Include this line in your story…”The piano accordion player slumped forward..”
I’d seen his fucking sly grin. Things had changed since I last saw him, when he was fucking angry and bitter at me and the whole band.
“You’re not playing that song!”
We hadn’t listened to him, said we were going to play it anyway. We didn’t care for his fuckwitted views. He’d have us playing nothing but old wars songs and the national anthem.
We wanted to play Bob Dylan’s “Masters of War.” Ripping guitars, and screaming. We’d make it an angry version.
Mr. Fought For My Country in Vietnam didn’t like it.
He wasn’t the fucking boss of us. He was just a fucking band manager. I told him he could leave, but he refused – wanted to see the issue through till he won. He hated the idea of us doing that song.
And then I’d seen that sly grin on his smug face.
I stormed through the auditorium foyer. “You fucking better not have!” I ran.
I punched the swinging door open and flew through into the hall. My ears rang with the national anthem. I covered my ears to fend off the stinging.
The hall was dark except for the bright red lights blanketed the stage. My band mates stood up there. They were still and their faces absent of emotion.
Were they dead? I didn’t think so.
I jumped on the stage. Jimmy, the bassist stood and barely noticed I’d come in.
“Fucking wake up mate,” I screamed, shaking him. I don’t know if he heard. But he blinked and that told me he was still alive.
Something clenched in me as I took in the peripheral vision of the people around me. The piano accordion player slumped forward.
I snapped my face toward him. Matt, our secret weapon. No metal band had a piano accordion player. He would’ve made our “Masters of War” special.
I ran to him and fell on my knees. “Matt, mate.” I grabbed his hand. The instrument fell to the ground, cracking. He slumped forward further and I had to catch him.
The music died down and I could hear myself think again. After lifting Matt’s body up and leaning it against his seat I peered out into the seating.
The red lights blinded me and I couldn’t even make out shadows where the crowd should’ve been in a few hours time. But I heard a lone applause.
The lights died down and I could see him sitting in the middle of the seating, clapping.
“Told you, you weren’t going to play the fucking commie song.”
writing, fiction, flash fiction, Fiction Friday