One, Two, Three...

One, Two, Three...

One, Two-Three.

"Your rhythm speeds up on that third measure."

My gaze found the path that the hurried voice had scrambled out of. 'Dark' was my first thought at seeing the displeased boy crumpled over the sales counter. Thin hands threaded through rich brown hair that sheltered the eyes already hidden safely behind contoured lids. The young man's boney elbows pressed into the glass counter and threatened to stab right on through to the various picks, tuners, and spare strings laying neatly beneath.

"Oh, really? Thanks for the heads-up."

I spoke with a smile that the boy didn't see as he kept his eyes shut and face scrunched in annoyance.

"Play it again, please, please... please."

The boy's last plea, said with a bite, almost moved my hands for me. An odd intimidation that the kid's words shot through me said, 'play this perfectly, or shit will go down.' Fingers met strings and I discarded my love for those perforated cylinders of metal; I played to please the dark boy, not myself. He smiled when my blemish cleared, so I did the same.

From disgustingly revolted to calmly happy with a few strums, an odd shift for an odd kid, I guessed.

I had never seen this boy here before—an extraordinary feat considering all the other personnel may as well have been my family; I particularly favored this quaint little music shop. The many instruments always clean, and tuned to heart-melting perfection, the amps looking up at you with shiny knobs and flashing lights, begging you to plug in those cherished guitars or basses that purred pristinely to your touch. It was Nirvana, in its most subtle form. I couldn't get enough of it all, and the convenience of the fine little store breathing the same air as my high school and the street corner I played on made my insides applaud the universe for giving me such an amazing place.

"How much for a set of these strings?"

I set down the cherry red Gibson with utmost care, patting it as I walked to the dark boy's—Miles, I discovered from his nametag—counter.

The kid's gaze slammed into mine. Deep, almost black, eyes impacted mine with a force that sent my eyelids back. I remember an odd feeling in that moment of the boy being different. Not the casual different of someone being weird, but an alienated contrast between the ones I had spent my whole life with. I stopped staring when the odd kid quirked an eyebrow and slid my desired strings across the counter. "I need fifteen for those." Miles said, tapping the counter three times and brushing back his hair, before opening the clunky cash register with three poised fingers.

"That's a little stiff, isn't it? These strings ain't that great."

I said that, but three fives had already exited my wallet and I could swear a smirk flashed on Miles dark features, even if for a moment.

"Must sell at tallest sum," he said with a stiff tongue.

The words felt forced, like when fast-food clerks have a rehearsed greeting, and Miles' eyes were shut by the same enmity wrinkling his nose. However, the boy's emotions quieted when the three bills entered his long fingers, and I smiled. This guy was pretty simple. He gets mad, gets what he wants, and gets better. Easy, I thought, like a child.

I look back on this now, though, and laugh at how wrong I was.


Ok, this is my first actual story with my own characters, and I'm excited, with a good dose of fear thrown in there as well. I encourage my readers greatly to tell me if my writing is good, bad, or should rot in hell. I'm here because I love to write, and I want to be great at what I love. Thus, if my words made an impression on you, good or bad, I would be overly grateful to know.

Btw, genres make my brain boil, and then when it evaporates I just choose genres that might be sort of appropriate, so the whole 'drama, friendship' thing shouldn't be too trustworthy.

Thanks For Reading