Where They Keep the Band

Wires, cables, roadcases, roadies, the occasional reporter from Rolling Stone. Over there, a few tanks of nitrous oxide. Chattering in a corner, a gaggle of highly-painted girls with skinny legs.

"Hey." My sister's voice catches my attention. I turn away from my frank inspection of this part of Fillmore East, and prepare to shine. "This is my baby sister. Deb, this is Jerry Garcia."

He touches my arm lightly. I pretend I don't notice the missing half-finger. "Hi. First time back here?"

I'm fourteen, and nothing fazes me. "Yep. Cool place."

"Far out." He grins at me. "Welcome to backstage."

BTW, Teppy, I've got a suggestion for a future category: fateful encounters.

Have marked; danke.

Kewl.

And Susan, insent a while back, with feedback.

First time drabble both literally and topically.

The control panel is dented and scratched like a raccoon dug it out of a trash can. Greasy-sticky crust coats the steering wheel, not unlike the blush/hairspray cement on the earpiece of my telephone.

Foam innards leak from the chair in places where the duct tape has rolled back in unapologetic snarls. It echoes in here, and smells like sawdust and fireworks. John's eyes twinkle gray-blue accomodation.

"Punch it."

Hesitation. Grin. I reach out and punch the buttons on the console, grab the wheel, and steer her up over the plywood farm, into the rafters, over the babbling man eating endless cans of beans.

It never really moved, not in any kind of physical, measurable, logical way. The engine is just a fan stuffed in muffler, attached to a scaffold. The cows in the cargo hold were just electric photographs attached to reels of plastic clipped together and spun like cotton candy until all those individual bits of sliced techicolor formed a whispy sweet web, melty to the touch.

But if I spin around with my arms out and flop back into the chair, it'd feel like flying. I think I'm the first girl to occupy the pilot's seat. I want to believe I'm the Sally Ride of Serenity.

DAMN, that's vivid.

This:

It echoes in here, and smells like sawdust and fireworks.

is brief, and sharp, and smacks it home, and is viscerally perfect. Sounds and smells and there the whole thing just is.

t envies Allyson

Got it, deb, and backsent.

I'm writing about the campaign to save Firefly now, and it's so hard. There's too much story. It's difficult to simplify. Trying to put it in some kind of order...there's so much exposition involved. Explaining who Joss is, who Kristen is, who Tim is, why we were able to make calls to Mutant Enemy and get whatever we needed for the campaign, no questions asked.

I'm getting dizzy just trying to outline it. It seems like it should be simpler:

Didn't care.

Cared.

Tried to save show.

Failed.

Got set tour.

And yet? So much 'splainin to do. Can't the reader just know the boring details? Aren't the details boring? Can't the details just put on little red dresses and dance about the page while I whistle a happy tune?

Allyson, have you considered splitting it into different sections? People, a quickie with punch. The show itself. The mechanics.

I mean, there's no one holding a gun to your head, demanding a specific format - and this one seems to me as if it deserves you give it a prairie to thunder across.

I really liked that one, deb. I was thinking about doing a stage one, but I couldn't work it out without being pretentious.

Allyson, very nice work. I can feel it. After reading it, I think I was there. I particularly like your Sally Ride bit, it makes it feel so real and just...present.

And it depends on how boring your boring details are. Can the reader pick up from context things like who Tim is? You shouldn't have to completely explain yourself and where you are.