Short piece for a writer's competition, could be AU, could be a different band... anything
A/N: Competition piece for a website.. Based on Short Stack but could be any band.
Conversations With My Sixteen Year Old Self
My quest for stardom began and ended within five years. Our band started back when we were dorky sixteen year olds. We had no sense of fashion or make-up, no sense of what was right and wrong and definitely no sense of what was considered good music. This was according to any half-decent magazine throughout any half-decent countries.
Our sixteen year old minds were on one track, the track that included being famous, being drunk half the time and having a blast. We could've been known and appreciated worldwide, we might have been for a brief period of time but we screwed up our chances and now we're living with the consequences back in Budgewoi with no prospects except perhaps a promotion to Domino's manager.
I haven't seen them since that night in Melbourne, maybe a glance over towards their houses every now and then off my back deck but other than that, nothing. Every sign of friendship, love and just being the kids we used to be is gone. I would say there is nothing I can do but then I would be lying. My room looks like time stood still. Concert tickets and posters still adorn the walls, my band's logo drawn in Sharpie on the right hand corner during an unsuccessful band meeting by Bradie and the exact same books in the exact same order in my often unused bookcase that I got from IKEA when I actually had more than $100 a week.
But enough about that, I'm twenty-five year old male, single, living in my parents' house and work as a delivery man at a pizza parlour, a job only secured by the fact that Andy was previously an employee and only after extensive interviews with me practically begging for employment and repeating that I would not use the garlic bread rolls to play baseball again. So I manage to run the whole place when my actual manager is out doing God knows what with God knows who and I have yet had any success in wrangling a promotion from a delivery man to an actual cook.
I used to document our tours in this little notebook, writing dot point key words like a high school English lesson. I only wish now, speaking as a lonely failure, that I put more thought into the entries. The memories are starting to fade; the feeling of a guitar in my hands is leaving because I haven't picked up a guitar in three years, the warmth of friendship dies away and the callouses on my fingers grow soft. I am a wreck, physically, emotionally and socially.
Maybe one day I will play, one day I will be with my friends again and one day I will be famous once again but for now, I stand on the stage, facing the empty theatre of Festival Hall and the feeling of loneliness creeps up once more.