Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Rock and Roll Machine
I Can Remember
New York Groove
Round And Round
It'll Be Alright
Voices Green And Purple
Paranoia Is Freedom
Searching For Something
Dream Police
You Never Had It Better
Destination Unknown
One Way Or Another
... And I Will Be With You
Where I Am Today
Crawling From The Wreckage
I Wanna Talk To You
Institutionalized
Instant Replay
Surrender
Rat Trap
Second Hand News
Our Love Will Last Forever
It's All Over Now, Baby Blue
Strength To Endure
Crazy World
Heaven
Punk Rock Girl
State Of Emergency
I Will Always See Your Face
The Chain
Trust Your Heart
Starting Over
Silver, Blue & Gold
Playlist
To My Readers
Moonlight Serenade
It's A Marshmallow World
Scary Modsters
The Rock and Roll Fantasy Collection
Something To Dream On
Praise for the Forbidden Flower series
Love's Forbidden Flower
Time's Forbidden Flower
About The Author
Playlists for all of the Rock and Roll Fantasy stories are listed at the end and can be found on my YouTube Channel.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, essays, and reviews.
Copyright © 2015 Diane Rinella
Cover art copyright © 2015 Diane Rinella
Cover art and design by Heidi “Azurylipfe” Darras
http://azurylipfe.daportfolio.com/
For the muse, the memories, and the energies surrounding me.
Acknowledgements
Voices Carry is deeply personal in ways few would understand. In fact, I can truthfully say writing it was emotionally turbulent. The leaps and bounds of growth it caused will take me decades to understand. But of all of the twists and turns my personal life took while writing Voices Carry, the core story, along with Brandon’s love of music, never faltered.
I owe special thanks to Jared Wilke for doing one of our favorite things; drinking and talking about punk rock. Also, thanks to his wife, Shannon, for dealing with us. While the characters didn’t turn out the way I planned, that conversation got my brain into the groove needed to create Saleena.
Special thanks to Darla Roybal and Jennifer Theriot for making sure I got this done while keeping my sanity in check. Lastly, and in no way least, about a zillion thank yous go out to my husband, Brian, who basically turned into a single parent while attempting to work on his own projects and without vocalizing the complaints I am sure he (rightfully) had. This one was a doozy!
Rock and Roll Machine
I am a rock and roll machine,
a product of my own revolution.
The road to success is dark,
but flames of my desire will light the path.
Are you the one who dares to stand in my way?
You may get destroyed, or I just might be saved.
~ Saleena Kale, 1977
I Can Remember
Again my tears well, prickling my eyes with shards of heat and creating a barrier between me and the final photo of the woman who was to be my wife—the woman who left me love notes signed with her first name and my last, as if we had already married—the woman who had her life brutally taken, decades too soon.
Amber’s brown hair cascades around her face in gentle waves, reminding me of an object of turn-of-the-century art—feminine and locked in time. Her brows arch so softly that even though they are not rainbow-hued, they tell my heart the eyes beneath them are treasures. I miss how those glorious green orbs warmed my heart like the sun. I would give damn near anything to get lost in them again.
The moment this photo was taken is forever etched into my mind. It may be a simple shot of her face, but I remember the wood paneling of the restaurant walls behind her, the white linen on the table between us, and the slice of carrot cake in front of her with the words “Happy 22nd Birthday” scripted around it in chocolate.
My fingers glide down the page, tenderly caressing Amber’s image with as much love as if I were actually touching her cheek, and my tears pour. I wish I could feel those soft curves again—curves framing a smile that illuminated my world. A smile that helped me see the beauty of mankind.
God, Amber, it has been nearly a decade since you met with the angels, yet the tingle you bring to my heart still haunts me. The rose pressed into the page next to your photo makes me feel I’ve locked your ghost into this book. The day of your funeral, we all carried one with us—your mom and dad, your brother and sister, and I. It was something to focus our love into so when we dropped it into your grave our hearts went with you. I had thought of it as being your hand, and that I was walking with you through your transition into whatever beauty was ahead. I couldn’t let go, not because I didn’t want you to find happiness, but because we were robbed of what we deserved.
Someone once told me memories are akin to dreams—they have the ability to change and become something entirely different from what once was. No way, Amber, I would never betray you. My memories are precious. While I may not recall the reason you chose the dress you wore in this photo, or the color of the nail polish you had on, I will never forget how much you made me smile or how you again stole my heart, just like on the day we met. The memories of how your smile imprinted my soul, time and again, will never be allowed to lose their luster.
My fingers glide over the rose, and even though it is protected under a layer of plastic, the sorrow of losing my every dream emanates through. Amber said when it comes down to it, we are nothing but energy, and energy leaves an imprint for others to appreciate. For years I continued to feel Amber’s spark. It eventually drifted away, and a part of me has been sick ever since.
But yet …
Recently I have felt something brewing around me. It reminds me of not long after Amber died, when I could swear she was in the room and offering comfort. It has been years, so why am I sensing her now? I’m not even sure I am. I can only assume it is my brain searching for a way to fill the void.
Knowing memories are all that is left of Amber is too much to bear. I lock her photo in my mind before closing my eyes and shutting the book. Watching the last of her get tucked away would be like burying her again.
New York Groove
The sorrow of losing Amber has been carved into my soul and has forced me to accept that the tragedy I carry in my heart has become a part of me. In other words, I've learned to press on. Having the right elements in my life helps. To me, Warped Records is more therapeutic than Disneyland.
It’s funny, Amber would love how Warped Records proudly displays treasures
by brilliant artists, yet she would hate nearly every piece of music within its walls. With us, it wasn’t that opposites attracted, but more that common passions brought out how our differences were like oil and water. Flutes and gentle melodies sent Amber’s heart swooning so high my being still warms at the memory of watching her glow. I crave something harder. Something that turns me into a juvenile delinquent in all the best ways—crazed, ambitious, and with a slip of danger nagging at my hips. Rock and roll is not only a blast of passion that rips me away from the mundane and throttles me into magnificence, it is also the only thing that can get me out of a funk when happiness becomes elusive. Since losing Amber, that has happened a lot.
I pull into the lot as Dale is getting out of his car. Even though he should have left the office hours ago, he is still wearing a suit and looks like the Rat Pack-worshiping hepcat he is. With the simple exchange of “Hey” and pats on the arms, the weight of the dark cloud over my head seems to lighten. But the true sensation of breathing fresh air doesn’t hit until we walk through the front door and the authentic sound of the new Sonics album flows into my ears. Hearing aging pioneers of garage rock still kicking ass sends my adrenaline charging.
From behind the counter, Shane greets Dale and I as if we are roommates—with a bop of his head—before returning his attention to a magazine. My curiosity over what has him so engaged nudges me to pop onto the counter and take a peek. Not only is it the same, nineteen seventy-seven issue of Creem I have seen him read numerous times; it’s the same article about The Climax Blues Band. Sometimes it is hard to admit we music dorks are odd characters, but I can’t even begin to imagine why he is so engaged over a band he refers to as a combination of blues, rock, and sap. Somehow though, these little quirks help me connect with him.
Dale catches sight of what Shane is again reading. “That’s it. I’m tired of counting the grey hairs Shane has peeking through those curls. I’m daring to venture into one of the unsorted piles in the corner. Wish me luck.” As he heads off, he calls back, “If I don’t return in fifteen minutes, send an ambulance. Either a stack has fallen over and knocked me out, or I need mental help for spending so much time here.”
For as neat as it looks, Warped Records is kind of a disaster. Records and CDs are all over the place—row upon row, pile upon pile. Regulars jokingly refer to the back room as Vinyl Heaven because once the door creaks open you know it is really Record Hell. Unless the music is in his genre, Shane is horrible about keeping this place organized. Thankfully our shared, and rather bizarre, affinity for power pop and seventies punk, along with a tender love for ladies who can rock your world with the strike of a chord, makes it easy for him to set aside whatever comes in that I will soon discover I need like air. Without that, shopping here would drive me mad.
Dale takes one look at the stacks and shakes his head before digging in. We met Dale when he came in looking for what he referred to as “old school, swanky music—similar to Sinatra and Martin, but more soulful and orchestral”. When we put on a copy of my grandfather’s favorite album, Ellington and Armstrong’s The Great Summit, Dale’s eyes enlivened, and his head rolled back to acknowledge heaven.
The friendship Dale and I share almost defies logic. Our differences are vast, especially when it comes to work habits. The thought of him selling custom software to large financial institutions may make my brain spin, but the stress in Dale’s eyes has me fearing he will wind up on blood pressure medication before he is forty.
A chill runs up my spine, causing my stomach to turn as memories race back. Working too hard can take away everything, not only from you and the ones you love, but from total strangers as well. A stranger was more concerned over the company he worked for than himself, and it caused an accident that took away so much.
God, I hate how today everything twists into a reminder of tragedy. It has taken all I have not to cave to feeling the power of every smile I have ever seen is being sucked out of me. Yet right now …
Somehow I feel enrobed in the comfort of a blanket, but it is not quite how it was when I used to think Amber was near. Why do I feel so strange?
The CD ends, and instead of silence filling the air, I am thrown off by a distant whisper. I don’t remember hearing that on the end of the disk before.
The CD player clicks as it switches to the next disk, yet the voice that I am pretty sure is female continues. As it does, my newfound comfort continues to build. I know I shouldn’t complain about feeling better, but am I hearing things? It seems to be coming from within the store, but there is no one here but us guys.
I lean toward the window and catch sight of a couple across the street. Either she is shouting or my hearing has gone super sonic. The voice gets drowned out when a CD spins and New York Groove Plus by The Sweet comes on. Shane must be in a new-albums-by-classic-bands mood.
Dale heads back, empty handed. Shane tosses the magazine aside, marches to the door, and flips the open sign to closed. “That’s it. If you guys can’t find anything to waste your money on, the night is doomed. Work has officially been canceled on the count of boredom. Who’s up for a gallon of beer?”
Sure, I’ll go anywhere and do pretty much anything so my heart doesn’t dwell. “Where to?” I pop off of the counter, hoping for something new even though history tells me where we are headed.
“Pandora’s Revisited?” Dale suggests.
“No way!” Shane’s words remind me of a bark. “Bieber did a surprise karaoke appearance there last week. Their mojo is permanently scarred.”
Yeah, just the thought of it already has me associating it with stale beer. “How about Jackson’s?” I ask.
Dale waves that one off. “Nope. Last time I was there I ordered a pitcher of Sam Adams and they gave me Bud. If you can’t trust your bartender … ” He shakes his head while looking to the ground in shame on behalf of the bar. I’m with him there.
Man, we can’t keep going to the same place. “Let’s head across town,” I suggest. “Los Angeles has a bar on every block.”
“Hey, how about The Whisky?” Dale asks.
Shane’s jaw drops and tightens. It’s hard not to chuckle at how he reminds me of a short, mortified Frankenstein’s monster. “Are you crazy? It’s tribute band night.”
Our groans come out in sync. “Dare I ask whom is being slaughtered—I mean, praised?” I ask.
“It’s a double whammy of Billy Joel and Elton John.”
There is no winning with that one. Not only is our interest pretty low, why would anyone want to tinker with sacred ground?
With a communal shrug, we accept we are going to Mulligan’s. No matter how much we swear we won’t, we always wind up there, time and again—kind of like kids hearing the jangling tune of an ice cream truck.
Shane grabs his battered, gas station attendant jacket and we head for the door. Two steps shy of it, he raises an index finger and heads back behind the counter. “Hold on.” He pulls out a small moving box so overflowing with audio reels that when he plops it on the counter, the reels start escaping. I have to scramble to keep them from spilling onto the floor. “Here,” Shane says. “We got like, seven of these at an estate sale of some geezer who used to be a recording engineer up in Berkeley a thousand years ago.”
“So like the seventies? Back when you were in grade school and my parents hadn’t even met?” Many of the reels are loose, but some are not so neatly tucked into boxes with nearly illegible scribbling on them. The unwinding reel I hold has me both curious and apprehensive. Granted, I want something to put my head in another space but … What am I being given?
“I can’t stomach going through them anymore. So far it has been Russian roulette between crappy punk and wannabe metal, but once in a while something interesting pops up. You’d think with all of the incredible stuff that came out of that area we’d luck into something, but so far zip. Make these disappear. If you find something priceless, don’t tell me, and for God’s sake, don’t tell Rob I gave you those. He’ll
can me.”
“How can Rob fire you? Don’t you part own this place? Actually, I’ve never seen Rob. No one has. Rumor has it he only exists in your head.”
“Oh, he’s real. Trust me. He calls and yells at me enough to prove it.”
After tossing the box into my trunk, the three of us head off to Mulligan’s.
I hated college, yet I tried to relish in all of the things people love about it—the parties, the camaraderie, and the notion of having the world at my fingertips. But no matter what I did, the classes bored me out of my skull, and the party-lifestyle was too distracting. I pretty much had it when one day I returned to the dorms, sick as a dog with the stomach flu, and heard the guy down the hall getting it on with some girl. When I stammered out of the bathroom, I found the last thing I expected—my girlfriend slipping out his door.
Things continued to go downhill, and I was debating if college was where I needed to be when the sweet scent of lilies drifted across the lawn and filled my heart with hope. I swear I felt Amber’s presence before I saw her—as if a great force told me to look in her direction. In a school filled with girls sporting low-necklines and form-fitting microskirts, much like my recent ex, seeing Amber in her well-fitted jeans and sweater that was just tight enough to make my mind wonder about what was underneath it was enchanting.
She took a seat on a bench, opened a book on art, and settled back with an expression saying she couldn’t wait to see what mysteries were about to unfold. The sight damn near had me sprinting over not only for a better look, but also to talk to someone who was fascinated by something I struggled with. In a blink she got me to understand why some things grab people’s attention, how color conveys a message, and how relative size and perspective can influence opinions. By the time we finished our conversation, I hadn’t just met a woman I was falling for, I had gained the enthusiasm needed to succeed in the artistic side of my marketing classes.
Voices Carry: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection) Page 1