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« on: May 31, 2017, 03:17:03 pm »
Earlier this month was the 2nd of these parties. I did the writing shop again, this time getting the prompt "A story about a heavy metal band." Here's what I had after 30 minutes or so:
The last note sounded, deafening on a small fortune of amp stacks, resounding over a packed stadium. Thousands cheered, the constant din of all crowds erupting into 40 years of fervor. Magnus Ulric Vandoerf didn't feel the lines in his face, and the lights washed them off of the audience as they cried out and he was The Hateful Swede again in the headlines. Instead of Mr. Vandoerf, subtitle guitarist.
"Omenus!" they chanted together, "Omenus!"
If he could have known in the 70s where he'd be now, he'd have picked a better name. What the fuck is an Omenus?
The hand waved, perfunctory. Anything else would not be metal. The Drummer tossed his sticks over the stage. Not long ago that would have caused a fistfight. But not these days. Fistfights didn't go well with arthritis.
Magnus tried not to shuffle. He'd tripped on a cord ten years ago and two bruised ribs were headlines for a week. They made it, even The Drummer, whose trips to and from his kit were the most walking he did these days.
"Omenus! Omenus!" it kept coming. It would end soon. They had kits to get to. They didn't need to party all night to have a rough next day.
They sat in the dressing room, not speaking, slowly sipping beers, except for Svendsen. Svendsen was fifteen years clean.
"This is bullshit," Magnus announced. The others enacted dull surprise. "We can't keep doing this," he continued, "look at us!"
He huffed for a while. It was tiring being The Hateful Swede so late, and after a 3 hour set.
"Anyway it's time to call it quits," he finished.
This was enough to stir them.
"Quit and do what," The Drummer said. "I don't even know what it's like being home anymore. Am I going to take up gardening? Fuck, even my grandkids call me The Drummer."
He was right, of course. They were Omenus. Sten grunted from the corner. It was the bassist's version of a speech.
"No fucking retirement," Magnus agreed.
"So then what," Svendsen asked, "honestly I figured we'd die on stage."
"We go back to the beginning," Magnus said.
"Club shows?" said The Drummer, "no thanks. The sound in those things is bad on my ears."
"No, no, no clubs, no shows, no music," Magnus said, "weren't all those just an excuse anyway? We just bought into them the same as anybody else." He stood. "I want to be The Hateful Swede again. Boys," he looked at them. The Drummer in his chair, Svendsen with his water, Sten just there, as always. "Let's go burn down a church!"
He'd have it again, his subtitle. The Hateful Swede.