Novel Treatments / Garage Band Anthems
Being alone isn’t something I’ve ever handled well… and come to think of it, it’d never been a problem until two weeks after Blake’s latest absconding. If idle hands are the devil’s workshop, one can only imagine what works could be done with a hollow heart. Rotting away in my room, with only the company of my bass guitar, I had quickly forgotten how it felt to reign over the word – to own it. In two weeks’ time, I had switched gears – spun a web of depression I had no idea how to pull myself from. A web quite similar to those which had started to grow on Blake’s guitar… and those which entangled a sorrow in my heart.
Poor Chase Hughes, the pathetic fool I am. Poor, desolate, selfish bastard… who did I think I was kidding? I put on the act, all right. I once had the world in the palm of my hands, only to carry it all on my shoulders – oh, the price you pay for treachery. That smirk I’d shot in every direction of every girl whose heart I’d crushed, the sickening sneer I’d so shrewdly sent in every teacher’s direction, it was now haunting me in my own dreams. Those hateful looks, the infliction, the instigation… it was tampering with the conscience I never knew I had.
My former question had been, Who am I without my bass? That question, which had soon evolved into something far less superficial, it regressed to the true demonstration of my own personal growth – an example of my agony. I now ask myself, Who am I without my best friend?
In our weakest of moments, we find what it is we truly love. You can buy another guitar at a store… regardless of the former attachment, they are replicable. Blake Ferarro, it’s been two weeks, and I’m already wondering how I’m ever going to sleep at night. I’m wondering how I’ll have the temerity to put food to my lips or stare the rest of the guys in the face. I thought to myself, I have no right to even touch that bass without him here playing along with me. I have no desire to do this alone – my passion has withered away in a moment of self-disgust. Chase Hughes, heartbreaker of the town, untouchable, inconceivable, victorious Chase… he has just fallen from his throne.
It was a moment like this that had reality caving in on me… crashing down like a weathered, rotting roof. Oh, it hits you so hard… and when you’re least prepared for the damages. It was a moment that had no better significance, no better lesson than I could have ever asked for.
I was too involved in such thoughts to acknowledge the knock at my basement window. The quiet, subtle knock that only a concerned, hesitant friend would bestow.
Scarlet’s timing itself couldn’t have been better. Her instinct, the hurt I knew she shared, her refusal to endure it in her own, agonizing seclusion, it somehow all drove her to my basement door.
She allowed herself inside, making her way to the bed I was laying on, and rested her head on my shoulder. “You miss him, don’t you?” she whispered.
I shrugged her away, needing her pity, but refusing it. I found the energy to leave my bed for the first time in hours, feeling the sting of pins and needles in my knees. I grabbed Blake’s guitar, his most beloved possession, and locked it in the closet. I did this without dignifying little Scarlet Hayes with a word or even a glance.
“So you’re just going to rot away?” A hint of aggravation arose in her tone. “Do you even hear me?”
I slammed the closet door, glad to have the bloody guitar out of sight… and better sooner than later out of mind. I rested an arm on the door, leaning on it, and staring at Scarlet, silently challenging her to continue. My expression urging, Go ahead, what else have you got? I live for curve balls.
She glared at me, although I couldn’t tell what for. She’d not been invited, she had no moral obligation to me – to my personal agony that was none of her business.
“You’re so selfish,” she said indifferently. “You really have some pride issues, too.”
I shrugged, feeling like my old, antagonizing self again. Feeling as though insulting her with not a single word had accomplished something… and had put my own sorrows on a temporary hold.
“I came here to check up on you,” she tried.
I couldn’t help but respond, “I’ve been fine all day, Scarlet. I’m writing music, eating, breathing; pissing you off… everything appears to be the same, doesn’t it?”
She returned my very own, signature smirk. “You’re not fooling anyone, Chase Hughes. You know what the guys are talking about, don’t you?”
“I’m sure I do… seeing as how I’d know before you would.”
That smirk, my own weapon being used against me, it twisted to an expression of fanatical aggression. “Funny, because I was told not to tell you.”
“Well, you’d better get going on your merry way before I being to pry,” I insisted sarcastically, trying to exemplify my lack of interest.
“Blake’s not coming home, Chase.”
“Blake is coming home, because that’s what Blake does. He’s all sour about a bunch of petty crap, but he’ll come home when he realizes there’s nowhere else to go. He has no money… what do you think he’s going to do, Scarlet? You really think he’d leave us behind? He left his guitar here… and mad as he might be, he’s not abandoning it forever because he has too much pride to stare me in the face.”
Her eyes dropped to the floor, this time. She hadn’t the nerve to provoke me, to strike a nerve harder than she was about to just by insisting, “Why didn’t you just apologize?”
My initial, subconscious response: I got nothin’.
I walked over to Scarlet, and knelt down on my knees before her, at the foot of the bed. I took her by the chin so I could see the look of despair that reflected in my own eyes, a moment of honesty for both of us. I made her look at me for a good, solid moment before saying, “It’s ok that you blame me for this.”
She burst into tears, and hugged me like I was all that she had left. Digging her fingers into my shirt, grasping it in her fists, she sobbed the way I’d wanted to all day. She lost herself, and it was then I realized.
I lied to her, because I had to lie to myself. “Why are you so upset? He’ll be back… I promise, ok? Jesus, will you just get it together? He’ll come home, you know he will.” I repeated the same empty words over and over… I couldn’t convince her.
It was minutes later, maybe five or ten, when she pulled herself together enough to sit back again. Mascara had run down from her lashes and chased the lines of her cheekbones. The whites of her eyes were reddened from the salt in them. She kissed me on the forehead, and frowned at me.
“I know what you want from me, Scarlet… I just don’t have it in me, ok? You can blame me for all of this, you don’t have to ever forgive me for it, either. I’m just asking that you understand this much. You want a reaction, right? You want a sign of some kind of emotion… you’re a girl, you need to know that I’m a human being. I understand it, ok? I understand it, but it’s not something I can grant you right now. I’m numb. I’m shoving it all to the back of my mind.”
She shook her head, failing to do the one thing I’d asked of her – to understand. “You cared about him, didn’t you?”
“Cared? I still do, that’s a given –“
“It’s not a given, Chase. It’s not when you’re just sitting here twiddling your thumbs, waiting for him to show up. He’s gone, and you need to face it. He’s not coming back.”
I couldn’t help but scoff at the ignorance of her comment. “Oh? Where’s he going to go, sweetheart? He’s just going to start a new life somewhere? How many times has he run away in the past six months? Let’s see… five? Six, maybe? Quite frankly, I’ve lost count.”
She grabbed the pillow on my bed, and hugged it. She fell down, relaxing her muscles, and shutting her eyes. Every bit of energy she’d left had clearly washed away with her last tears. I admired the strength and modesty she’d had to lean on me – the realist that she was in a situation that was hard enough for us both to face. I smiled at her, though her eyes weren’t open to witness it.
In an exhausted mumble, the words, “Can I just sleep here? I don’t want to sleep alone,” managed to escape her lips. Strands of hair had fallen on her face, and she was no sooner asleep than I had time to put the covers up to her chin.
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This 111 word review has not been unlocked.
Like the plotline, the writing ran well and characters were real enough.
A few words are either mispelt or wrong words eg repilcable I think should be replaceable ? The only way to get these fixed is to re-read a million times – personally the worst job on the planet.
Narration is difficult particularly when the narrator is a character as well, you did a pretty good job but a few issues make the reader stop and think ‘would I think that or say that’ etc. When you read it try to think would someone actually think that way.
In a book some things are allowed that don’t happen in real life, the rules are sometimes grey so becareful not to accept everyone elses veiw, professor Grammarship has a way but not all readers study under him so it is important that YOU think it works.
On to your notes, it wasn’t difficult to slip into the story even if it was halfway through, this shows you have a lot of talent, don’t waste it lets have the story finished !!
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This 57 word review has not been unlocked.
Overall, an interesting read. Some small issues that could be addressed.
For instance, there needs to be more description, greater detail, to pull of a story like this. It will make the story a lot longer, but it’s acutally necessary here.
For example, a real musician, not a groupie, would be writing about the kind of bass…we musicians fetish our instruments…we would describe our 1974 Rickenbacker 4001 bass in Mapleglo finish for all the beauty that it holds in our hearts…we would describe it like we would the eyes of a lover, her hair, the tender flesh of her ears, the curves of her lips…you get the gist of this. If this bassist doesn’t love that instrument more than a woman, this band is never going to make it out of the garage.
I’d lose this line, as it adds nothing and is a little detracting:
“Poor Chase Hughes, the pathetic fool I am. Poor, desolate, selfish bastard…” In fact, I’d get rid of a lot of that internal dialogue. People don’t think internally “Poor (insert my full name here), I certainly am a foolish chump punk”...they get straight to the meat and think “why the fk did I do that? What the fk was I thinking? I’m a f**king loser!”
That third-person approach to inner-dialogue is weak and not at all believable, which is too bad because the rest of the dialogue, the external dialogue of speech when Chase actually interacts with the outside world, is actually pretty decent.
It needs a litle work, some revision, but theme is solid and the rough content is a pretty good start.
I like this stroyline and really have no true issues with this story. Keep it up.
I think you have something good going on here. I like your style and you have it in you to develop the theme showcasing varied emotions that go about in the mind, heart and lives of musicians. From ego, jealously, love, madness, all the colors in the rainbow. I would like to read more about these people. They are no longer characters but real people. Good going. Your style is fluid and there is just the right kind of emotion; not too mushy but just right.
Great going.
That was some impressive writing… especially for a 19 year old!
I can’t say enough good about it. The dialogue was convincing. The characters seemed real. The descriptions were excellent.
And most of all, it really said something about human nature.
Now, that’s not to say it was perfect, though. There were a few things here and there that I might have changed.
All I can say is, find somebody who is established at writing and knows the craft. Have them read it and work with you on smoothing out the rough edges.
It would be ashame for something like this to go unperfected.
If the chapters before and after are this well written… and the whereabouts and outcome of Blake has somekind of interesting surprise that thickens the plot… then this story could certainly be a winner.
“Being alone isn’t something I’ve ever handled well… and come to think of it, it’d never been a problem until two weeks after Blake’s latest absconding. If idle hands are the devil’s workshop, one can only imagine what works could be done with a hollow heart. “
beautiful start. great writing. thanks so much for sharing this with us.
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