From The Vault: The Granbury Fleets

In this edition of From The Vault, we go back to a story written during the author's high school days...


The Granbury Fleets



    Back a short while ago I was totally into music. Not just listening to it and worshipping the classics, but actually playing it in front of live audiences.
    It began two years ago when my older brother got a really styling electric guitar for his birthday. As a sibling with a pulse I naturally became jealous, and wanted one as badly as a coyote wants a roadrunner. My brother eventually got tired of rocking and rolling and began studying law instead. It was the most bizarre change of aspiration I have ever heard of.
    I traded him a couple of dusty judicial textbooks I found in a library alleyway for the guitar, and within three weeks I had taught myself how to play. Vividly, I recall the long nights practising chords in my bedroom, while the neighbours screamed at me to 'Shut Up' or 'Get a Real Job.' Usually stuff like that.
    For months I dreamt of starting a band with people as dedicated as I was, and at last it was fulfilled when I met some guys from my high school who were just looking for a crew to jam with. After a minute of playing we knew our styles were compatible, and together we formed a band that same day.
    At first we were dreadfully bad. We didn't have a name, our drummer was a science geek named Tom Burelson, who spent more time calculating his drum beats on blueprints than playing them. Our bassist was decent but prone to the occasional mishap, such as somehow misplacing two of his strings or forgetting his instrument entirely. Nevertheless though, we got better. My guitar playing worthy to marvel at. Burelson with his clockwork timing turned out to be an incredible drummer, dispite his glasses falling off on stage all the time. And our singer, who'd been the last to join us, had the voice of a soul man from the 1950's.
    After nearly a year of playing together we finally chose a name; "The Granbury Fleets," based on something crazy our singer came up with one day. From then on our success grew. We were treated like celebrities at our high schools, everyone knew what our names were, what instrument we played, even our favourite movie or colour. Our fame was spreading like a warm cheese whiz, they couldn't seem to get enough of us.
    Eventually we started playing gigs at night, and immediately then were we not only being recongized at school, but complete strangers would recognize us on the street. Burelson wasn't sure that we were actually that good of a band and attributed our success to a kind of science fiction occurrence. Either way, actual musical talent or inter-galactic assistance, I was just enjoying the ride.
    About a month ago we were scheduled to play a night show at a warehouse down by the Lakeshore. There was expected to be around three thousand people there, by far the largest crowd we had ever played for. We had a bit of trouble finding the place, and we'd nearly given up when we finally saw the place. It was a huge building, even for a warehouse, and an unexplained fog seemed to surround and swirl around the entrance.
    Like the beginning of most of our gigs, we were welcomed by the owner. She was a very nice and cheerful hostess, though with a somewhat futuristic inclination towards fashion. Once we got on stage we noticed the crowd was way larger than we had anticipated. It looked like instead of three thousand people we were going to play for thirty thousand, but I figured it must have been an optical illusion. Stranger than that was the way this crowd was looking at us. Usually when I went to concerts the folks around me were happy to be there, but  at this gig nobody in the audience had an expression on their face of any kind.
    To be honest, it creeped me out, but nonetheless the show went on. The first song we blasted off was our favourite and most famous, about a guy trying to buy a baloney sandwich or something. When we finished we expected a loud cheer from the crowd, that's what usually happens after that song, but the lack of  expression from the audience hadn't changed. In fact, it didn't even seem like any of them had even moved.
    We did our best to shake it off and play more of our best songs. After our second song still there was no reaction from the audience. After our third, the same thing. Nothing. We kept playing and our songs kept bouncing off them. Nothing could reach them, it was like playing a concert to a bunch of empty seats, except filled with people.
    I felt like smashing my guitar. Ten songs into our set without the slightest reaction from the crowd, it was the musician's equivalent of that nightmare when you're walking in public without any pants on. Two songs later we decided to just stop playing. I whispered to Burelson and convinced him we had to leave, that staying would just be a waste of effort.
    We put down our instruments and headed for backstage, when suddenly a thunderous chant of "You Will Stay! You Will Stay!" rung through our ears. They all sounded as one voice. We looked and saw that nobody's mouth was moving, yet the horrible sound was coming from every direction, surrounding the inside of the warehouse. I don't know what came over me but next thing I knew I was running as fast as I could, the rest of the band close behind. We scrambled through the door and broke into a sprint once we got outside, the chant of "You Will Stay!" haunting our ears.
    A few days later we broke up as a band. Burelson went straight back to his computer, while I developed an unexpected interest in being a doctor, which in the end wound up being the second most bizarre change in aspiration I've ever heard of.


    I'd nearly forgotten the entire ordeal when earlier this morning, I ran into the owner of the warehouse on the street, dressed in her same futuristic garments. She was still very nice, and she asked me with genuine interest how I was and what I was up to.
    I gave her honesty, and told that my band had broken up and I was probably going to study medicine when I graduated. She seemed to accept this.
We continued making small conversation until suddenly her expression changed, like she was remembering something buried in her mind. I looked around instinctively to see what had diverted her attention. Like in a trance, she began to shout: "You Will Stay! You Will Stay!" right into me. It stunned me so that I just stood for nearly a minute while she did.
    At last I got my mind together and escaped down the street. I looked behind me to check if she was coming after me, and she wasn't. She just stared at me, a stare that slashed right through my bones.

From The Vault: Overtime

In this edition of From The Vault, a short story about hockey written back when the Leafs, well, still hadn't made the playoffs for a while...



Overtime



   As the horn blew the game was still tied three goals apiece, meaning only extra time could decide the winner of this close contest. The two captains of each team, Rod Johnson and Billy “Wrinkle Kid” White, hit the ice and skated to the referees, both of them with a different complaint. With a roll of his eyes, the head ref met them at centre ice.
    ‘Listen stripes, you left the penalty clock running ten seconds past regulation. Our powerplay should have an extra ten going into OT’ claimed White, rubbing his sweaty beard.
    ‘Come on ref, if they get extra powerplay time then ya gotta let me use the Accelerator!’ argued Rod Johnson in protest.
    Captain White stared at Johnson then at the referee in shock, unable to believe this had even been brought up again. ‘The Accelerator? The Accelerator! That thing your team has that brainwashes opposing players? That?’ he asked in outrage.
    ‘Hey, if you guys are getting the extra ten seconds, then they should be able to use the Accelerator. It’s only fair,’ explained the referee.
    ‘Yeah,’ agreed Johnson, sticking out his tongue.
    A vicious scowl decorated White’s battled, sweat dripping face as he skated back to his team’s bench. He put his arms along the top of the boards and faced the rest of his players, shaking his head all the while.
    ‘Alright boys, we have the extra man for fifty-three seconds, plenty of time to sneak one by. Thing is stripes is letting 'em use the Accelerator, so if you get bodychecked you’re good as their’s.’
    ‘Man I hate that stupid thing…’ muttered Alternate Captain Stefan Meadows.
    ‘Right. So here’s the plan,’ resumed White. ‘First thirty ticks of the powerplay we send the rookies out. Then once they’ve all been accelerated…’
    A collective gulp came from the end of the bench.
    ‘… Meadows, Vilakov, Turnbull, Stall and myself hit the ice in a blitz toward the net. Any questions?’
    A hand raised two metres away from White. ‘Yeah, um, shouldn’t the coach be making strategic decisions?’
    ‘Shut up, Tork,’ answered Meadows. ‘Sides, coach is away for personal reasons.
    The coach was in fact at a casino in High Falls, Nevada, “investing” the bonuses of his latest contract.      
    ‘Right,’ agreed Turnbull, straightening his glasses. ‘The Wrinkle Kid’s in charge.’
    Billy White flashed a faint smile, just before giving a firm final glance over each of his players. ‘I know we can beat these assholes. Now let’s go! Newbie, you’re first off the pine!’
    The meatballs Matthew Willis had eaten for lunch fell to the pit of his stomach. ‘M… m… me?’ he asked, quivering.
    ‘Y… y… yes! You!’ said Meadows. ‘Now get the hell out there!’
    With all the sheer courage he could muster, Willis leapt over the boards and onto the ice, Rod Johnson and his line-mates waiting for him there. Behind Willis came defenseman Kevin Cordiel, who with incredible calmness was playing his first ever game. Soon all five rookies were off the bench, led by big Farina Montroise skating to the faceoff circle.
    ‘Ya really think this ridiculous plan’s gonna work, Wrinkle Kid?’ asked Meadows sullenly.
    ‘No.’ answered Billy White, scraping his kneepads against the boards. ‘I just don’t wanna be brainwashed.’
    The horn went and the period was set to begin, sending Willis’ skates into an uncontrollable frenzy of shaking. Sweat came down in beads from his face, as his stomach began burning from inevitable terror.
    ‘Don’t worry buddy, I got you covered,’ said the defenseman Cordiel, giving Willis a tap with his stick.
    Down came the puck and away went the skaters in a scramble to retrieve it, while the player in the lonely penalty box knew in under a minute he’d be joining the fray. Johnson took control of the puck and charged the opposing blue-line, only to be stopped in his strides by Cordiel.
    ‘Accelerate!’ he ordered his troops, giving a hard chase after Cordiel and the puck.
    Instantly, Johnson’s team went off to corner and check the rookies, without any regard to what else was going on. First they leveled a defenseman into the boards, and in seconds he was up and joining their rush to the net. Montroise however was able to force a turnover and, just as he was sandwiched by three guys, clear the puck down to the other end. With the numbers now six to three in their favour, Johnson and his new line-mates entered and left their zone in a flash, looking to make this the last attack they’d need.
    The dump in behind the net was perfect as the goalie Stromqvist couldn’t play it, leaving Willis, the nearest skater, responsible for this certain suicide. He retrieved the puck along the boards as quick as he could, but it was too late. In the corner of his eye he saw three guys coming at him fast; there was no time to escape. Willis closed his eyes and braced himself for the mind-numbing bliss that was approaching, his only remaining hope that he might later screw up and give his real team a chance.
    Suddenly two of the attacking skaters fell to the ice, as the third, Kevin Cordiel, had taken them both down with a clean, glorious check.
    ‘Take it! Go!’ screamed Cordiel, just before the influence of the Accelerator reached his mind.
    Without a second to spare Willis strode off hard with the puck, fumbling it endlessly but still keeping control. He crossed his blue-line and the open ice welcomed him, only five enemy skaters between himself and the net. A sharp move to his right and the first obstacle couldn’t block him, though a fighting stick lingered not too far behind. The assimilated Montroise came at him next, his new shiny green eyes of a controlled mind coming hard for Willis’ lumber. But even a simple brainwashing couldn’t make up for Montroise’s lack of mobility, as Willis slid the puck through his legs and dodged him too.
    ‘Shit, wouldya look at this kid?’ exclaimed Billy White from the bench. ‘Turnbull! Vilakov! Stef! Let’s give the kid some help!’
    ‘Buvt veire only twhenty ceeven indo de Pow-ver-play…’
    ‘Doesn’t matter! Lines lets go! Cept you, Stall. Kid took your spot.’
    ‘Fukin kid…’ grumbled Stall.
    Without another word, the four of them leapt from the bench and hit the ice in an all-out blitz. The referees, completely aware of the too-many-men-on-the-ice rule, inexplicably decided to let this chaos ensue, likely just out of astonishment.
    Johnson’s drones came right away after these new opponents, nearly taking out Meadows before he could take a single stride. The forgotten man still in the penalty box grinned with glee at seeing his team’s sheer dominance, until something from the corner of his eye reversed that feeling instantly. He waved frantically to his teammates but it was no use. White’s distraction had worked.
    Willis crossed the enemy blue-line, the puck still his, with Vilakov rushing fast on his right wing. Of the eight skaters Johnson had under his control, only two were back in their own end. Hesitating, Willis tried one more move to shake the last defenseman, but it didn’t work. The defender latched onto him, and quickly he felt his senses beginning to accelerate, his thoughts becoming hollow and replaceable. Before the process could complete he launched the puck hard to his right, missing the net entirely. It was too late, now he was theirs.
    The puck rounded the boards and came right back to the other side, onto Vilakov’s waiting blade. In less than a second he turned himself to the net in one slick, sweet motion and fired. And scored.
    ‘Yes! Yes!’ yelled Billy White, raising his arms in impossible triumph. He had been about three seconds away from getting checked by three guys.
    The bell rang loud as the Accelerator’s spell snapped like a bar of sesames, allowing the whole team to celebrate this unpredicted victory. White knocked young Willis on the helmet, while Kevin Cordiel tossed him a look transcending mere admiration. A somber Meadows came over and bumped his fist, looking off to the crowd with his worn, war tested eyes.
    ‘Good first assist, kid. Don’t worry, they come a bit easier than that one.’
    Meadows then paused for a second. ‘Well, most of ‘em.’    
           

From The Vault: Fasten Your Seatbelts

In this edition of From The Vault, a story I wrote way back in my Drake Hotel days...



Fasten Your Seatbelts



    'Ladies and gentlemen, the plane is now airborne. Please remain in your seats until the pilot turns off the seatbelts sign.'
    Young Roger Banks squirmed in his seat, restless to finally get up and stretch his legs after an unusually long takeoff. As if this business trip wasn't bad enough, a trip he didn't even want to be on, he also hadn't eaten since he woke up in Vancouver and his instincts told him this cheap airline's food wasn't going to be what his stomach was looking for. So his gut growled, his legs first cramped then fell asleep, and the chili covered beans the guy next to him ate for lunch started making a gassy comeback.
    At last, the intercom came on again, filling Roger with hope that this would be the cue to freedom from these badly cushioned chains.     
    'Ladies and gentlemen, due to the high altitude we are currently flying at, seatbelts must remain on for all passengers. We ask you to bear with us until we can reach a high enough altitude. In the meantime, please enjoy the in-flight feature, "Billy Willy Goes to Hollywood."'
    With this announcement, Roger wasn't sure what to be more angry at. The fact that he was still trapped in his uncomfortable chair, that the explanation for it didn't make any sense, or that he had already seen the movie three times and each time was worse than the last. All Roger could do was sit back, or at least try to, and start counting the several hundred minutes until his plane landed.
    In-between minutes thirty-seven and thirty-eight, his found his eyes caught on the likes of a girl four rows in front of him. He diverted his stare quickly, just as she turned to look back in his direction. For a moment he kept his sight strictly forward, until boredom and curiousity compelled him to look again, if only just for a second. Roger turned, but this time his glance was timed perfectly with hers, and for that instant their eyes stared straight from soul to soul.
    Both of them quickly diverted their eyes, trying to play it off like nothing, but the damage was done. Those four rows separating them weren't so far apart anymore. At first Roger tried to ignore her completely, as she did with him. He played games on his phone, cleared the lint out of his pockets, and even tried watching the movie in short, safe intervals. Then he felt like something was scanning him, checking out each of his features slowly one by one. Suddenly he felt like he'd fallen behind in this game; this girl had just taken in every detail his appearance had to offer, while he barely knew what she looked like.
    Unable to resist, Roger looked back, determined to see her the exact same way she had seen him. At first their eyes met again, but then she slyly turned away, opening the gates for him to gaze as long as he pleased. Instead of the usual awkwardness that comes with staring at a complete stranger, his eyes fixed on her face felt wonderfully natural. Roger wasn't sure he'd be able to look away if he had to. Closer and closer he drifted to her, without even moving from his confining chair. The rest of the scene was a great dizzying blur, with her in the clear, focused centre.
    'Attention passengers, the pilot has decided to turn off the no seat-belts sign for the next thirty minutes. We would also like to take this moment to inform you that our only washroom onboard is out of order.'
    The next several minutes were filled with angry outbursts and rather creative curse words, a few coined by Roger himself. It seemed immeasurable how constricting this had become, as he was sure this half-hour of freedom would fly by before he knew it. He took a quick peek at his staring sister and found she was glaring directly at him, a tiny smile on her smooth face. Tentatively, Roger smiled back, also throwing an uninspired half-wave into the equation. Without warning, she got out of her seat, made it to the aisle and started walking away. He thought maybe he'd offended her in some bizarre way, until she looked back at him in surprise, urgently but discreetly motioning him to follow.
    No one else had gotten out of their seat, the path between them was clear and obstacle free. Roger's head filled up with thousands of little doubts, this was all happening too fast. This was a woman whose name he didn't know, whom he hadn't even spoken a single word to. He gave her another close look, and all the skepticism was washed right out of him. This is what he wanted, he was sure of it.
    They made their way to the end of the aisle, now out of sight from the other passengers. She opened the unlocked washroom door and pulled Roger in, the nearby flight attendants too disgruntled to notice. As his hands began reaching to those places of magical lore, he opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by her finger. Words would only spoil it.                       

   

550 Words A Day Challenge: These Moments, Forgotten

     Part XV ---


     I would like to tell you a story from not long ago, when the sun was still bright and the days were at a pace worth remembering. The afternoon was a Thursday and I was on my way to the nearby supermarket for some sliced ham when a tremendous groan stopped my journey. I looked and saw a disheveled, hungry man with tangled hair, clothes stained with wine and lighter fluid, front teeth aspiring to be on a milk carton and a smell that would push rotten cheese into another career. My first instinct was to pass by this disgusting fellow and erase him from any recollection, but my second glance sparked a flame of familiarity with the stranger. I was certain his name was John Campolis, a boy I had gone to Junior High with and had been the most stellar student there.
     He pulled out something that I realized was a taco, crushed and discoloured by the tight confines of his pants pocket. As he took slow, deliberate bites of his precious dinner I decided to introduce myself. John had been such a standout at school that I wanted to know what he was doing here, and how real his situation was.

    'John? John, is that you? It's Will Arigan, from Kendry Jessum!'

    John did not respond to me, instead continuing to consume his watery taco. I looked into his face and remembered the one Chess Club meeting I had ever attended at school. John was the president of the club and chose to face me first, as the newcomer. Within five minutes I had achieved eternal fame among Chess nerds as the dude who was checkmated in less than fifteen moves. I remember feeling ashamed but the Chess nerds were actually quite forgiving of my inexperience. By the end of the evening we had eaten many chocolate bars and discussed several Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes that I still defend to this day. John was a huge defender of the episode "Times Arrow", which in recent years I've gained a greater appreciation for. I tried to get his attention again:

    'John! How are you? It's been so long! Remember playing chess back in Room 343? Yeah? Those were good times! Don't you, don't you remember me?'

    John again remained silent, intensely focused on the wet taco he was chewing and the who-knows-what he was fiddling with under his shirt. For a moment he looked in my eyes and there was recognition: a faint memory of who he was breaking through all the burdens and misfortunes to briefly meet me in the eye. John said no words but the sadness in the edges of his eyes told more than anecdotes ever could.
    He was a young man of incredible potential, of such academic genius that I'm sure I wasn't the only one who went into high school intimidated by what he could achieve. Yet in those twelve years, between graduation and now, something or some things so cataclysmic must have happened to completely destroy him. I nodded a goodbye to him and continued onward with my life, but the thought of John lingered still. A thought of a talent so fertile but so spoiled by elements not administrators or oracles can predict. 

Diesel

     There was a place he used to go, a place that brought back the good times hand in hand with the bad. One day he went and found it gone, replaced by a petty gas station that routinely gouged its customers. Part of him died that day but another part was born; the part that hated that gas station.
    That point on, every time life threw him a curveball, he would stand in front of the gas station and scream the words of his emotion at it. The balance it gave him doing this was immeasurable. Then one rainy afternoon, years later, he went to find it shut down forever, as it had violated several health and safety laws. But instead of feeling sorrow, grief, or even anger at having lost this outlet for his furies, he felt unbelievably happy that it was gone.
    He hated that gas station. 

550 Words A Day Challenge Second Reboot: Undress Rehearsal

Part XIV --- Undress Rehearsal


Four musicians are inside a recording studio: HAPPY, the singer; LUKAS, the guitar player; HORSE, the drummer; CANTEEN the bassist. All four have their respective instruments (HAPPY has a microphone in hand) and all are wearing jeans. FORSE is wearing an offensive t-shirt and is the grimiest in appearance of the group, while LUKAS wears classes and is the only one who is perfectly clean shaven.


HAPPY: Play it again?

FORSE: That song? Again? Really?

LUKAS: It does need a lot of work.

FORSE: Ya, it definitely needs a lot of work. Maybe that's the songs way of telling us: "I'm shit! Don't waste your time on me!"

CANTEEN: I thought it had a good baseline...

HAPPY: Quiet you. Fine, we'll work on "Stomps Romps and Chomps." Let's just hurry. We've only got an hour of studio time left and we've hardly recorded anything.

LUKAS: Actually, I'd say we've done so little today that anything we accomplished before has been unaccomplished.

HAPPY: Right! Okay Horse, get ready with the drum fill. Stomps Romps and Chomps! One two three four!

No one in the band starts playing. HAPPY looks around at them in confusion

HAPPY: You guys were supposed to start playing. 

LUKAS: Really? When?

HAPPY: On four! When I count up to four, you guys start!

LUKAS: Well it's not like you said that.

FORSE: Ya! What're we supposed to do, read yer bloody mind! Gawd!

HAPPY: It's common knowledge!

CANTEEN: I knew we were supposed to start pla--

HAPPY: Quiet you! All right, on four, go! One two three--

LUKAS: Why four? Why not five, or six?

FORSE: I like the number nine, meself.

LUKAS: Maybe we won't be ready by the time four comes around! I would think the longer the count, the more time we have to get ready.

HAPPY: Fine. We'll count to six.

FORSE: Nine.

HAPPY: Whatever! Okay, here we go. One two three four five six, seven eight nine!

Once again, nobody plays

HAPPY: Now what?

LUKAS: I think nine is too long.

HAPPY: Too long? Too long?

LUKAS: Yeah. I mean, I'm standing here, tapping my foot to each count. But I think I'm like, psyching myself out or something.

FORSE: How bout twenty! That'll give ya enough time to psych yerself out, but then unpysch yerself and be ready.

LUKAS: Yeah! Let's do that.

HAPPY: I'm not counting to twenty! Okay how's this, Forse you click your drumsticks as many times as you want, and when you want everyone else to jump in you start clicking them really fast! Sound good?

FORSE: Ya whatever man.

HAPPY: Right! Kick us off drumface!

FORSE starts hitting his drumsticks together. He does so for maybe twenty seconds, while the rest of the band looks at him with growing impatience

HAPPY: Anytime now.

FORSE(still hitting drumsticks together): Here's an idea mates, why don't we make a song with just this! This is soundin' pretty rad.

HAPPY: Because that's ridiculous. Who would listen to a five minute song with nothing but drumstick sounds?

LUKAS: Hipsters?

CANTEEN: Hey, I would listen to that song...

HAPPY: Quiet you. Okay, I'm going to start counting again. (FORSE stops hitting drumsticks) Whenever you guys want to start playing, nod at me. Right! One two three four five six seven eight nine...

CANTEEN walks towards centre stage while HAPPY silently mouths the count to FORSE and LUKAS

CANTEEN: I don't need this. I'm gonna go start an electro-pop outfit, with blackjack, and hookers!

CANTEEN walks offstage. Seconds later he walks back onto centre stage

CANTEEN: On second thought, forget the blackjack.

CANTEEN walks offstage again. 


CURTAIN


(note, the author of this stage script would like to thank Bender "Bending" Rodriguez for his inspirational help in creating this piece)