Aguy
04-23-2011, 02:35 PM
Hey guys,
I've been lurking around these pages for a while now. Thought I'd jump in an post one of the shorts I worked on for my degree (first year, be nice!)
It's amazing how terrifying submitting work and showing it to others can be.
This place suits me perfectly.
Thick haze clouds hues of flickering florescent lights, with tracks of obscure bands slithering in and out the smoke, crashing into the many conversations floating around the room. The next set is getting ready to play. I’ve never heard them before, but I’ve been told they have a decent following. I could get used to a place like this.
A combination of dusty letters scrawled messily on the well used blackboard strike me like a wayward duster. ‘Weihenstephaner’. I presume it to be German lager, placed comfortably with the other alcoholic beverages above the vault of fridges behind the bar. A skinny guest tries to score a free drink from the waitress, getting no farther than a stern look and an even sterner dismissal. I contemplate a cease-fire on my ‘No Drinking’ rule for tonight only, as I nurse the buckets of sand piling into my throat. Perhaps ordering a non alcoholic beverage wouldn’t be entirely socially inappropriate. Instead the allure of the unpronounceable lager proves too great, wondering whether or not to attempt the word, I try to catch the eyes of the waitress, now visibly annoyed and taking her frustration out on the hardwood bar. I draw a breath to order, but the sickly sweet stench of sticky beer and the dense smoke dam any words that were to come out. I shake myself out of a one sided staring contest with the waitress and retreat awkwardly to the stage. Patting myself on the back for an excellent start to the night.
Patrons of the pub are up to the usual drunken noise making and general misbehaving. Unfortunately, a quick glance at the worn Grandfathers clock looming over the stage – the obvious decoration rather than practical timepiece – shows the night is still young, however drunk these guests appear. I make myself comfortable on one of the frayed and discoloured couches opposite the stage to watch the band set up their menagerie of instruments. The keyboardist wrestles a leviathan of cords and plugs and we share a smile as he gains the upper hand in the battle.
A mixture of band posters coat the walls like mismatching wallpapers like a notice board. One in particular, a hip-hop band, grabs my attention. Seeming so out of place. It distracts me long enough that I do not notice the hulk of the man in front of me.
“Watch it, buddy!” the heavy man’s voice is diluted over the current set. It seems like the furious bass causes the beast to waste a beverage upon his well used band shirt.
“I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t see you there.” I begin to explain, the drummer playing in tune with my heartbeat as I try to nudge my way past.
A strike of the electric guitar strings and I’m pushed back with a violent stroke.
“Hang on a min’,” he says looking down his nose. The music dies down. A steady strumming against my nerves, “where’d ya git that hair cut, mate?”
I have always disliked drunken people. They could be fine when sober, but when their brains and bodies are effectively poisoned, that makes me nervous.
“No place you’d know, mate.” a soft crescendo builds, “Considering it’s pretty obvious your Mum still cuts yours!” the band blasts into chorus as the drunk’s eyes light up like stage strobes.
“Least mine don’t make me look like ’m from the ****ing ‘Goos-tapo’!” the bass joins with the thumping laughter of the man, “See, yoose got the leather jacket down, now all ya need is couple of dem German ‘Swash-stickers’.”
I try swallowing the bitterness of his words, but the sandstorm is relentless now. The band simmers down once more, the light pitter-patter of wood on plastic and gentle picking creating an out of place silence in the bar. My heavy work boots fill in for the bass as I walk slowly over to the beast. Placing my hand on his shoulder, the tapping increases slightly as lead vocals and I string a soft legato,
“Sieg heil, mien Führer—.”
Crashing into the last chorus the band covers my escape.
The keyboardist dominating over his piece, the heavy hitting notes carrying me out the solid bar door and out onto the quiet street. All the while the yelling of a certain patron is crushed and silenced.
* * *
The cold bites through my jacket as I pursue home.
“I liked that place...” I grumble to my frozen hands, hoping the fury of my words would burn away the cold. Idly kicking stones across the cracked footpath and leering at the blur of car lights as they pass, I could hear the song from the bar in the distance, somehow getting louder and louder until it was upon me, the blaze of lights and metallic paint pulls up onto the footpath.
“Hey,” a sweet voice sounded above the radio, “we’re going to a gig. Want to come?”
I move around the van, shielding my eyes from the headlights, “It’s not at a pub, is it?”
“Of course.” She breathes with a smile, offering her hand.
The format is lost unfortunately (indents etc.), any tips on fixing that problem?
I've been lurking around these pages for a while now. Thought I'd jump in an post one of the shorts I worked on for my degree (first year, be nice!)
It's amazing how terrifying submitting work and showing it to others can be.
This place suits me perfectly.
Thick haze clouds hues of flickering florescent lights, with tracks of obscure bands slithering in and out the smoke, crashing into the many conversations floating around the room. The next set is getting ready to play. I’ve never heard them before, but I’ve been told they have a decent following. I could get used to a place like this.
A combination of dusty letters scrawled messily on the well used blackboard strike me like a wayward duster. ‘Weihenstephaner’. I presume it to be German lager, placed comfortably with the other alcoholic beverages above the vault of fridges behind the bar. A skinny guest tries to score a free drink from the waitress, getting no farther than a stern look and an even sterner dismissal. I contemplate a cease-fire on my ‘No Drinking’ rule for tonight only, as I nurse the buckets of sand piling into my throat. Perhaps ordering a non alcoholic beverage wouldn’t be entirely socially inappropriate. Instead the allure of the unpronounceable lager proves too great, wondering whether or not to attempt the word, I try to catch the eyes of the waitress, now visibly annoyed and taking her frustration out on the hardwood bar. I draw a breath to order, but the sickly sweet stench of sticky beer and the dense smoke dam any words that were to come out. I shake myself out of a one sided staring contest with the waitress and retreat awkwardly to the stage. Patting myself on the back for an excellent start to the night.
Patrons of the pub are up to the usual drunken noise making and general misbehaving. Unfortunately, a quick glance at the worn Grandfathers clock looming over the stage – the obvious decoration rather than practical timepiece – shows the night is still young, however drunk these guests appear. I make myself comfortable on one of the frayed and discoloured couches opposite the stage to watch the band set up their menagerie of instruments. The keyboardist wrestles a leviathan of cords and plugs and we share a smile as he gains the upper hand in the battle.
A mixture of band posters coat the walls like mismatching wallpapers like a notice board. One in particular, a hip-hop band, grabs my attention. Seeming so out of place. It distracts me long enough that I do not notice the hulk of the man in front of me.
“Watch it, buddy!” the heavy man’s voice is diluted over the current set. It seems like the furious bass causes the beast to waste a beverage upon his well used band shirt.
“I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t see you there.” I begin to explain, the drummer playing in tune with my heartbeat as I try to nudge my way past.
A strike of the electric guitar strings and I’m pushed back with a violent stroke.
“Hang on a min’,” he says looking down his nose. The music dies down. A steady strumming against my nerves, “where’d ya git that hair cut, mate?”
I have always disliked drunken people. They could be fine when sober, but when their brains and bodies are effectively poisoned, that makes me nervous.
“No place you’d know, mate.” a soft crescendo builds, “Considering it’s pretty obvious your Mum still cuts yours!” the band blasts into chorus as the drunk’s eyes light up like stage strobes.
“Least mine don’t make me look like ’m from the ****ing ‘Goos-tapo’!” the bass joins with the thumping laughter of the man, “See, yoose got the leather jacket down, now all ya need is couple of dem German ‘Swash-stickers’.”
I try swallowing the bitterness of his words, but the sandstorm is relentless now. The band simmers down once more, the light pitter-patter of wood on plastic and gentle picking creating an out of place silence in the bar. My heavy work boots fill in for the bass as I walk slowly over to the beast. Placing my hand on his shoulder, the tapping increases slightly as lead vocals and I string a soft legato,
“Sieg heil, mien Führer—.”
Crashing into the last chorus the band covers my escape.
The keyboardist dominating over his piece, the heavy hitting notes carrying me out the solid bar door and out onto the quiet street. All the while the yelling of a certain patron is crushed and silenced.
* * *
The cold bites through my jacket as I pursue home.
“I liked that place...” I grumble to my frozen hands, hoping the fury of my words would burn away the cold. Idly kicking stones across the cracked footpath and leering at the blur of car lights as they pass, I could hear the song from the bar in the distance, somehow getting louder and louder until it was upon me, the blaze of lights and metallic paint pulls up onto the footpath.
“Hey,” a sweet voice sounded above the radio, “we’re going to a gig. Want to come?”
I move around the van, shielding my eyes from the headlights, “It’s not at a pub, is it?”
“Of course.” She breathes with a smile, offering her hand.
The format is lost unfortunately (indents etc.), any tips on fixing that problem?