1000 word excerpt



I am a rock star, a prophet, a poet, a teacher, and a beast. I exist mainly for the satisfaction received by producing, promoting, and playing music. Whether it originates from my vocal cords, guitar, or piano. At first I wanted to be a scientist -- a preacher of practicality and pragmatism. An authoritative figurehead that would eventually be awarded the Nobel Prize for either physics or chemistry. It would have not made a difference because there was no known award of achievement for an individual who was constantly devastated by women. Simple creatures of a social world, finding comfort only in the material things offered by life.

Or maybe a writer, a gracious prodigy of Stephen Crane, Ferdinand Oyomo, Melvin Tolson, or Langston Hughes. Prolifically creating shallow masterpieces that would receive recognition only after my body had metamorphosed into dust. However, I am a rock star. An innocent modicum of the music industry, resting my evocative creativity and success upon a small minority of the population.

Because of my position, I have traveled the world. Stretching out my fingers as far as they can reach, holding as much as they could clasp. Living only for the moment, a lone wolf, a social disgrace, a person of exhausted character. Salacious and lewd, jumping from page-to-page and chapter-to-chapter, infinite in most respects.

I do not live in a life of drugs or alcohol as most would expect. However, I stagger around aimless and lethargic, solving the pieces of my puzzle until I have the fortune of knowing death. I will die some day -- as the rigidity of my human form degenerates under the watchful eyes of the sun and her companions. Standing now on the fulcrum of success and stardom, I exist as a separate and lonely being, longing to be a part of something meaningful other than my music.

Relationships -- I have had them before. However none as stimulating and rewarding as the temporal moments that were stolen from me by Irina. Irina, the one that I had once referred to as the fruit of my tree.

After the release of my first album, I met Irina on a tireless California beach. Sunbathing to darken her flawless, tenebrous, chocolate complexion. There I was, standing only a few yards away, mesmerized by her refined and elegant divinity. Hoping that she would recognize in my eyes the pursuant cunning that they represented. Making me feel as if I was in the Twilight Zone, with Rod Serling serving as my only connection with the finite world and the corrosive nectar that dripped from its pores.

Narrowing the distance separating us almost instinctively, I began to hide my southern guise. "Hello, who are you?" I asked defenselessly as I toured her body with my optical instruments.