As my senior year of college fast approaches, there is one goal that sticks out in my mind; not just to write, but to be known as a writer along with it. I'm now beginning the process of trying to get some of my work published, whether it be through an online magazine or somewhere more local. I'm also putting a little bit more effort to putting the blog out there, whether it be via Twitter, Facebook, etc. Any place that I can connect with people is definitely a step in the right direction!
I've also mentioned that I want to lighten this place up a bit; more so that readers are not getting deep, heavy-reading material all the time. With that being said, I would like to share this excerpt of a story that I wrote, one that I've sent to several places with the hopes of it being published. It has been in the making since freshman year, and definitely one of the fictional pieces that I've enjoyed writing the most. This may not look the best format-wise, but only because Blogger won't let me use indentation for some reason.
The door creaked open, three decades worth of nostalgia hitting him in an instant: boxes of clothing and stage memorabilia were stacked on top of each other, threatening to spill out on the floor. Plaques and awards lined the walls while various trophies were shelved in a display case. There were so many memories, and he had practically stuffed everything into one little room. Well, buried was more like it. Nevertheless, things always had a way of coming back into your life; this was especially true if it had shaped such a huge part of it, and became part of you in the process.
The guitars, some of Jackson’s most treasured possessions, stood stoutly in a back corner. The four of them were each reserved for a certain occasion; one was painted bright red and mostly used on stage. The second was for the recording studio and looked plainer then the others. The third, an electric, was only used when the band had decided to incorporate rock and roll into their albums. The fourth was the first instrument given to him at the age of fourteen; the age when music became more than just listening to the radio.
The Moon Wrecklers was the name they had bequeathed to themselves before signing their first record deal; they had all tried coming up with something distinct, but it was either too silly or was already taken. It was finally borne under the neon lights of a dimly lit tavern; in a drunken stupor, his band mate Rick wondered aloud, “What would it be like to heckle the moon?”
“You mean, if you could actually touch it?” the rest of them replied.
“Yeah, like grab it and shake it!”
“That’s impossible!” Dan, ever the realist shot back. “You’ve been watching too many of those kiddie movies, Ricky boy. We can land on the moon, but we’ll never be able to grab it!”
It seemed impossible, a word that seemed to closely relate to trying to get a record deal. For an hour they tossed around other ideas; hecklers made them sound too much like the mob or terrorists, becklers was just weird, and Necklers didn’t sound right at all.
“What about the Wrecklers?” Todd suggested as a matter of factly. “Not too many people can come up with something like that.”
“It’s tough, but not too tough,” Dan added.
“The Moon Wrecklers…” They pondered wistfully for a few moments, wondering if it would actually stick.
It did; enough to nearly take over their lives.
I will post an announcement on the blog's Facebook page, along with my Twitter account if and when I hear anything. Replies often take a long time, so it could be anywhere from a couple of weeks to a couple of months. Thank you to everyone who has not only supported me on here, but in general as well!
photo credit: HaoJan via photopin cc
photo credit: HaoJan via photopin cc