Hey there everyone! :)
Since I shared with everyone an example of non-fiction writing, I thought I would share with everyone an example of my fiction writing. This is the first chapter of my unfinished book "Taking Musical Notes". It's told from the POV of my character Gordon, who is a young musician. I know my accents are off but oh well....
Please give me feedback! :)
“Gordon, you’re so fuckin’ useless, get out
and find a job!”
My father’s
shouting rouses me out of a relatively peaceful sleep. I peek out from under my
covers and stare at his tall figure looming over me, creeping out from the
nighttime darkness. Everyday my father and I have the same argument; lately
he’s found the most creative ways to ambush me with his point.
“Every fuckin’ day
I get up before the fuckin’ sun, to provide for this shit family. You need to
fuckin’ contribute!”
“…T-that’s just not
me da, it just not…” I mumble, sleep still heavy in my voice.
My words frustrate
him to no end, and when he turns to leave I’m stunned. I was excepting him to
drag me out of bed and knock me about a few times; a repeat scene of our
kitchen spat last week, without all the broken glass.
“You’re a shit
guitarist, and you couldn’t hold a fuckin’ tune even if you had a bleeding
bucket!” He shouts slamming the door behind him.
The walls shake and
I’m sure the resulting noise has woken the rest of the family, if not the whole
neighborhood. I stare into the darkness
of my bedroom listening as my father has a duplicate tantrum with the front door.
He slams that in a repeat fashion, before starting up his truck and heading
down to his job at the mine. With a yawn
I roll over and return to my world of sleep.
Eight hours later I
stir again, the midday sunlight beaming through my cracked bedroom window. I strain my eyes to see the wristwatch thrown
on my desk, 12:43 the second hand ticks by slowly, as I ease my way into
awaking up. I push back the covers and sit up only to realize my room is very
cold. The heater must be out again, I wonder.
I slink out of the room and down the hall to the cramped bathroom.
Standing over the dripping sink, I try not to stare at my battered
reflection. My blond hair hangs wildly
over my head, hiding my gray eyes that are still filled with sleep. With a
yawn, I splash some water on my face, before changing into my jeans and
sweater. I walk downstairs, the wooden stairs creaking with my every step.
“Gordon? Are you
up?” my mother Sandra shouts in her broken Irish accent.
“Aye, Mum. Is there toast on the counter?” I question,
my stomach heaving in hunger.
“Aye, there is, and
tea on the stove.”
Although I’m out of
school, and jobless, my mother has seemed to enjoy my company. She no longer
has to spend the majority of her day at home alone while my sisters and I are
off to class, and my father is off to work. Unlike my father and I, we never
argue. My mother has always been a saint to me. She joins me at the kitchen
table, taking out her hair curlers, while reveling about her daytime TV, some
of which the BBC has started broadcasting in colour.
“Are you goin’ down
to that bar tonight? She asks.
“Yeah, the owner
lets me play after sets if there’s time, and I love watching the other guys
play.”
“Aye, aye, But
Gordon, you know your father doesn’t like that. He wants you to work. Not
fantasize about being a music man,”
“Music is work,” I
reply, wiping toast crumbs from my mouth.
After another cup
of tea, mother heads out the shop, while I wander to the back room where my
guitar is resting against the chair.
I had to be around 11 when I laid eyes on my
first guitar. In Durkhim music shop, in the window hung a red, steel stringed,
early model Kelar. Not an instrument of quality it must be said, but the object
of my affections. On the way home from school, I would drag my best friend
Peter with me. There we stood dressed in our short pants, book bags slung
carelessly on the dirty ground, gawking at the musical wet dream.
“Gordon, no one can afford that thing!” Peter exclaimed, removing his face from the
foggy glass.
I turned to my pale haired friend, a wicked
smile plastered across my face. “…Peter that will be mine someday.”
“Yeah right. Next thing you’re gonna tell me
how in 5 years time you’ll be the next bloody Keith Richards!”
“Maybe…” I shrug.
In a month’s time that guitar is in my
hands, and I’m almost pissing myself with excitement. My gift for passing the
private school entry exams, the only smart thing I’ve ever done. My mother wins the argument with my father on
getting me a gift. The next afternoon he’s waiting on me in the school parking
lot. I’m bursting with excitement
walking alongside my father, while he bristles over wasting his “hard earned
money” on my little heart desire. Peter is the only one I let play my guitar. I
watch as he plinks the strings creating loud noise, feelings of envy crawling
under the surface. He begs his parents to buy him one as well. But unlike mine, his parent’s have no reason
to; he didn’t pass the private school exams.
After that summer I hardly ever see Peter anymore. The change in schools
has built an unseen wall between us. We never speak to each other, red faced
and frustrated I decide to avoid him.
Things at the new school are bad. I don’t
fit in with the rich students; and I’ve hit a growth spurt, tall and awkward I
stick out like a sore thumb. An easy target for the older kids who find it
necessary to bully me, as if my face shoved down in the grass is proving their
prowess. Lonely and frustrated, the guitar helps me transform into an
introvert. I’d sit in my desk, ignorant to the instructor’s lesson, lost in
thoughts about what note come after the third verse of “She Loves Me”. I’d run
home from school, only to lock myself away with my only friend. Mum’s record
player would sit on my bed, the same songs playing on repeat, in a dizzying
fashion, over and over again as I attempted to learn the chords. She’ll often find me passed out at night, guitar on
my lap. She still doesn’t understand my determination but her mind is more open
to the idea, than my father who rues the day he bought the guitar.
Besides music everything falls by the
wayside. School, friendships, girls, all become meaningless and this is the way
things remain today. I’m inspired by the numerous rock bands on “Top of the
Pops” each week, who happen to be creating the soundtrack, or more of a
standard of living for every young person in the country. The radio stars with
the radical clothes and overtly sexual songs that make my parents cringe. Every
Thursday night at 6 while my parents yell at each other in the back ground, I’d
sit stony faced in front of the TV with my sisters Hannah and Tabitha, watching
the musicians display this amazing talent. That was me, the person who I wanted
to be. The hellish backdrop of a home life my parents have created is not what
I want.
That night I swing
my guitar case back and forth as I walk down to Desmond’s Pub. The soothing
yellowing light reflects into the street, paired with the sound of pints being
passed and music being played, I’m always beckoned inside. When not hiding away in my room I spend most
of my time in places like this, huddled in my jacket perched up at various
bars, guitar case resting at my feet. Unlike the rest of these poor sods, the
seductive hand of the frothy pint doesn’t really appeal to me. I’m here to
watch the musicians the faithful Madonna’s who lord over their interments,
gracing the drunken masses with sweet melodies that I could only dream of
creating. I inhale frothy menthol while
spinning an idealist future in my head, a musically funded escape from this
insignificant place, this dot on the earth’s surface. It’s a sad, empty place.
With the boarded up windows and the constantly cloudy skies; it seems like gods
having a bit of a laugh on all of us here. The industry all dried up, the jobs
all gone. These factory workers, the ones I bump elbows with, sit with sunken
faces and fill these and other places like it. They flush away their life’s
savings by swelling their guts with beer, to then go home to beat on their
wives’ and do it again the next day. Not
my life’s ambition I’m desperate for my escape.
“Gordon, you
playing tonight?” Desmond, the bar’s
namesake and bartender asks as he pours another drink, snapping me down, out of
my thoughts and back down into my seat.
“Maybe,
if there’s any time left at the end of their set.” I’m talking about the trio
of guys all dressed in matching pinstriped suits, filling our ears with a bit
of Rogers and Hammerstein, of all things.
A half an hour
passes, before the group takes their bows and graces, and there’s just enough
time left for me to perform. I take to the stage guitar in hand, and like
always the feeling remains the same. Whiskers of goosebumps run up my arms as I
take my place before the microphone. With a deep breath I run my fingers over
the fret board, before beginning to sing. Despite what I’m doing these people
aren’t paying me any attention, they’re too lost, drifting aimlessly in a sea
of depression. I could be playing
anything from Samba to African drum beats and they still wouldn’t grant me a
second glance.
After a second
song, I gather my deflated ego and skulk off the stage. It’s times like this
when I wonder if my father is right about me. I go to pack up my guitar only to
be met by a man who looks off colour to say the least. Faded tweed jacket,
scuffed steel toe boots, and a horrid version of the bowl cut atop his head.
This guys looking like a mis-matched gangster, who would get his ass kicked by
a real skin head.
“Nice
set,” he says, extending his cigarette free hand to me.
“Thanks,”
I mumble as we shake hands.
“I’m
Harry Baker. You’re Gordon James right? I asked Desmond about you. Have you
been playing guitar long?”
“Eight
years…Am I that bad?” I question feeling the blood rush to my face with each
word.
“Naw,
you have a lovely singing voice, I just think you’re probably best suited for a
different instrument.”
I
nod my head in reply.
“So
Gordon, do ya like a bit of jazz?”
I
smile as my new friend leads me over to the bar to engross me discussion about
everything curtailing jazz to Broadway ballads.
I end up following
Harry back to his apartment a couple of blocks away. The building once a set of
offices now converted into apartments, sticks out with its depressingly chipped
paint. The inside of his flat isn’t any better; things are tossed about in a
mishmash of mess and pure oddity. Dirty cups cover the coffee table, weeks old
laundry is tossed about, yet I notice with impeccable care countless paperbacks
and albums have been organized with precision on the lone bookshelf in the
corner. I run my trainers through a pile
of cigarette ash, near the couch before settling down near the least smelly
pile of clothes.
“Hey,
jazz man, you’ll love this,” Harry tells me as he walks over and turns on his
record player. The record is already placed, as if he was just waiting to show
it off. He places the needle gracefully on the 45 and the room fills with the
budding undertones of slowly building jazz. The trumpets give an overwhelming
blare, leading the way as the strings follow behind, twanging in sweet harmony.
Lastly the drums bring up the rear, pacing along steadily with an
unsophisticated beat. The music fills
me, and it’s in these moments as the record spins that I truly connect with
Harry. His understanding and appreciation for this foreign thing called music
rivals my own, no longer am I alone.
“Real shite ya’ know?” he asks as
the record slowly fades into static.
“Totally,” I reply.
Harry turns to me,
a smile painted on his face like a demented Cheshire cat, “Man it just hit me!
I fuckin’ knew it would!” He bounds into
another room, leaving me while he shuffles and cusses through his jungle of
junk. He returns a couple of minutes
later, a dusty case in his hands.
“Gordon,
I knew it would hit me. For fucks sakes I don’t know why I didn’t see it
before. This is your true calling.” He places the case in my lap, begging me to
open it. I wrestle with the rusty latches, and a puff of dust flies into my
face as it opens.
“Great
isn’t it?” he questions, I look down at a battered, overplayed, paint chipped,
bass guitar.
“…Ok,
but what do you want me to do with it?” I question.
“Learn
it, live it, you’ll be fantastic.”
“You
expect me to learn to play this thing?”
Harry
nods, and I’m astonished that my new friend trusts me enough to give me his bass,
and expects me to be “fantastic” at it.
“Er,
Harry I don’t know… I can’t take this.”
“Gordon,
I see the spirit in you, the raw hunger. For fucks sake, do ya want to be like
every other arsehole in this shitty town? Just dragging along until you’re fuckin’
dead?”
Thoughts
of dad appear in my head. “Hell no!”
“Fine
then,” Harry continues, lighting a cigarette, “Learn the fuckin’ thing, I’ll
met up with you again. I have plans for you, Gordon James.”
Harry
sends me on my way, balancing two guitar cases, a new supposed destiny in my
hands.
I'm glad I got to read something of yours! It was fabulous. Sometime, I'm going to have to read more...
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