Chapter 1

This is the longest chapter of the book. If you can read past this first one, I promise the other chapters are shorter.

Jennings loved his father’s music studio. When he was little, he enjoyed watching his dad at work. There was something magical about the place. The lights were dramatic and soft all at once. The furniture in the recording room was always especially comfortable, more so than his mother’s leather couches in the living room. No, the couch in the recording room was soft and patterned psychedelically in orange and navy, a product of his father’s bachelor days when life was supposedly simpler. Jennings would sleep in there whenever he had nightmares. He would wake up in the middle of the night, trying to forget the horrible pictures his mind created for him, and he would wait in his bed, wait to hear the music. No matter what time of night, whether it was 11 p.m. or 2 a.m., if there was a faint strum of guitar or a chiming of the keyboard, he would go down to the basement and find his daddy there, almost as if he were waiting for him. 

His father never seemed surprised or annoyed to see his son clutching his pillow at the door with a frightened look on his face. He simply gave him hugs and tucked him in on the couch, leaving the studio lights on for him so he could start the night over again. Sometimes, he would even play the acoustic until he closed his eyes and was convinced of sleep. All You Need is Love by the Beatles. That was Jennings’ favorite.

But now that Jennings was eighteen, and now that his father was dead, the studio was nothing but an unkempt basement with an old, musty couch waiting to be cleaned.

He switched the lights on, something that hadn’t happened in almost a year, and looked around the room. Everything was still there, all the equipment and the microphones and the computers, all the pictures of musicians who had played there hanging on the walls, all the albums and artwork. Everything was there, everything but his father.

The studio smelled dank. Jennings couldn’t quite place where it was coming from, but he knew he would have to act fast before his mother got home. She wouldn’t want him down there, messing with the equipment even though she knew he knew what he was doing. He had some of the same talents as his father. Still, the basement was a sacred, magical place to her too, and she didn’t want her son to ruin it.

He started with the couch first, taking off the cushions and vacuuming between the cracks, collecting any extra change that happened to be embedded there. He used some Febreze, hoping the smell would disappear, but still, it was ever present, hanging at the edge of his nose. He dusted the sound boards, the computers, the microphones, but he didn’t touch the guitars, barely even looked at them; they brought on too many memories. That was certainly one thing he and his mother could agree on: never sell the guitars. Not that they were even thinking about selling anything else. Nothing had been changed or rearranged. The last person to be in that room had been his dad.

Jennings vacuumed the floor, made sure all the dust bunnies were gone underneath the bookshelves and the couch. He cleaned the windows and tied back the curtains, letting some light in. He scoured the tiny bathroom, scrubbed the bathtub, endured the toilet, and made sure the floor was mopped. By the time he finished, two hours had passed and the dank stench was barely there. Instead, the smell of lemony fresh Pine-Sol smothered the air and filled his lungs, making him wonder if it was possible to get high on the stuff. He sighed with satisfaction as he surveyed the room. Everything was in its place and in its proper order, almost as if his dad had never left.
            “What are you doing?” a voice asked from atop the stairs.

Jennings practically jumped out of his skin and turned, seeing his little sister Jessica there in her black and white cheerleading outfit, pom-poms in hand.

“Nothing,” he said in reply, dreading the scowl on her face. “I didn’t know you were home. Is Mom here?”

“No. You’re safe. But, seriously,” she paused to take in the clean, organized studio in. “Mom’s going to kill you.”

Jennings just stood there, watching her climb slowly up the steps. Ever since their father’s death, everything she did was in a slow, lethargic manner. Even her temperament had changed. Nothing could surprise or shock her anymore. Jennings almost preferred it when she was hyper and annoying. At least then he knew she was alive and a real human being. Now, it was like she was a robot, a sluggish, weirdly calm robot that somehow managed to be on the cheerleading squad. It was her second year on the team, and he knew it meant a lot to her. He wanted to tell her that he was glad she hadn’t given it up, but the moment had passed, and Jessica was already out the door.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. He probably had about thirty minutes or so before his mom was due home, and even that was a stretch. Any other day he wouldn’t have even come down there, but something, some inexplicable thing, an urge of some sort, made him go down there. He looked around. He had to admit, the studio looked much better now. But there were certain things he hadn’t touched like the record case that held all his dad’s favorites. The guitars that were practically sacred were collecting dust, and he wished he could clean them, but he didn’t have much time. His father only would allow him to play one, the Hummingbird True Vintage Gibson Acoustic, and even then, Jennings wouldn’t play it much. He didn’t feel right standing there, looking at them, but he didn’t want to leave either.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Flipping it open, he could see it was a text message from his girlfriend Meredith, asking what he was up to. Jennings just sighed and set the phone down near the sound system. He sat in the swivel chair and opened the disc player to see what the last thing his father had been listening to. Slipping headphones on, he leaned back, closed his eyes and listened.

When he opened his eyes just a few minutes later, he jumped to the sight of his mother standing before him with hands on her hips and a frown on her face.

“Take the headphones off!” he managed to hear her say above the music. “What are you doing?”

Jennings slipped off the headphones and turned off the sound system, unsure as to what to say. He knew he should have headed back upstairs when he had gotten the chance. His mother scanned the room, looking at how clean it was and for once, this was the only time she would have chastised him for straightening things up.

“What have you done?” she asked him. Her voice was high-pitched, and her face crumpled. “I told you not to come down here!”

Jennings hesitated to say something, afraid of his anger. She had no right to banish him from the studio, from the memory of his father. He clenched his fist and glared at her.

“Why? It’s mine just as much as it is yours. You won’t even allow me to remember him.”

“God, Jenn, you don’t ever listen to me!” She stood there and closed her eyes, as if wishing for the situation to disappear.

 “Get out,” she managed to say in a muffled voice.

“Mom, I"”

“I said get out!”

Jennings headed up the stairs, slowly, wishing he could comfort her. He slammed the basement door shut and passed Jessica on the way out.

“Where are you going?” she called after him.

“Out.”

“I thought you don’t like driving anymore.”

“Meredith will come get me.”

He made his way up the stairs while dialing her number. Maybe getting out of the house would do him some good. 

Author's Note

All reviews and critiques are welcome. This story is fairly new.

Reviews

[madmocha]

Your writing is clean, smooth and uncluttered; just what I would expect from a journalism major. ;)

The chapter picked up some toward the end. It started a bit slow. I was wondering what it was supposed to be about. More like a diary of somebody's uneventful day. For a longer story seeking to develop over a long haul, I would recommend some sort of hook a little earlier on. Something that will give the reader a feeling that this is heading somewhere interesting.

I'm afraid this is coming out negatively, and I don't mean it to; I do enjoy reading something that is obviously well put together. I would just like to see something a little earlier that will grab me and pull me in.

I do like your style. Your obviously a talented writer, and I'll be happy to read what ever you put up here. I know from experience, it's not always easy to get critiques on longer works. :)

[Black]

It is a nice smooth story ,
though it starts of slow,
you have my interest on the end.

I look forward to reading further in due time.

Black