
Only 8 more stories to go . . . in three days . . . yikes! đ (They will be getting shorter despite my muse saying, “You know, this one really wants to be longer.” To which I will reply, sweetly, “Thank you, muse.” (Never antagonize your muse!)

Put Your Records On
In high school, we called ourselves, Choconilla. Salt and Pepper. And then Oreo.
In college, we became Gray and stuck with it until the night a music producer showed up backstage after our Jersey show. I recognized him immediately, but if DeShauna did, she hid it well. Initially he seemed vaguely uncomfortable that we shared a dressing room, but we were still very much small-scale.
âYouâve a special voice, Lacey, and a lot of guitar skill,â Dave Brewster began, and just like that I understood what was happening.
âYou want to talk to DeShauna alone,â I guessed.
DeShauna looked for a moment like she wanted me to stay, but I just shook my head at her. Truthfully, I had been waiting for this occurrence for the past six months and it was finally here.
I grabbed my gear and found the nearby ladies room, where I changed into a dry shirt, and then went to wait by the bus where Mike was already waiting, as he always was. The evening was cool. Spring was a taste on the breeze. The surrounding city lights were too bright to see the stars, but I knew they were there.
Mike raised an eyebrow before looking slightly beyond me. DeShauna and I were always together, best friends since kindergarten, a musical duo since high school.
âWhereâs Shauna?â
âDave Brewster.â
âHimself?â
I nodded. Mike and I were on the verge of needing to find new careers. Brewsterâs company would probably pay the venues to find another artist to perform as most of the venues wouldnât want just me and Mike. Part of me was thinking, just when we were starting to make some real money. But Iâd always known that one day the world would discover DeShaunaâs voice could rival the powerful genius of Whitney Houstonâs in her prime. That day had come.
DeShauna strides toward us, her jaw set. âWhy did you just up and leave?â
âBecause I knew he wanted to offer you something fantastic and that I wasnât part of the deal.â
âWell, wah wah, he did, and I said âno.â What did you think? That Iâd just leave you behind?â
âI donât want to hold you back. Youâre going to be Beyonce-level famous one day soon . . . .â
âAnd youâll be Taylor Swift, so what gives?â
I laugh. Taylor Swift? If only. âCan I be honest?â
âHave you been being less than honest?â
âIâve been waiting for this day for a while. Iâm okay with it. I want you to be all that you can be.â
âAm I in the army now?â
I grab her hands and squeeze. âWill you just tell him âyesâ and then invite me to your fabulous new home in Malibu that has a warm swimming pool?â
She rolls her eyes. âMalibu? Weâll have to see if I like it.â
Needless to say, she does.
end
Makes me sad. Look at Hall & Oates. Hall didn’t leave Oates behind. Re-write the ending. đ
Lol This is one of the stories that I would like to keep writing on. Spoiler: these women are in each other’s corner. There’s no need to be sad.
The music business, from what I’ve heard, is so nasty
I suspect it’s like any business where there are too few jobs but lots of talented people. Fortunately the writing business isn’t quite so bad. đ Thanks for reading!
PS. I was so caught up in the ending, I forgot a comment. Loved the names. Choconilla and Gray!
Thank you! I was trying to be inventive.
Wonderfully told.
Thanks so much, Paul! đ
very welcome Sascha
I wish you had had more time. I can feel there is more!