I’ve been told I shouldn’t do these, I shouldn’t post snippets.
“Don’t give your stuff away, even if it’s an initial draft.” “Too many complications, just keep it to yourself.”
Screw it, I don’t care. I write…that’s who I am. I write so people can read. I write to share characters and stories, to share emotion and thought. Everything else is just noise. So…a snippet:
The guitar was a part of Connor, body and soul. The words and the music even more so. All of his emotion, and all of his memory, had been pouring into his music for the better part of two hours.
Connor did not lay himself bare to strangers. Hell, Connor did not lay himself bare to himself. The memories of those that mattered were too sore, and too near, however, for such control when he was playing.
Into every word and note of his music went all of the pain and loss – and the guilt and shame – that bore the names and memories of his ghosts: of his dad, of Marie and Vin…and of Oz. Always of Oz.
A final line sung about the price always waiting to be paid and he bowed his head, listened to the diminishing notes of the music. The heat on that stage, and the effort of his performance, had almost as much sweat pouring from him as emotion. The small, packed bar echoed with the crowd’s cheering applause, but Connor couldn’t hear them. The memories, and the unshed tears, were too loud.
A few breaths, a few precious seconds to gather himself, and the spotlight faded.
Thank you, Spog. I wish you’d sung to me before.
How did you answer that?
You remembered, and you felt, that’s how.
He could barely raise his arm, so much energy had he spent. But then again, he didn’t need much energy to drain the tumbler of whiskey at his elbow. There might be no forgiveness in alcohol, but there was numbness. He was going to need an awful lot of numbness after the music.
But not for anything would he trade that music. Nor the memories. His friends – his family – were dead, but they would always live in his music…and in his soul. They were something he could hold to, something he needed very badly.
Another drink was pressed into his hand, a babble of voices talked to him. He looked around, he answered and he drank. But it all took place in a daze, his body responding and functioning by the purest instinct and habit.
That daze didn’t end until a voice spoke; a voice he did not expect.
“You made me cry tonight, Connor. You promised never to do that again.”
He looked up. He couldn’t not look up, as hard as it was to do. No, he wanted to run away and hide. He wanted very much to hide.
It was Nat.
Connor hadn’t felt like this since the night he’d held Oz’s dying body: helpless and hopeless and beyond words.
Talk to her, Spog. Say something, you crazy ikiryo.
You could tell me what to say, he thought back to his dead friend.
Oz’s only answer was the faintest of laughs, and the memory of warmth…and of love.
[Edit: cleaned up the paragraphs…copying stuff from my usual writing program into WordPress can be funky sometimes.]