‹ Prequel: Kelly Lawrence
Stardust
Prologue
Starting from the beginning is what a lot of people find reasonable, but Kelly can’t really pin point a beginning in which to start from. One day he was learning dance from his old friend Jullian Mcquire from the underground mime scene, then the weird kid with the glasses who had been watching a fairly mediocre performance including a lost kitten and questionable gender (both paired with Kelly’s pre-made ‘voice overs’ of sorts, though both him and Jullian agreed was basically just singing) had turned out to be Micheal Wichester – an unlikely scout of Glass Records. He’d been sat at the back; these huge monstrosities of sunglasses resting on his nose and waiting to tip, the frame a boring black but lenses a patchwork kaleidoscope.
At the time, a man such as he was to be shunned and looked upon strangely in the outside world – but underground it was a normal sight, and nothing to be observed in a more than a quick glance. Which is, indeed, what happened. Kelly remembers seeing him as he climbed the platform, hand invisibly clenched on the scruff of a kitten that was soon to be lost, and paying little heed to him. He remembers the white lights flitting from the sunglasses and sending a small rainbow onto the direction in which they tipped. A rainbow had been most suitable for most of Michaels fellow inhabitants in the club, which reputation lay in ‘free spirit’ and was largely translated as ‘homosexual druggies’ and was a fairly accurate translation, at that.
After the show, Kelly had been sitting on the edge of the stage, cigarette in hand, Jack Daniels bottle to the side and a pretty girl leaning up from the table closest inquiring about his stage costume. She blinked a lot, black plastic flicking to her face like two preying butterflies, though, Kelly couldn’t complain as he was prone to wearing such decoration, too. Jullian had left a few minutes prior to this, make-up smeared and hair ruffled, a man with tiny pupils guiding him away with a winking promise.
The girl had just been just leaning up, breasts pressing together in a way that looked almost painful when Michael first approached.
“Kelly Lawrence?”
Kelly had looked up, half way through considering telling the girl he’d like it better if her chest was flat, and came face to face with a druggie’s dream.
“That was your singing over the top, I believe?” Kelly had considered the man through a haze of cigarette smoke, taking in the too well pressed top and the immaculate black shoes, eyes skipping over such anomalies and distractions of the patchwork sunglasses and maroon tie.
“Yeah; that’s me.”
The man had smiled, and Kelly remembers feeling vaguely intimidated and slight at loss at what the joke was to this so obviously out of place man.
“Well, Mr Lawrence, my name is Michael Winchester; I work for Glass Records.”
That could have been the beginning, Kelly reckons, but it could have just as easily have been the end.
At the time, a man such as he was to be shunned and looked upon strangely in the outside world – but underground it was a normal sight, and nothing to be observed in a more than a quick glance. Which is, indeed, what happened. Kelly remembers seeing him as he climbed the platform, hand invisibly clenched on the scruff of a kitten that was soon to be lost, and paying little heed to him. He remembers the white lights flitting from the sunglasses and sending a small rainbow onto the direction in which they tipped. A rainbow had been most suitable for most of Michaels fellow inhabitants in the club, which reputation lay in ‘free spirit’ and was largely translated as ‘homosexual druggies’ and was a fairly accurate translation, at that.
After the show, Kelly had been sitting on the edge of the stage, cigarette in hand, Jack Daniels bottle to the side and a pretty girl leaning up from the table closest inquiring about his stage costume. She blinked a lot, black plastic flicking to her face like two preying butterflies, though, Kelly couldn’t complain as he was prone to wearing such decoration, too. Jullian had left a few minutes prior to this, make-up smeared and hair ruffled, a man with tiny pupils guiding him away with a winking promise.
The girl had just been just leaning up, breasts pressing together in a way that looked almost painful when Michael first approached.
“Kelly Lawrence?”
Kelly had looked up, half way through considering telling the girl he’d like it better if her chest was flat, and came face to face with a druggie’s dream.
“That was your singing over the top, I believe?” Kelly had considered the man through a haze of cigarette smoke, taking in the too well pressed top and the immaculate black shoes, eyes skipping over such anomalies and distractions of the patchwork sunglasses and maroon tie.
“Yeah; that’s me.”
The man had smiled, and Kelly remembers feeling vaguely intimidated and slight at loss at what the joke was to this so obviously out of place man.
“Well, Mr Lawrence, my name is Michael Winchester; I work for Glass Records.”
That could have been the beginning, Kelly reckons, but it could have just as easily have been the end.
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