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- 01/22/2017
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Flash In The Pan - 3. A Ripping Yarn
A response to Prompt 550 - First line
“There is no way I'm wearing that!”
Geoff stared in disbelief at the sartorial monstrosity Helen was offering him. She laughed at him although with some sympathy.
“Geoff, what else are you gonna wear for the gig this evening?”
He backed away from her slightly, still unable to take his eyes off … it. “Why can't I play in my shirtsleeves? Everything else is OK-ish …”
He looked down at his black jeans which were hardly regulation concert wear. Luckily, he was already wearing his concert lace-ups.
Helen sighed in exasperation. “Because … Rick won't allow you on-stage if you're not dressed properly. You know that.”
He spluttered. “And wearing that constitutes being dressed properly? Dear god! Rick's a bloody martinet – we're not pros, despite what he thinks.”
Geoff knew he was getting angry for no good reason. It was his own fault. Bloody film music programmes. They needed a pantechnicon's worth of kit. No wonder he'd forgotten half his concert gear.
He sighed resignedly. “OK … let's have a look at the wretched thing.”
The thing was a black velvet dinner jacket – a relic from the 1970s, tapered waist, lapels and all.
With any luck, he wouldn't be able to squeeze into it. He took it off her and shook his head at it. He managed to get one arm in a sleeve, but the other one was defeating him. Helen was watching his contortions with amusement.
“Well, give me a hand, will you? Please?”
She stifled her giggles, just about, and helped by holding the jacket's other sleeve at an appropriate angle.
God … only just. He wasn't fat as such … Beefy was his usual description of himself. He certainly couldn't do the buttons up, which wasn't a problem, really.
He flexed his arms and shoulders carefully. It was tight across his back and shoulders, alarmingly tight. He'd have to be bloody careful – no flamboyant gestures or anything like that. Trust him to pick an 'away' gig to be forgetful. He wasn't about to miss the rehearsal by driving another round trip of ninety miles just to pick up what he'd forgotten. If it'd been something vital like the glock or the xylo, that would've been completely different.
He felt around in the jacket pockets and fished out something. A bow tie. Another velvet abomination.
Helen sniggered. “You can't not wear them both. They'd really suit you …”
She pointed at the crumpled piece of velvet in his hand and chortled.
“I have my own bow tie, thank you.” He couldn't help sounding defensive when it came to the subject of him and his dress sense. He'd never won prizes, but that didn't mean he'd be happy to come across as a total prick. He looked at his watch. Only fifteen minutes to the start of the rehearsal.
“And where the fuck is Linda? She should've been here ages ago. She knew there was a mountain of stuff to get ready. I get it all here – is it really too much to ask?”
Helen frowned at him. “What's rattled your cage this afternoon? It's not like you to get so pissed off.”
He took a deep breath and let it out again, slowly. “Sorry, sorry … Tony's not well again. I got bugger all sleep last night. Then we had to go to the primary care centre first thing this morning, just in case.”
Helen was all concern and sympathy. “Poor you, and poor Tony.” She kissed him on the cheek and gave him a quick hug. He managed a weak smile in return.
He carefully extracted himself from the borrowed dinner jacket and draped it over the back of his seat.
“Anyway … I suppose I'd better pass on my thanks, god help me, to whoever blew the dust off this …” He pulled a face. “Do you know who it was?”
Helen smiled. “The chairman of the festival organising committee, apparently. And, he wants it back in one piece. Some sort of sentimental value …”
Definitely no musical histrionics then … “OK.”
The rehearsal was going along as it usually did, for this sort of programme, at least. They topped and tailed most things because there was never enough rehearsal time. The percussion section were getting fed up of preparing for entries that never materialised. Then, the conductor, in his wisdom, decided that Star Wars needed rather more work.
Geoff tried to rouse himself from his torpor. It didn't help that his mind kept on going back to Tony and his diabetes. Even something fairly trivial could send his blood sugar levels haywire. They'd been more than usually volatile recently. It was something they wished would fade into the background, but instead, it lurked, close by. He knew Tony was perfectly capable of monitoring himself and adjusting his insulin pump as necessary. It didn't stop him from worrying, though.
A call to attention came from the podium. “OK … let's take it from letter C. … In four …”
Letter C? Where? What? He mouthed his questions to Linda who was closest to him on the stage. Before she could reply, he recognised where they were.
Oh, there. Hnnn … Umpteen bars rest later. He slid back into his thoughts …
“And, if the cymbals would be so kind as to join us …”
He jerked back to life in his seat, aware that he was suddenly the focus of unwelcome attention.
What'd he missed? Oh, fuck … “Sorry. Won't happen again.”
He made a show of getting his pencil out and marking his part. The conductor wasn't fooled and looked straight at Geoff.
“It's only one of the loudest cymbal entries in the entire thing.”
Yes. He knew.
“Please don't miss it tonight. … Going from letter H, again.”
Geoff stared assiduously at the part on his stand. He tried to ignore the poisonous looks he knew his section principal would be giving him.
Bringing the section into disrepute and all that. Well, that's what bloody rehearsals were for. He'd be note-perfect in the concert.
At the interval, the whole section helped to take down anything that wasn't needed for the second half. Geoff took the opportunity to add another pair of cymbals to his armoury. He spent a couple of minutes making sure he could pick them up and play them without damaging the heirloom he was wearing. They were the heaviest pair he possessed. For single notes only – they were too much to handle otherwise.
Perfect for those notes in Star Wars … Satisfied, he went backstage to phone Tony, again.
“Hi, babe.”
Hi, yourself, big man. Not much has happened since the last time you phoned …
He laughed self-consciously. “I know. I fuss. I'm still not used it, you know, the diabetes and all?”
Of course, sweetie. You know, it'll be six months on Wednesday …
“You counting, are you? I'm not. It feels as though we've been together for ever.”
Except for the diabetes.
“OK … except for that. Stop rubbing it in, will you?”
Tony giggled. The five minute warning boomed over the tannoy.
Sweetie? Go out there and enjoy yourself. I'll still be here when you get back – horny, neglected …
Geoff snorted. “Yes. OK. I'll enjoy myself.”
Tony giggled again. Love you, you sexy toad. Bye.
Geoff gave the handset a sloppy kiss. “See ya soon, babe.”
Right, here was the big one coming up.
Geoff was stoked. The whole concert had gone really well as far as he was concerned and he loved the Star Wars music. Corny, possibly. Derivative, oh, yes. But still an amazing sound. He never failed to get caught up in it.
He carefully picked up the largest pair of cymbals and prepared. On cue, he swung into action, arms and body dramatically wielding their musical weapons, making almost as much visual impact as he produced sound.
Yay!
He flung his arms out wide to give each cymbal space to continue reverberating.
Wow!
He sat down, really pleased. God, he was hot. He felt a pleasant breeze on his back and under his arms … The jacket didn't feel so tight, all of a sudden …
Fuck.
I gave my editor / beta reader a day off, so any mistakes are most definitely mine.
Any comments or reviews are much appreciated.
Any comments or reviews are much appreciated.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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