Fiction: Jammin'
Aug. 12th, 2016 06:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyTitle: Jammin'
World: robot rights
Word count: 1,066
Rating: PG (for brief mention of past violence)
Prompt:![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic Fire Opal 3, Impassioned; Hills of Iowa 9, Here's hoping that the days ahead won't be as bitter as the ones behind you.
Notes: I was also inspired by the Thimbleful Thursday prompt "vale of tears," but I think I went too far beyond the wordcount for it to qualify!
Mo dragged herself towards home. She was exhausted after another long day of job searching. But she wasn’t discouraged; two people had said they’d contact her if they had any openings, after she’d declared herself totally willing to do any kind of manual labor. She’d emphasized that there was absolutely nothing too disgusting for her to take on, without actually telling them how she knew that.
She’d killed too many people, gotten covered in blood and viscera and the emissions of the recent dead too many times, to have either scruples or squeamishness left.
But all the walking, not to mention being among so many living people, was draining. So she was glad to be heading back to the apartment she was sharing with Dylan, where she knew there would be, at the very least, a cold beer and a quiet room.
As she approached, though, she heard music, and it perked her up. Were they having a party? The door to the tattoo parlor was propped open, so she looked inside to find Dylan, Tom, Brooke, Lola, and another woman she didn’t know sitting around a couple of mic stands. They all had beers sitting next to their chairs; Tom and Lola were holding guitars, while Dylan had a drum and Brooke seemed to be choosing among a variety of instruments.
She walked in, curious, and Dylan looked up from the drum and waved at her enthusiastically. “Mo! We’re jamming. Want to join us?”
“Sure,” she said, speeding up her steps toward them. Another guitar sat propped against a wall, with what appeared to be a violin case beside it, a couple of handheld drums, and what she was pretty sure was a lap harp. “What do you want me on?”
“Can you play all of those?” Tom asked, obviously surprised.
“Sure,” Mo said, kneeling by the violin case to open it and check that it really was a violin. “Or I can sing. Or, you know, both.”
“I told you,” Dylan said, and they shared a grin.
Mo hadn’t told her new friends who her mother was, and she had no intention of doing so, any more than she would tell them who her father had been—but Dylan knew, and he was also aware that the famous actress Isobel Lydford had been completely unable to accept that her daughter had inherited none of her artistic ability, and had hence forced her into all kinds of music lessons. Of course, Mo had grown up to be more than a decent actress, but her mother had never cared for that use of her talents.
She picked up the guitar. “It has been a while,” she explained as she took one of the empty seats. “Guitar is probably the most comfortable.”
“I’m hopeless at this,” said Brooke, picking up one of the drums. “I think this is the best I can manage. I’m getting another beer. Mo, you want one?”
“Yes, please.” Mo started strumming the guitar strings, making sure it was in tune. Then Tom picked up her repetitive strumming and started to turn it into a melody. Dylan hummed for a few moments, then started to beat the drum in a waltz-time rhythm.
Mo listened for a few minutes before trying to pick up a descant to Tom’s melody. Her mother’s lessons had left her with plenty of technical knowledge and a very good ear, but she’d never been very good at jamming with other musicians—she’d had the kind of classical education that was intended for chamber music or starring solo. Creation wasn’t in her repertoire.
Still, she was having fun, even after Lola joined in a little discordantly, her fingers fumbling on the guitar strings. She smiled her thanks at Brooke when she brought her the beer and took a quick break to swig, then jumped back in.
Brooke joined in on her drum, tapping a counterpoint to Dylan’s rhythm, and that was when Mo started to feel it. She began to hum, quietly at first, then louder, pulling one of the mics down toward her face. She couldn’t tell if they were actually hooked up, but it felt good.
Tom came in a few bars after her, singing softly. “Oh, the quiet,” he sang. “Oh, this life, a vale of tears.”
“Vale of tears,” Mo echoed, bringing her voice up to end on an interval above his. He nodded, strumming his guitar, grinning at no one.
“When you’re quiet,” Tom sang. “When you enter the vale of tears.”
Mo echoed his last line again, dipping low and bringing the end up high again. She closed her eyes, the better to focus on the music.
“When you’re quiet,” Tom sang again. “When you leave the vale of tears.”
“Leave the vale of tears,” Mo sang, a different echo than before, and this time Dylan joined in, humming right along with her as though he’d known exactly what notes she’d been about to sing.
And maybe he did. She opened her eyes and grinned at him. He grinned back, adding another note to his drum rhythm, speeding it up so that the guitarists were forced to speed up with him—Lola dropped out.
They played on for a while, but Tom didn’t seem to have any other lyrics to come up with, and eventually the song petered out. Mo laughed, setting aside her guitar to drink some more beer, even though she no longer felt like she needed it. “This is fun,” she said.
“Wait until Hank shows up,” Dylan said.
“Oh, no, did you invite him?” Brooke asked.
“What’s wrong with Hank?” Mo said.
“He plays a concertina,” Dylan explained. “And yeah, he should be here soon.”
Mo grinned with genuine excitement. “I am absolutely looking forward to it. Though if a concertina is coming, maybe I should pick up that violin.”
“You guys are crazy,” said Brooke. “I’m going to go out. Lola, you want to come with me?”
“No, I like Hank,” Lola said. “You have fun without us.”
“Yeah, I will,” Brooke said, playfully giving them all the finger before putting her drum back where it had rested and leaving.
Mo stood up, stretched, and started to take the violin out of its case. Behind her, she heard happy laughter. Her muscles were warm and loose. Yeah, this had been the right place for her to end up.
Thanks for reading this story! If you enjoyed it, visit my main page for all stories I've posted at Dreamwidth, or the tag for this world for more stories with this setting or characters. You can also pledge at my Patreon for exclusive patron-only stories and prompt posts, including this story about Mo and Brooke.
World: robot rights
Word count: 1,066
Rating: PG (for brief mention of past violence)
Prompt:
rainbowfic Fire Opal 3, Impassioned; Hills of Iowa 9, Here's hoping that the days ahead won't be as bitter as the ones behind you.Notes: I was also inspired by the Thimbleful Thursday prompt "vale of tears," but I think I went too far beyond the wordcount for it to qualify!
Mo dragged herself towards home. She was exhausted after another long day of job searching. But she wasn’t discouraged; two people had said they’d contact her if they had any openings, after she’d declared herself totally willing to do any kind of manual labor. She’d emphasized that there was absolutely nothing too disgusting for her to take on, without actually telling them how she knew that.
She’d killed too many people, gotten covered in blood and viscera and the emissions of the recent dead too many times, to have either scruples or squeamishness left.
But all the walking, not to mention being among so many living people, was draining. So she was glad to be heading back to the apartment she was sharing with Dylan, where she knew there would be, at the very least, a cold beer and a quiet room.
As she approached, though, she heard music, and it perked her up. Were they having a party? The door to the tattoo parlor was propped open, so she looked inside to find Dylan, Tom, Brooke, Lola, and another woman she didn’t know sitting around a couple of mic stands. They all had beers sitting next to their chairs; Tom and Lola were holding guitars, while Dylan had a drum and Brooke seemed to be choosing among a variety of instruments.
She walked in, curious, and Dylan looked up from the drum and waved at her enthusiastically. “Mo! We’re jamming. Want to join us?”
“Sure,” she said, speeding up her steps toward them. Another guitar sat propped against a wall, with what appeared to be a violin case beside it, a couple of handheld drums, and what she was pretty sure was a lap harp. “What do you want me on?”
“Can you play all of those?” Tom asked, obviously surprised.
“Sure,” Mo said, kneeling by the violin case to open it and check that it really was a violin. “Or I can sing. Or, you know, both.”
“I told you,” Dylan said, and they shared a grin.
Mo hadn’t told her new friends who her mother was, and she had no intention of doing so, any more than she would tell them who her father had been—but Dylan knew, and he was also aware that the famous actress Isobel Lydford had been completely unable to accept that her daughter had inherited none of her artistic ability, and had hence forced her into all kinds of music lessons. Of course, Mo had grown up to be more than a decent actress, but her mother had never cared for that use of her talents.
She picked up the guitar. “It has been a while,” she explained as she took one of the empty seats. “Guitar is probably the most comfortable.”
“I’m hopeless at this,” said Brooke, picking up one of the drums. “I think this is the best I can manage. I’m getting another beer. Mo, you want one?”
“Yes, please.” Mo started strumming the guitar strings, making sure it was in tune. Then Tom picked up her repetitive strumming and started to turn it into a melody. Dylan hummed for a few moments, then started to beat the drum in a waltz-time rhythm.
Mo listened for a few minutes before trying to pick up a descant to Tom’s melody. Her mother’s lessons had left her with plenty of technical knowledge and a very good ear, but she’d never been very good at jamming with other musicians—she’d had the kind of classical education that was intended for chamber music or starring solo. Creation wasn’t in her repertoire.
Still, she was having fun, even after Lola joined in a little discordantly, her fingers fumbling on the guitar strings. She smiled her thanks at Brooke when she brought her the beer and took a quick break to swig, then jumped back in.
Brooke joined in on her drum, tapping a counterpoint to Dylan’s rhythm, and that was when Mo started to feel it. She began to hum, quietly at first, then louder, pulling one of the mics down toward her face. She couldn’t tell if they were actually hooked up, but it felt good.
Tom came in a few bars after her, singing softly. “Oh, the quiet,” he sang. “Oh, this life, a vale of tears.”
“Vale of tears,” Mo echoed, bringing her voice up to end on an interval above his. He nodded, strumming his guitar, grinning at no one.
“When you’re quiet,” Tom sang. “When you enter the vale of tears.”
Mo echoed his last line again, dipping low and bringing the end up high again. She closed her eyes, the better to focus on the music.
“When you’re quiet,” Tom sang again. “When you leave the vale of tears.”
“Leave the vale of tears,” Mo sang, a different echo than before, and this time Dylan joined in, humming right along with her as though he’d known exactly what notes she’d been about to sing.
And maybe he did. She opened her eyes and grinned at him. He grinned back, adding another note to his drum rhythm, speeding it up so that the guitarists were forced to speed up with him—Lola dropped out.
They played on for a while, but Tom didn’t seem to have any other lyrics to come up with, and eventually the song petered out. Mo laughed, setting aside her guitar to drink some more beer, even though she no longer felt like she needed it. “This is fun,” she said.
“Wait until Hank shows up,” Dylan said.
“Oh, no, did you invite him?” Brooke asked.
“What’s wrong with Hank?” Mo said.
“He plays a concertina,” Dylan explained. “And yeah, he should be here soon.”
Mo grinned with genuine excitement. “I am absolutely looking forward to it. Though if a concertina is coming, maybe I should pick up that violin.”
“You guys are crazy,” said Brooke. “I’m going to go out. Lola, you want to come with me?”
“No, I like Hank,” Lola said. “You have fun without us.”
“Yeah, I will,” Brooke said, playfully giving them all the finger before putting her drum back where it had rested and leaving.
Mo stood up, stretched, and started to take the violin out of its case. Behind her, she heard happy laughter. Her muscles were warm and loose. Yeah, this had been the right place for her to end up.
Thanks for reading this story! If you enjoyed it, visit my main page for all stories I've posted at Dreamwidth, or the tag for this world for more stories with this setting or characters. You can also pledge at my Patreon for exclusive patron-only stories and prompt posts, including this story about Mo and Brooke.