Yay! I wrote something!
This is a very stream of consciences rambling type short story. And it's called "Younger Generation" simply because I suck at titles. So, please read and critique, and if you have a better title suggestion, tell me. For any of my stories really--I really suck at titles.
I don’t know what I’m doing here. In this room. Poorly lit. Filled with smoke. It is so much a clique I am disgusted with myself.
The two bands play together as one, it’s beautiful and poetic. Everyone flows as though they have been playing together for years.
I sit real close to the guitarist. I’ve had a crush on him for years—that’s the problem, knowing him too long, being too close. And then he was told to go for it. I wish I hadn’t heard that. I know it was a joke, but just hearing that made me think we had a chance, that something could actually happen. But it was just a joke.
The fiddle player keeps making eyes at me. I first noticed it at the show, even then, before he knew me, he was making eyes at me. After the festival we went to a bar, for the after party. That’s where the band was playing.
After getting my drink I go up front—I hadn’t seen this band preform before, so I wanted to be right up there, to really see them.
The moment I got there I made eye contact with him. He smiled for me before going into a riff. It was beautiful. It was cosmic.
But then I leave to smoke a bowl with the guitarist.
The after-after party is at a green house, it looks like a mini-commune where musicians always have a place to stay. This is where the two bands converge for the first time, though it sounds like the hundredth.
I am introduced to the fiddle player—he is so excited to know me. His eyes get more intense, he looks deeper—boring through me.
I don’t understand the fiddle player’s interest. What makes me so special? I want to be with guitarist. Or does seventh grade me want to be with the guitarist? Is this what I actually want? Do I like the fiddle player? Or do I just like the attention he gives me?
