TWH: Word Prompt Challenges

February Flash Fic - Day 21 - magic

Tired from the journey and the back to back shows he decides not to push his limits. He could get up early in the morning and make it to the next venue by midday. There'd be plenty of time for sound checks and the like. Of course the closest town's only motel wasn't much to look at. He didn't much trust leaving his guitar in the room, so he took it with him to the bar across the street.

Just cause you were getting up early in the morning didn't mean you couldn't enjoy a decent helping of greasy food washed down with a glass or two of beer.

There's an old fashioned marquee just to the left of the sign above the door, announcing for all those getting off shift but not ready to go home that there's a band tonight - no cover.

He expects to turn a few heads, carrying his guitar in with him and propping it against one of the stools before claiming a seat for himself. Nobody really pays him much mind. They were either too focused on the band onstage, on their drinks, or on each other. Only the bartender seems to track his arrival, giving him a short nod and a wave of the hand, the universal motion for 'be with you in a minute, bud'.

As he takes the place in a story starts to surface in his mind, one that only sometimes got told - and the versions were never quite the same. Was about a dive bar. Nobody telling the tall tale ever knew the name of it, just that it couldn't be called anything but.

There was always live entertainment. Every single night of the week. Every night somebody new. How they managed the booking, or took a chance on traveling so far to play on a small stage to a half filled room nobody could ever give a straight answer to. Not like those kinds of shows made you a household name.

Except, sometimes, that's exactly what happened. The name of the singer or band would be up on the marquee that Wednesday night, and by Friday an entire time zone would be buzzing, the musician or group known by name.

Shame - he thinks to himself - that it isn't his name up in block letters on the side of the building. But then, it was just a story, and he didn't much believe in things like that. It was hard work and due diligence that got you where you were going. If you were meant to make it big, you would. Just needed to be willing to drive from place to place to place and get your name out there. Make people take notice.

The bartender takes his order, serves him up his beer, and then moves right back down the bar towards the woman he'd been talking to. She's clearly a regular, only half paying attention to the goings on around her. Every once in awhile she glances at the stage, he notices, and fewer times still her foot will bounce along with the beat.

He watches the band on the stage, too. They're ok. Nothing to phone home about. Except for once or twice when he gets goosebumps. Which could just be a draft in the room. Or the beer and exhaustion from being on the road for so long.

Then the bartender is back, plate of food in hand - and a suggestion. "They're about due for a break." A sideways glance at his guitar, "You play, you should go on up for a set."

Etiquette says he should decline. Musicians don't steal each other's shows. But if the bartender is calling the shots, asking him to entertain the room while the band takes a break... Who is he to say no?

He's started to scrunch up his face to hem out an answer when he thinks better of it, giving the other man a short nod. "Alright. I guess - uh - just say when."

Before he knows it he's up on stage, once again marked by a spotlight. A microphone and a stool are all he needs. But the songs? Should he sing a few of his own, or stick to the safety of well-known covers. Considering the crowd... He introduces himself and thumbs out a few notes, fingers searching the chords for something that feels like a good starting point.

The song selection just kind of comes to him, and for the first few lines of the song he's not quite sure he's chosen right. But then the woman at the bar catches his eye, just a quick turn of her head to look at the change in entertainment.

When he hits the chorus she actually turns to look at the stage, at him. There are a few singing along now, too, so hey - seems like he chose good. Didn't bore them with something the band already played.

Next song that comes into his head is easy enough to transition into, so he does, his fingers finding the tune almost of their own accord. It's not a half-bad rendition either, even if it isn't something he wrote. If it'd been his name on the side of the building he might've felt more comfortable, enough to sing them one of his own songs...

He lets his mind wander as he entertains the room. He knows the song well enough. That story stirs up again. That story he heard... where had he been? Was it a fellow musician, or somebody's manager that had been playing to everyone's dreams?

That's when he notices the woman smiling at him, the woman at the bar that somehow makes him forget about the rest of the room and only want to sing to her. For her.

His voice should be coming weaker, rough from so many nights on the road, and cracking or scratching the high notes... But for two songs now he's hardly felt any strain to his vocal chords.

Another song comes to mind. Just one more before he estimates the band will be rested, watered, and ready to continue with their night. Reclaim their stage. But right now - it's his. As though she's heard him, the woman at the bar gives him a little nod. It was his room to command, and a good song to end on. As good as any.

You know - he thinks to himself, strumming the opening notes - maybe it isn't about playing everywhere you can, but just having one really good night in a place nobody's ever heard of. Sometimes lightning strikes, a muse finds you, and you're made.