Young Writers Society

Okay, so another short story, I typed this up today in a spur of boredom. I hope you like it. Critiques are encouraged, response's are loved.

They said I needed to work on my stage presence, it was to blah. To lacking of the excitement that was so very necessary for any performer to be successful. That was the reason, the only reason, that I stood in front of my mirror, with a round hairbrush in my hand, singing along with every pop artist I've always hated.

“Behind these hazel eyes...Okay, I cant do this,” I tossed the hairbrush carelessly onto my dresser. My best friend Callie was lying on my bed reading a band magazine, the good kind.

She laughed a bit as Kelly Clarkson's voice trailed up ending perfectly at a high note that only pop and opera singers could incorporate in their music.

“Didn't Major say that you had to learn how to sing more than one style,” Callie said, not taking her eyes away from the text on her glossy page.

Major was short for A Major, the record company I had been signed to for the past three months. At first it was a big rush, all yay's and squealing excitement, then the excitement wore off and I got into the real work. Suddenly people were critiquing my lyrics, taking every sentence and tearing it apart, until my songs were no longer my songs, but mass produced A Major products of illusionary professionalism and perfection. Whatever the hell that means.

“Since when did you start listening to what Major had to say?” I asked, searching through my iPod for a decent song.

“Since I found out that they work with Deranged Lives,” I shook my head, Callie would do anything that involved Deranged Lives, I admitted, it was good, but not great. The singers voice was whiny when he wasn't vomit-screaming into a microphone shoved halfway down his throat.

“But this is different, Cal, this is pop,” I said, taking a seat next to her and letting my eyes wander across the page.

“True, you should talk to them about your style of music.”

“Like I haven't already tried.”

“Try, try, try again, until the day you die. Find, find, find yourself, until the day I say, I'm here for you. Don't look back, it's to late now, we've gone too far. The trail fades behind us leaving memory's of the past, promises of the future. Find, find, find yourself.” Callie sang, it was the first song we wrote together when we were fourteen, a good age. If only I could go back. But the trail was fading behind me, leaving a memory. Soon the memory would be forgotten and with that even the trail would soon disappear.

“Get back up there and sing like you were born singing pop!” Callie shoved me playfully, and I grudgingly picked up my hairbrush/microphone and changed the music to Alexz Johnson.

Callie was watching me through the mirror, silently judging my facial expressions.

“Use your eyes more,” she critiqued.

“I cant, unless of course I rip them out and throw them at the audience!” I protested.

“Hayley, give me the brush,” she said, putting her magazine face-down to keep her page. She stood up and reached out to take the brush out of my hand.

“Do you even know this song?” I asked.

“I don't have to,” she said. I raised one eyebrow at her, she shrugged.

“Watch and learn.”

She listened to the chorus once before restarting the song.

She pulled the brush up close to her mouth and started mouthing the words, she played with her eyes, tilting her head down and intensifying her gaze. She batted her eyelashes at the right times, with the music, making the song truly hers. I leaned against the wall and watched as she raised her hands up with the notes as they went by.

She truly owned the music.

The chorus came and this part she knew the words to, she sang along with them, her voice blended as seamlessly as her movements. She swayed, jumped, bent down spun, all the while keeping with the music. For someone who had never heard the song before it was impressive. Why couldn't I do that?

“Here you go, Hayley, do that and the people at Major will love you as long as your fans do,” Callie said breathlessly as she handed me back the makeshift microphone.

“I cant follow that,” I said.

“Sure you can,” and then she took a seat back on my bed, magazine in her hands, already engrossed in another article.

I waited for the next song to start, but I felt silly trying to get into the fake lyrics.

“That's your problem,” Callie said, she had been watching me through the mirror again, I hadn't noticed.

“What is?” I asked.

“You're scared, I can see it in your eyes. You don't want to look stupid so you do the minimum,” she said.

“I'm not scared,” I said.

“Really? Then why are so reserved in your movements, its almost painful to watch,” she said.

“Oh, thanks,” I said sarcastically.

“No problem,” Callie stood up again and walked over to where my iPod sat, plugged into the speakers. Soon loud music was blaring out of them, it was all I had of Deranged Lives. Guitars screamed and soon vomit-voice joined.

Callie started jumping up and down in time to the music, whipping her hair around. She took my hands and pulled me along with her in this strange dance.

“Don't fight it, Hay-Day,” she said.

“Cal,” I tried, but she shook her head and danced more vigorously.

The song ended and Callie changed the song before the next one could start, a band I liked infinitely more came on. This time I danced, jumping and shaking my head, spinning and laughing with Callie. The next song caught me by surprise.

It was my own song, one that Callie had helped me write, we had recorded it last week. Callie extended one arm out to me, in her hand she gripped the round brush.

“I can do this,” I said.

“Don't tell me, show me,” Callie said, she took my other brush off of my dresser and stood next to me. I watched her as she started the first verse, her part of the song.

“What's to come and what's to go, some things we can never know,” she started with the moving again, shrugging her shoulders and blinking.

“Whatever we dream and whatever we see, can come true with the barest wish.” I responded.

“Tell me everything. Show me Everyone. Let me live my last day,” we sang in unison, “and then try, try, try again, until the day you die. Find, find, find yourself, until the day I say, I'm here for you. Don't look back, it's to late now, we've gone too far. The trail fades behind us leaving memory's of the past, promises of the future. Find, find, find yourself.”

The stage was bright, my heart pounded in my throat, or maybe it was my pulse, that would make more sense. But no, it was my heart, I was sure. I was choking on it.

“Good luck Hay-Day,” Callie said, gripping my shoulder. She was on stage with me, hundreds of people stood on the floor in the middle of the club. Her black silk shirt reflected the bright lights and blinded me, I knew that my silver guitar was doing that same.

“You to Calice,” I said back, my hand was sweating where it gripped the neck of the guitar. A voice came from over head, I could barely make out what was being said.

“Welcome, from A Major, a new voice and her inspiration. Hayley Johnson and Callie Alice.” At least I think that's what they said.

We both stepped up to a microphone, some random guy from Major was on the drums, he counted us off, and soon we were on the trail once more, taking small steps forward, slowly leaving the past behind. We were moving on from who we once were, becoming the people we would grow up to be.

“Don't look back, it's to late now, we've gone too far. The trail fades behind us leaving memories of the past, promises of the future.”