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For reference:
Part 1 - Click Here
Part 2 - Click Here
Part 3 - Click Here
Part 4 - Click Here
Part 5 - Click Here
Marianela commanded the stage as Ruby’s Basement rapidly drew towards capacity. Music filled the air, and Marianela’s body rocked slowly in time with the bass line. The long and voluminous jet black curls of her hair bobbed around her head as though themselves dancing to a tune of their own. A band of reflective black face-paint ran across her eyes highlighting both the exquisite white of her eyeballs and the natural yet rare bright crimson of her irises.
A pristine white tight fitting v-neck t-shirt that fell short of covering her navel sported a thick pink stripe that fell diagonally from her right shoulder accentuating her curves and highlighted the roundness of her breasts. Taking the place of a belt holding up her tight black leather jeans was a white sash with the knot ends swaying lazily just above her knees. Studded black leather bracers on both wrists completed the look. With her copper skin and full, inviting hips, she was every inch a Hispanic rock goddess.
As Marianela’s angelic voice began to float across the venue, Monique van Buren sat alone brooding over her drink. Glumly, she tapped the stirrer in her glass with an uncaring finger. She barely heard the mighty ballad that swept across the huge expanse of the Basement. Bodies danced past her, a blur of slow-motion. The glass touched her lips, and she was startled slightly, wondering whose hand had put it there. But it was her own hand holding the glass. Placing it back down, she tried to force the numbness out of her limbs, with little effect.
It was then that she noticed Ulrich making his way across the dancefloor to her. He was wearing a tatty green tee and khaki jeans, his golden blonde surfer’s hair bouncing slightly as he walked. Ulrich was the nicest guy this side of the galaxy, but he’d never be considered handsome. He reached her and stood above her for a few seconds, pocked face frowning down at her.
“That must be the most beautiful pout I’ve ever seen,” he shouted over the music. Monique’s head swayed slightly, but she didn’t respond. After a few seconds, Ulrich pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. Carefully, he placed his hand over hers and leaned close so he didn’t have to shout too loud.
“I know it’s hard to lose a gig like this, kid,” he said “but don’t take it so hard, you know?” turning his head, he gestured towards the stage with his free hand. “That was so nearly us up there tonight,” he continued “it’s just a one in a million chance that stopped it happening. We’ll get other chances, I promise you that.”
Monique squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself not to cry. She turned and looked Ulrich in the eyes, her face full of emotion.
“Ulrich, honey,” she said slowly, moving her hand from under his and brushing her open palm down his cheek “I just want to be alone right now, ok?”
In response, he just looked at her for a while. After a few seconds, he nodded as though to himself, and stood to leave. A squeeze of her hand and a wink later, and he disappeared into the surging crowd.
With Ulrich gone, Monique returned to her private misery.
Earlier that day, Dawson had filled her head with dreams; insisting that someday – someday soon - it could be her on that stage, her voice and image holding dominion over the crowd. After building up her hopes and her expectations to the point where she would almost have willingly endured anything to take that final step, he had dropped the sledgehammer on all of it; the band would be left behind. There was only room for her in Dawson’s vision and the remaining members of Chasing Velvet didn’t make the ‘director’s cut’. It was a cruel way to cut her dreams out from under her feet and all the weight of life lay heavy on her mind as she vapidly stirred the milky liquid before her.
She would never have got even half this far without the band. Ulrich, Tina, Benj and Darren had charitably taken a wannabe kid into their outfit and together they had achieved what little they had managed; a contract with Ruby’s, itself no mean feat, complete with distribution channels and merchandising rights. They were hardly wealthy, or even doing well enough to live solely from the earnings of that one deal, but it was progress.
And then earlier this morning, Dawson had pushed the sales analysis under her nose. The songs were selling, but not in volumes worth writing home about. Even the merchandise was slack, verging on embarrassing. But amidst the data, there was a clear sales spike dated only minutes old. Music sales, as always displayed in thousands of units, only for the first time, the number was greater than one. It read more than 5 from the last hour alone. She almost screamed in joy at the merchandise volumes until Dawson showed what had been selling. Instead, she couldn’t stop the moisture building in her eyes as she saw t-shirts and carry-all bags sporting a picture that was not Chasing Velvet. The muscles in her jaw worked silently as she traced the tight lines of black PVC wrap around the image of her own body. For a time without meaning, she stared at the bright amethyst lettering emblazoned above her image. She felt a tear rake its way down her cheek, and her lips trembled as she forced herself to say them aloud.
“Monique van Buren”
Part 1 - Click Here
Part 2 - Click Here
Part 3 - Click Here
Part 4 - Click Here
Part 5 - Click Here
Marianela commanded the stage as Ruby’s Basement rapidly drew towards capacity. Music filled the air, and Marianela’s body rocked slowly in time with the bass line. The long and voluminous jet black curls of her hair bobbed around her head as though themselves dancing to a tune of their own. A band of reflective black face-paint ran across her eyes highlighting both the exquisite white of her eyeballs and the natural yet rare bright crimson of her irises.
A pristine white tight fitting v-neck t-shirt that fell short of covering her navel sported a thick pink stripe that fell diagonally from her right shoulder accentuating her curves and highlighted the roundness of her breasts. Taking the place of a belt holding up her tight black leather jeans was a white sash with the knot ends swaying lazily just above her knees. Studded black leather bracers on both wrists completed the look. With her copper skin and full, inviting hips, she was every inch a Hispanic rock goddess.
As Marianela’s angelic voice began to float across the venue, Monique van Buren sat alone brooding over her drink. Glumly, she tapped the stirrer in her glass with an uncaring finger. She barely heard the mighty ballad that swept across the huge expanse of the Basement. Bodies danced past her, a blur of slow-motion. The glass touched her lips, and she was startled slightly, wondering whose hand had put it there. But it was her own hand holding the glass. Placing it back down, she tried to force the numbness out of her limbs, with little effect.
It was then that she noticed Ulrich making his way across the dancefloor to her. He was wearing a tatty green tee and khaki jeans, his golden blonde surfer’s hair bouncing slightly as he walked. Ulrich was the nicest guy this side of the galaxy, but he’d never be considered handsome. He reached her and stood above her for a few seconds, pocked face frowning down at her.
“That must be the most beautiful pout I’ve ever seen,” he shouted over the music. Monique’s head swayed slightly, but she didn’t respond. After a few seconds, Ulrich pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. Carefully, he placed his hand over hers and leaned close so he didn’t have to shout too loud.
“I know it’s hard to lose a gig like this, kid,” he said “but don’t take it so hard, you know?” turning his head, he gestured towards the stage with his free hand. “That was so nearly us up there tonight,” he continued “it’s just a one in a million chance that stopped it happening. We’ll get other chances, I promise you that.”
Monique squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself not to cry. She turned and looked Ulrich in the eyes, her face full of emotion.
“Ulrich, honey,” she said slowly, moving her hand from under his and brushing her open palm down his cheek “I just want to be alone right now, ok?”
In response, he just looked at her for a while. After a few seconds, he nodded as though to himself, and stood to leave. A squeeze of her hand and a wink later, and he disappeared into the surging crowd.
With Ulrich gone, Monique returned to her private misery.
Earlier that day, Dawson had filled her head with dreams; insisting that someday – someday soon - it could be her on that stage, her voice and image holding dominion over the crowd. After building up her hopes and her expectations to the point where she would almost have willingly endured anything to take that final step, he had dropped the sledgehammer on all of it; the band would be left behind. There was only room for her in Dawson’s vision and the remaining members of Chasing Velvet didn’t make the ‘director’s cut’. It was a cruel way to cut her dreams out from under her feet and all the weight of life lay heavy on her mind as she vapidly stirred the milky liquid before her.
She would never have got even half this far without the band. Ulrich, Tina, Benj and Darren had charitably taken a wannabe kid into their outfit and together they had achieved what little they had managed; a contract with Ruby’s, itself no mean feat, complete with distribution channels and merchandising rights. They were hardly wealthy, or even doing well enough to live solely from the earnings of that one deal, but it was progress.
And then earlier this morning, Dawson had pushed the sales analysis under her nose. The songs were selling, but not in volumes worth writing home about. Even the merchandise was slack, verging on embarrassing. But amidst the data, there was a clear sales spike dated only minutes old. Music sales, as always displayed in thousands of units, only for the first time, the number was greater than one. It read more than 5 from the last hour alone. She almost screamed in joy at the merchandise volumes until Dawson showed what had been selling. Instead, she couldn’t stop the moisture building in her eyes as she saw t-shirts and carry-all bags sporting a picture that was not Chasing Velvet. The muscles in her jaw worked silently as she traced the tight lines of black PVC wrap around the image of her own body. For a time without meaning, she stared at the bright amethyst lettering emblazoned above her image. She felt a tear rake its way down her cheek, and her lips trembled as she forced herself to say them aloud.
“Monique van Buren”
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For reference:
Part 1 - Click Here
Part 2 - Click Here
Part 3 - Click Here
Part 4 - Click Here
Part 5 - Click Here
Marianela commanded the stage as Ruby’s Basement rapidly drew towards capacity. Music filled the air, and Marianela’s body rocked slowly in time with the bass line. The long and voluminous jet black curls of her hair bobbed around her head as though themselves dancing to a tune of their own. A band of reflective black face-paint ran across her eyes highlighting both the exquisite white of her eyeballs and the natural yet rare bright crimson of her irises.
A pristine white tight fitting v-neck t-shirt that fell short of covering her navel sported a thick pink stripe that fell diagonally from her right shoulder accentuating her curves and highlighted the roundness of her breasts. Taking the place of a belt holding up her tight black leather jeans was a white sash with the knot ends swaying lazily just above her knees. Studded black leather bracers on both wrists completed the look. With her copper skin and full, inviting hips, she was every inch a Hispanic rock goddess.
As Marianela’s angelic voice began to float across the venue, Monique van Buren sat alone brooding over her drink. Glumly, she tapped the stirrer in her glass with an uncaring finger. She barely heard the mighty ballad that swept across the huge expanse of the Basement. Bodies danced past her, a blur of slow-motion. The glass touched her lips, and she was startled slightly, wondering whose hand had put it there. But it was her own hand holding the glass. Placing it back down, she tried to force the numbness out of her limbs, with little effect.
It was then that she noticed Ulrich making his way across the dancefloor to her. He was wearing a tatty green tee and khaki jeans, his golden blonde surfer’s hair bouncing slightly as he walked. Ulrich was the nicest guy this side of the galaxy, but he’d never be considered handsome. He reached her and stood above her for a few seconds, pocked face frowning down at her.
“That must be the most beautiful pout I’ve ever seen,” he shouted over the music. Monique’s head swayed slightly, but she didn’t respond. After a few seconds, Ulrich pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. Carefully, he placed his hand over hers and leaned close so he didn’t have to shout too loud.
“I know it’s hard to lose a gig like this, kid,” he said “but don’t take it so hard, you know?” turning his head, he gestured towards the stage with his free hand. “That was so nearly us up there tonight,” he continued “it’s just a one in a million chance that stopped it happening. We’ll get other chances, I promise you that.”
Monique squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself not to cry. She turned and looked Ulrich in the eyes, her face full of emotion.
“Ulrich, honey,” she said slowly, moving her hand from under his and brushing her open palm down his cheek “I just want to be alone right now, ok?”
In response, he just looked at her for a while. After a few seconds, he nodded as though to himself, and stood to leave. A squeeze of her hand and a wink later, and he disappeared into the surging crowd.
With Ulrich gone, Monique returned to her private misery.
Earlier that day, Dawson had filled her head with dreams; insisting that someday – someday soon - it could be her on that stage, her voice and image holding dominion over the crowd. After building up her hopes and her expectations to the point where she would almost have willingly endured anything to take that final step, he had dropped the sledgehammer on all of it; the band would be left behind. There was only room for her in Dawson’s vision and the remaining members of Chasing Velvet didn’t make the ‘director’s cut’. It was a cruel way to cut her dreams out from under her feet and all the weight of life lay heavy on her mind as she vapidly stirred the milky liquid before her.
She would never have got even half this far without the band. Ulrich, Tina, Benj and Darren had charitably taken a wannabe kid into their outfit and together they had achieved what little they had managed; a contract with Ruby’s, itself no mean feat, complete with distribution channels and merchandising rights. They were hardly wealthy, or even doing well enough to live solely from the earnings of that one deal, but it was progress.
And then earlier this morning, Dawson had pushed the sales analysis under her nose. The songs were selling, but not in volumes worth writing home about. Even the merchandise was slack, verging on embarrassing. But amidst the data, there was a clear sales spike dated only minutes old. Music sales, as always displayed in thousands of units, only for the first time, the number was greater than one. It read more than 5 from the last hour alone. She almost screamed in joy at the merchandise volumes until Dawson showed what had been selling. Instead, she couldn’t stop the moisture building in her eyes as she saw t-shirts and carry-all bags sporting a picture that was not Chasing Velvet. The muscles in her jaw worked silently as she traced the tight lines of black PVC wrap around the image of her own body. For a time without meaning, she stared at the bright amethyst lettering emblazoned above her image. She felt a tear rake its way down her cheek, and her lips trembled as she forced herself to say them aloud.
“Monique van Buren”
Part 1 - Click Here
Part 2 - Click Here
Part 3 - Click Here
Part 4 - Click Here
Part 5 - Click Here
Marianela commanded the stage as Ruby’s Basement rapidly drew towards capacity. Music filled the air, and Marianela’s body rocked slowly in time with the bass line. The long and voluminous jet black curls of her hair bobbed around her head as though themselves dancing to a tune of their own. A band of reflective black face-paint ran across her eyes highlighting both the exquisite white of her eyeballs and the natural yet rare bright crimson of her irises.
A pristine white tight fitting v-neck t-shirt that fell short of covering her navel sported a thick pink stripe that fell diagonally from her right shoulder accentuating her curves and highlighted the roundness of her breasts. Taking the place of a belt holding up her tight black leather jeans was a white sash with the knot ends swaying lazily just above her knees. Studded black leather bracers on both wrists completed the look. With her copper skin and full, inviting hips, she was every inch a Hispanic rock goddess.
As Marianela’s angelic voice began to float across the venue, Monique van Buren sat alone brooding over her drink. Glumly, she tapped the stirrer in her glass with an uncaring finger. She barely heard the mighty ballad that swept across the huge expanse of the Basement. Bodies danced past her, a blur of slow-motion. The glass touched her lips, and she was startled slightly, wondering whose hand had put it there. But it was her own hand holding the glass. Placing it back down, she tried to force the numbness out of her limbs, with little effect.
It was then that she noticed Ulrich making his way across the dancefloor to her. He was wearing a tatty green tee and khaki jeans, his golden blonde surfer’s hair bouncing slightly as he walked. Ulrich was the nicest guy this side of the galaxy, but he’d never be considered handsome. He reached her and stood above her for a few seconds, pocked face frowning down at her.
“That must be the most beautiful pout I’ve ever seen,” he shouted over the music. Monique’s head swayed slightly, but she didn’t respond. After a few seconds, Ulrich pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. Carefully, he placed his hand over hers and leaned close so he didn’t have to shout too loud.
“I know it’s hard to lose a gig like this, kid,” he said “but don’t take it so hard, you know?” turning his head, he gestured towards the stage with his free hand. “That was so nearly us up there tonight,” he continued “it’s just a one in a million chance that stopped it happening. We’ll get other chances, I promise you that.”
Monique squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself not to cry. She turned and looked Ulrich in the eyes, her face full of emotion.
“Ulrich, honey,” she said slowly, moving her hand from under his and brushing her open palm down his cheek “I just want to be alone right now, ok?”
In response, he just looked at her for a while. After a few seconds, he nodded as though to himself, and stood to leave. A squeeze of her hand and a wink later, and he disappeared into the surging crowd.
With Ulrich gone, Monique returned to her private misery.
Earlier that day, Dawson had filled her head with dreams; insisting that someday – someday soon - it could be her on that stage, her voice and image holding dominion over the crowd. After building up her hopes and her expectations to the point where she would almost have willingly endured anything to take that final step, he had dropped the sledgehammer on all of it; the band would be left behind. There was only room for her in Dawson’s vision and the remaining members of Chasing Velvet didn’t make the ‘director’s cut’. It was a cruel way to cut her dreams out from under her feet and all the weight of life lay heavy on her mind as she vapidly stirred the milky liquid before her.
She would never have got even half this far without the band. Ulrich, Tina, Benj and Darren had charitably taken a wannabe kid into their outfit and together they had achieved what little they had managed; a contract with Ruby’s, itself no mean feat, complete with distribution channels and merchandising rights. They were hardly wealthy, or even doing well enough to live solely from the earnings of that one deal, but it was progress.
And then earlier this morning, Dawson had pushed the sales analysis under her nose. The songs were selling, but not in volumes worth writing home about. Even the merchandise was slack, verging on embarrassing. But amidst the data, there was a clear sales spike dated only minutes old. Music sales, as always displayed in thousands of units, only for the first time, the number was greater than one. It read more than 5 from the last hour alone. She almost screamed in joy at the merchandise volumes until Dawson showed what had been selling. Instead, she couldn’t stop the moisture building in her eyes as she saw t-shirts and carry-all bags sporting a picture that was not Chasing Velvet. The muscles in her jaw worked silently as she traced the tight lines of black PVC wrap around the image of her own body. For a time without meaning, she stared at the bright amethyst lettering emblazoned above her image. She felt a tear rake its way down her cheek, and her lips trembled as she forced herself to say them aloud.
“Monique van Buren”