Jersey, bro," I say quietly. "Head back to Jersey?! Now I know you've had too much to drink!" yells Alan, coming back into the room. "Now why the HELL would you even say such a stupid idea?" "We've got nothin' out here. At least back in Jersey we've got our friends, ya know?" I mutter, not meeting Alan's eyes. "Like we did back there? We're not gonna get signed to a label overnight, Jack. It takes time. It takes perseverance. That's why we came out here in the first place! We didn't come out here to give up!" "Alan, look, I know, I get what you're saying, but I just think maybe it's time to cut our losses and --" "No! We are going nowhere! We're so close to our big break, I can taste it, man! We're not gonna get signed out in the middle of nowhere in Jersey. We're right in the thick of things out here though! We're right in the middle of the biggest music scene in the world! It's only a matter of time until someone notices us. In the meantime, if you're not committed, maybe we should look for someone else," he says savagely. "I...I didn't...that's not what I meant," I say, ashamed. Alan stares intently at me for a few minutes, and then looks away, off into space. We sit in silence for another few minutes, and then Alan turns his attention back to me. "Well, what's it gonna be, Jack? You in, or are you out?" "I'm...I'm in." "Alright, that's what I like to hear!" Alan exclaims, giving me a high five. "Where did Dan go?" asks Tom abruptly. "He's in his room, talking to Ashley," answers Alan. "Jesus, he still hasn't broken up with her?" I ask, shocked. "She is still laboring under the delusion that we're coming back to Jersey sometime soon, and he's still too whipped to let her down easy," chuckles Alan. "I'm about to go in there right now and tell him to end it!" I yell, laughing. I walk down the stairs from the den, and take the shortcut through the kitchen to Danny's room. I open the door, still laughing. "Dude, I've had -- " The laugh dies the second I look into the room. Danny is lying on the bed in a pool of blood, with his wrist gashed open. His phone lies on the bed next to him, still open. I sink back against the wall, and fall to the ground, head between my knees. How could this have happened? I think back desperately for any signs of depression that Danny had been showing, while fighting back tears. I can't think of anything, and I begin to sob uncontrollably. Tom and Alan burst into the room, laughing, asking if I made him break up with Ashley yet. "Oh my god," says Tom in a whisper that is just barely audible over the deathly silence. Alan is staring at Danny's wrist, mesmerized. Tom just gapes in horror and shock at the pale, lifeless eyes of our friend, Danny Carter. He turns and begins to walk slowly out of the room. "Tom -- " "Not now, Jack. I just...I need to be alone right now. I'll come up to the room later. But...I need to think about things, for now." I say nothing, and Tom turns on his heel and walks out of the room. Alan continues to stare fixedly at Danny's mutilated wrist. Eventually, I gather myself, and drag him out of the room. He doesn't protest, nor does his gaze ever deviate from Danny's wrist until we're clear of the room. "Oh my God...how did this happen?" he asks in a shaky voice, once we're back in the den. We had walked by Tom in the kitchen. We think he was crying, but we can't be sure. He wouldn't even face us. "I don't know man...he must've had a reason that none of us knew about," I replied quietly. "Jesus...This is insane. I've never known someone that's...well...you know..." he says. "Yeah, me neither. Hey, I'll be right back. I gotta go splash some water on my face or something." I walk into the bathroom down the hall, and peer into the mirror. I look as pale as Danny did. It frightens me. I slap my cheeks a few times to try and get some of the color back in them, and then turn on the hot water. I splash some on my face, dry off with the towel, and sit down on the toilet and sob quietly. After a few minutes, I stand, splash some more water on my face, and walk slowly back to the den. Alan is lying there, still staring straight up at the ceiling from his position on the couch. We sit in silence for about 20 minutes, and then begin to tell stories about Danny. We sat there for a good two hours, trying to remember our friend as much as we could. "Is it just me, or is it getting really hot in here?" I ask, after we finish laughing about the time when Danny tried to jump over the four foot high hedge, blindfolded, back at Tom's house back in Jersey. "Yeah, it is. Were you messing with the thermostat or something?" "No, I didn't touch it. Maybe Tom was, though." "Yeah, probably." "I'm gonna go down and see. I wanted to go talk to him anyway. Hey, I'll be right back," I say. I stand and walk down the stairs, headed for the kitchen. The closer I get to the kitchen, the hotter the house becomes. Beads of sweat appear on my forehead as I step into the room. I try to scream, but my voice is caught in my throat. Hanging from the ceiling fan with a piece of orange cloth stuck in his mouth is Tom Backus, my best friend. He's dead. A huge puddle of water lies under his feet, and I notice that the ice sculpture is gone. Remembering one of me and Tommy's favorite riddle from when we were kids, I realize what he must have done. He hung himself by standing on the ice, and then he must have died when it melted. That would be why he turned the thermostat up so high. He must have wanted it to happen quick. My head begins to spin, and I turn around to try and get back up the stairs to find Alan. As I stumble up the staircase, a memory comes into my mind from a night in that very kitchen, three years ago. "Dude, this is hopeless. We suck, man!" shouted Danny. "No we don't, we're just having a rough start," replied Tom calmly. "If things don't get better with the band soon, I think we might have to think about college. This isn't getting us anywhere," I said with a sigh. "Sure, that's great for you two, but what about me? I ain't smart enough to get into no college!" Danny exclaimed. "Boys, boys, what's all the ruckus about?" asked Alan, sidling into the room. "This bullshit, man! You said we were gonna hit it big out in Cali! We haven't hit shit!" screamed Danny. "Oh, I knew it wouldn't be easy. But I promised you that we would hit it big, and we will, fellas," Alan retorted confidently. "How so?" I inquired cynically. "Think about it, guys. Van Gogh only sold one painting when he was alive. Now look at him. One of the most famous artists of all time!" Alan said slyly. "What do you mean?" asked Tom suspiciously. "What I mean is, all we have to do is make a name for ourselves, and we're in," replied Alan. "Well that's great, but at what a price?" said Tom harshly. "Whatever price it takes. Everything is worth sacrificing if it means cementing ourselves in with the rock legends, man." "Wait a second...you don't mean -- " I began, starting to catch on. "How epic would it be for not just one member, but a WHOLE BAND, to join the Forever 27 Club?" asked Alan with a gleam in his eye. "The what?" questioned Danny, confused. "The Forever 27 Club," answered Alan quickly. "A group of elite musicians that have all died at the age of 27. The group was 'started' during the period of 1969-1971, during which four of the time's most prominent musicians died at that age. Brian Jones, from the Stones, drowned in '69. Hendrix choked on his own vomit in '70. Janis Joplin overdosed on heroine in '70, and Jim Morrison died of heart failure in '71. 23 years later, Kurt Cobain committed suicide when he was 27 years old, after proclaiming many times as a kid that he wished to join the Forever 27 Club. Don't you guys see? If an entire band dies at age 27, we would be included with the likes of The Doors, Janis Joplin, Hendrix, The Stones, and Nirvana! We'd be rock gods!" "Well...he does have a point," I said slowly. "Jack, you can't be serious!" shouted Tom. "You've said it yourself a hundred times, Tom! Everything we do on earth is just a build-up to death! What better way to go out than as the most popular band of our time! And if we can't do it with our playing, why not do it whatever way we can?!" I asked. "I guess...I guess you're right," Tom admitted. "So, let's make a pact. If, by the time we're all 27, we haven't made it big yet...we join the Forever 27 Club," said Alan, his eyes shining excitedly. We all put our hands in, and agreed upon it, sealing our fates forever. Or so we thought. Over the next three years, of course, we had thought better of it. We decided that it was a rash decision made in a rough time, and that, of course, we wouldn't really do it. We never spoke of it again. We stopped playing the song that we wrote about it. We didn't even make mention of it in reminiscence, even though this is the first night that we're all 27 at the same time. As I scour the house, looking for Alan, I can't help but think that maybe someone overheard us that night. Maybe that's what's happening, I think. Danny didn't kill himself, and neither did Tom. Someone is out to get us, because they must've eavesdropped on what we said and made sure that it happened! I begin to get extremely paranoid, and my search for Alan becomes more frantic. He's not anywhere on the bottom floor, and I can't seem to find him at all. I finally decide that he's either bailed himself, or that it's too late for him. I sprint to my room, and open the door. I look across the room, still shaking from the shock of finding Tom and Danny dead, and from the paranoia. Across the room, Alan is sitting in the chair by my bed! I break into a grateful smile, thankful that he's okay. He's got my round-back Ovation, and is sitting on the chair, playing with his eyes closed, seemingly unaware of my presence. The song sounds familiar, but I can't place it. His long, blond hair covers part of his face; it strikes me right then how much of a spitting image he is of his idol, Kurt Cobain. He is smiling serenely, and continues to play. "Alan, dude, Tom's dead! We need to get the hell out of here!" I shout frantically. His smile just widens as he continues to play. "Come on man, let's go!" I yell, as he continues to sit there and do absolutely nothing but play the guitar. Almost drowned out by the sounds of the guitar, I can hear a shrill beeping noise. I beg Alan to come with me, getting desperate at this point. I notice two objects sitting on the arms of the chair that he's sitting in. As I step closer, he begins to sing, and I finally recognize the song. It's Forever 27, the song that we wrote that night that we made that horrible pact. "What the hell are you doing man?! Someone killed Tom and Danny, and they're probably gunning for us too!" He remains sitting in the chair, playing, his smile widening every second. He plays on, without a care in the world. The beeping noise gets faster and louder. I take a step closer to the chair, and can now see the objects sitting on the arms of the chair. A bloodstained razorblade sits on Alan's left, and a torn up piece of orange cloth on his right. "What have you done?" I say quietly, causing his smile to grow even more wide as he reaches the chorus of the song. His voice rings out, unusually clearly, as he sings: Let's slit our wrists, doesn't matter if, we go to hell or heaven We'll party like it's '69 and be Forever 27 The last thing I see, as the bomb goes off and a tremendous explosion rocks the room, is the face of Alan Hawk, looking like the happiest man on earth as flames wash over us. |
