Cigarettes and Valentines, chapter 1
"Oh, Sweetie, no!" cried mum, half passed out on the couch as he walked in sporting the new haircut a friend had given him. She was drunk again. Or stoned. Didn't matter.
He Went into the kitchen, and finding two of his brothers there, slipped out the back door. He made his way to the train tracks on Christie Road, his special, secret place. He sat in the middle of the tracks, pulled a joint out of his pocket and lit it. Lying back, he relished the feeling of being alone and let his thoughts wander to nothing in particular.
After a while, a rumbling in the tracks told him to move. Stumbling off the hot-pink tracks onto the purple grass, he made his way home. Was it just him, or were the trees upside-down? He pushed his way through the front gate and spied his father coming up the path. He shouted, running towards the apparition, but as he got close, his dad morphed into a flock of fluro fruit bats and flew away.
He cried out in frustration and threw the other joint in his pocket to the ground. He was going to crush it; he didn't want to see things like that when he was high. Even though his dad passed away years ago, it was still hard. But then again, he could get good money for it at school, so he picked it up, dusted it off and put it back in his pocket.
~*~
As the few teenagers cheered, he belted sound out of his guitar and sang as if to a stadium of fans. His band, his music's his life. Sweet Children were renowned, in their local underground scene at least, for their amazing live shows. They could play to two people as if to two thousand. After the show as he was packing up, a girl approached him. The rest is history. Four years later they're married with a son. He couldn't be happier.
"I'm gonna give him everything I never had," he thought as the needle bit into his arm and Tiny began the outline of his son's name.
~*~
He roared a string of profanities and began to tear the room apart. "No! It can't be gone!" he thought frantically. More profanities. He ripped drawers out and heaved them at the walls and windows. He stalked about the room, still cursing. Kicking the walls did little to satiate his need to hurt something.
They'd stolen it! STOLEN IT! The master tape, the goddamn computer! They had worked for a year on that album. They had no copies yet, and it's gone.
The studio was totaled by the time the rest of the band arrived. Their reaction was similar to his. What he hadn't trashed, they reduced to splinters. After a while, the three of them sat on the floor amidst the wreckage. "What the hell do we do no-"
"Two minutes!" yelled someone outside the door. The sound snapped him out of his reverie. He smirked at the memories. His mum sends him hate mail. He'd had a second son. Those idiots that stole their album... They'd made a better one.
He slung his guitar over his head and strutted onstage to hundreds of thousand of fans.
He Went into the kitchen, and finding two of his brothers there, slipped out the back door. He made his way to the train tracks on Christie Road, his special, secret place. He sat in the middle of the tracks, pulled a joint out of his pocket and lit it. Lying back, he relished the feeling of being alone and let his thoughts wander to nothing in particular.
After a while, a rumbling in the tracks told him to move. Stumbling off the hot-pink tracks onto the purple grass, he made his way home. Was it just him, or were the trees upside-down? He pushed his way through the front gate and spied his father coming up the path. He shouted, running towards the apparition, but as he got close, his dad morphed into a flock of fluro fruit bats and flew away.
He cried out in frustration and threw the other joint in his pocket to the ground. He was going to crush it; he didn't want to see things like that when he was high. Even though his dad passed away years ago, it was still hard. But then again, he could get good money for it at school, so he picked it up, dusted it off and put it back in his pocket.
~*~
As the few teenagers cheered, he belted sound out of his guitar and sang as if to a stadium of fans. His band, his music's his life. Sweet Children were renowned, in their local underground scene at least, for their amazing live shows. They could play to two people as if to two thousand. After the show as he was packing up, a girl approached him. The rest is history. Four years later they're married with a son. He couldn't be happier.
"I'm gonna give him everything I never had," he thought as the needle bit into his arm and Tiny began the outline of his son's name.
~*~
He roared a string of profanities and began to tear the room apart. "No! It can't be gone!" he thought frantically. More profanities. He ripped drawers out and heaved them at the walls and windows. He stalked about the room, still cursing. Kicking the walls did little to satiate his need to hurt something.
They'd stolen it! STOLEN IT! The master tape, the goddamn computer! They had worked for a year on that album. They had no copies yet, and it's gone.
The studio was totaled by the time the rest of the band arrived. Their reaction was similar to his. What he hadn't trashed, they reduced to splinters. After a while, the three of them sat on the floor amidst the wreckage. "What the hell do we do no-"
"Two minutes!" yelled someone outside the door. The sound snapped him out of his reverie. He smirked at the memories. His mum sends him hate mail. He'd had a second son. Those idiots that stole their album... They'd made a better one.
He slung his guitar over his head and strutted onstage to hundreds of thousand of fans.
