Light
bumming rides
Lucky Lucy. It’s ironic really; I’m anything but lucky anymore.
Sure, maybe once upon a time I was the luckiest girl around, but not anymore. Nothing ever seemed to go right. I’m stuck in this beat down van; traveling with a group of kids I only just met a few cities back. The only items to my name being the guitar and the worn backpack filled with articles of clothing from second hand stores and vintage trade shops.
“Carter, can we stop? I have to pee,” said a boy whose name I hadn’t bothered to remember.
“Dude, we just stopped an hour ago,” the boy driving, who I assumed to be Carter, replied.
“I didn’t have to go then,” the first boy said under his breath.
I hitched a ride with the four strangers when I didn’t have enough money for the next Greyhound out of the small Mississippi town I had found myself in. My destination was still undetermined; I had no idea where I was headed. My only goal was to get as far away from Massey Falls, Georgia as possible.
The three boys shrugged their shoulders when their female friend suggested they give me a ride to wherever I was headed. At first I wanted to protest, chase the sun on my own, but knew that I wouldn’t get far by myself with the little money I managed to collect busking in the hot summer sun.
It wasn’t that I had an aversion to people or socialization, but I preferred to keep my distance from any thing and anyone these days. If I didn’t get develop an attachment, it wouldn’t be broken down the line. I didn’t ever want to feel the pain of loosing something I held dear ever again.
“Hey, your quiet back here,” the girl commented as she switched from the front row to the rear one, taking up the space beside me. I simply shrugged my shoulders, unsure of how to respond. “So, you never told us where you’re headed. Where are you from?” she asked, not for the first time.
Knowing she wouldn’t stop asking until I delved out some info, I coughed up the semi-truth. “I’m from Georgia, and I have no idea where I’m going, just seeing where this road will take me.”
“Georgia, huh? Where in Georgia? I have family in Columbus,” the tallest boy with a reddish-brown mop-top piped up from the row in front of ours.
“Uh, Massey. It’s right outside of Savannah. It’s really small, I’m sure you’ve never heard of it,” I rambled.
“Your right. I’ve only ever been to Columbus and Atlanta.” I nodded my head at his statement.
“You play?” the boy next to him, whose name I remembered was Jones, asked. Again, I nodded, the obvious answer. “Can we hear?” he pressed.
“Oh, I don’t know. I-”
“Come on. I heard you this morning, you’re good,” the girl complemented.
“Thanks, but I-”
“Okay, now I need to hear. Char is a grouch who doesn’t like any music, so for her to say you’re good must mean you’re amazing,” the second boy continued to pester me.
I could feel heat rise on my neck at his statement. “Um, okay.” I picked up the guitar my father had played all through his childhood and had given to me when I first learned to play. I strummed lightly, checking that it was still in-tune, before picking a melody out of my head.
I forgot my surroundings, the people watching, and lost myself in music that spoke of my childhood, my dreams, and my lowest points. I skillfully moved my left hand from one fret to the next as my right hand moved in a familiar rhythm over the strings. My head bowed as I concentrated fully on the sound filling my ears and found myself humming along to the soft chord progressions.
I was unaware of how long my piece was. I had simply just played the sounds that popped into my head, no concrete start and stop. I strummed the last chord and kept my head down, eyes closed, as I replayed the piece over again in my mind.
The silence around me became noticeable when it was broken by Jones’ voice, “Wow!” His voice was barely a whisper and as I looked up blank faces and a couple of slack jaws met my gaze.
“Yeah, seriously. Where’d you learn to play like that?” the redhead asked.
“That was amazing, did you write it?” Charlene asked.
“Yeah, I just played what came to mind,” I answered before turning to the boy in front of me. “My dad taught me when I was ten.” I don’t think anyone caught how my tone had lowered, saddened, at the mention of my father.
“If you can play like that, what are you doing playing on the street and bumming rides?” Carter asked from the driver’s seat.
To that question, I didn’t have an answer. I stayed silent as the four friends continued to praise my musical ability.
Sure, maybe once upon a time I was the luckiest girl around, but not anymore. Nothing ever seemed to go right. I’m stuck in this beat down van; traveling with a group of kids I only just met a few cities back. The only items to my name being the guitar and the worn backpack filled with articles of clothing from second hand stores and vintage trade shops.
“Carter, can we stop? I have to pee,” said a boy whose name I hadn’t bothered to remember.
“Dude, we just stopped an hour ago,” the boy driving, who I assumed to be Carter, replied.
“I didn’t have to go then,” the first boy said under his breath.
I hitched a ride with the four strangers when I didn’t have enough money for the next Greyhound out of the small Mississippi town I had found myself in. My destination was still undetermined; I had no idea where I was headed. My only goal was to get as far away from Massey Falls, Georgia as possible.
The three boys shrugged their shoulders when their female friend suggested they give me a ride to wherever I was headed. At first I wanted to protest, chase the sun on my own, but knew that I wouldn’t get far by myself with the little money I managed to collect busking in the hot summer sun.
It wasn’t that I had an aversion to people or socialization, but I preferred to keep my distance from any thing and anyone these days. If I didn’t get develop an attachment, it wouldn’t be broken down the line. I didn’t ever want to feel the pain of loosing something I held dear ever again.
“Hey, your quiet back here,” the girl commented as she switched from the front row to the rear one, taking up the space beside me. I simply shrugged my shoulders, unsure of how to respond. “So, you never told us where you’re headed. Where are you from?” she asked, not for the first time.
Knowing she wouldn’t stop asking until I delved out some info, I coughed up the semi-truth. “I’m from Georgia, and I have no idea where I’m going, just seeing where this road will take me.”
“Georgia, huh? Where in Georgia? I have family in Columbus,” the tallest boy with a reddish-brown mop-top piped up from the row in front of ours.
“Uh, Massey. It’s right outside of Savannah. It’s really small, I’m sure you’ve never heard of it,” I rambled.
“Your right. I’ve only ever been to Columbus and Atlanta.” I nodded my head at his statement.
“You play?” the boy next to him, whose name I remembered was Jones, asked. Again, I nodded, the obvious answer. “Can we hear?” he pressed.
“Oh, I don’t know. I-”
“Come on. I heard you this morning, you’re good,” the girl complemented.
“Thanks, but I-”
“Okay, now I need to hear. Char is a grouch who doesn’t like any music, so for her to say you’re good must mean you’re amazing,” the second boy continued to pester me.
I could feel heat rise on my neck at his statement. “Um, okay.” I picked up the guitar my father had played all through his childhood and had given to me when I first learned to play. I strummed lightly, checking that it was still in-tune, before picking a melody out of my head.
I forgot my surroundings, the people watching, and lost myself in music that spoke of my childhood, my dreams, and my lowest points. I skillfully moved my left hand from one fret to the next as my right hand moved in a familiar rhythm over the strings. My head bowed as I concentrated fully on the sound filling my ears and found myself humming along to the soft chord progressions.
I was unaware of how long my piece was. I had simply just played the sounds that popped into my head, no concrete start and stop. I strummed the last chord and kept my head down, eyes closed, as I replayed the piece over again in my mind.
The silence around me became noticeable when it was broken by Jones’ voice, “Wow!” His voice was barely a whisper and as I looked up blank faces and a couple of slack jaws met my gaze.
“Yeah, seriously. Where’d you learn to play like that?” the redhead asked.
“That was amazing, did you write it?” Charlene asked.
“Yeah, I just played what came to mind,” I answered before turning to the boy in front of me. “My dad taught me when I was ten.” I don’t think anyone caught how my tone had lowered, saddened, at the mention of my father.
“If you can play like that, what are you doing playing on the street and bumming rides?” Carter asked from the driver’s seat.
To that question, I didn’t have an answer. I stayed silent as the four friends continued to praise my musical ability.
♠ ♠ ♠
I know I have too much going on at the moment, but this story wouldn't hush up in my head. I had to write it down. Truthfully, I think it has a lot of potential to turn into something crazy, but we'll see if I can get it there.I think it would be cool to see the other characters' POV's as well, so if you'd like to be a co-writer send me a message. These are the only characters I have so far (one is still unnamed - the redheaded boy) but I'm open to new characters being added. Message me with your ideas if your interested.
Comments would be lovely, but doesn't everyone say that? But if you want, please give me your input, insight, or critic. I welcome any type of feedback, as long as it is constructive.
I'll stop now.
Hope you like this. :D