Portfolio of micro fictions Submission one: Killer Playlist

 Killer playlist 

 

“Nah, this ain’t it.” 

 Archie Costello paces the room, lighting incense and cranking up the music to chase away the fog of misery hanging over his bandmates.  

He gets it, they’ve lost their drummer...again and they’re a guitarist down. It isn’t ideal. Rudy is going through his usual weekly turmoil of despair but it’s Saturday night! The other two are even younger than him and this is not what your twenties are about. 

 This is not how they deal with sad. 

“I get it. It's all very emotional! Your feelings are valid, boys cry. All of that, but Jesus this ain’t us. This isn’t Soldiers of Sin. We’re done with whatever this is.” He waves a hand over the pile of onesie clad, blanket-rolled enchilada humans and curls his lip in a practiced sneer.  

“We’re going out.” He yanks off blankets, ignoring the collective moan.  

“I’m gonna remind you what we do when things are bad. You've got half hour.” He glares until they peel off the sofa and file past.  

                                                                       - 

Thirty-five minutes later, Archie is waiting by the front door beneath a tousle of freshly spiked hair. Ollie is first to descend; it almost looks as though he has spent the last thirty minutes doing absolutely nothing whatsoever, aside from a smear of eyeliner. Even the lack of onesie is barely noticeable. Archie chooses not to comment, just this once. 

 In a direct juxtaposition to the floppy-haired guitarist, Rudy has entirely transformed himself into a bonus member of Motley Crue. Usually, he’s up there for hours preening, so this is actually impressive. 

“Good.” With an encouraging nod, Archie hands them neon shot glasses filled to the brim with whiskey. He downs his own and flings open the door.  

It’s always the same; gig prep. Killer playlist, make yourself look hot, lucky shot, swagger. Jump on the tube or bus or roll about in the back of a van with the gear, spill out onto the street. Congregate. Worship. Heal. 

Tonight, they descend on Croydon. Not his first choice but all he could source last minute. They fall into step with the leather-clad, ripped denim and fishnets, like a pilgrimage. Pre-drinks at the pub, then straight to the Venue. Excitement begins to grow as Archie swaps fivers for handstamps and tenner's for Jager-bombs. They toss them back in unison.  

* 

Their feet stick to the floor with ripping Sellotape sounds but they hardly even register because the second the inner door opens they are thrown into the midst of a crowd roaring with ecstasy. Bodies throng together in a sweaty surging mass, instruments squeal with riffs to make you sob. Goosebumps crawl up Archie's forearms already. The crowd begin to pump their fists, chanting the chorus like a many-headed beast. United by music. He checks his bandmates' faces with a small grin. The breakdown rips through them, hits hard.  

He knows it's cheesy but this is their church.  

This is how they heal their sadness.