Even My Air Guitar Is Lame
by J. Bradley
I had the hair of a metal god, cracking it against the air whenever the stereo belched fists. I wore Metallica and Pantera on my neck like a brace for days after. Yet when I unpacked my left arm and stomach like a guitar, I contaminated the living room with the snapped chords of my fingers.
What sealed my fate as a metal mortal was my unwillingness to be chewed and spat out of the maw of mosh pits. I stuck to using the front door as target practice for the .22 caliber shell of my shoulder, the spent casings of my heavy breathing beating like a carbon monoxide drum machine.
I sheared my hair, drowned it in blue, wore copies of Billy Corgan's "ZERO" t-shirt, raged like a rat in a cage instead of riding the lightning.
What sealed my fate as a metal mortal was my unwillingness to be chewed and spat out of the maw of mosh pits. I stuck to using the front door as target practice for the .22 caliber shell of my shoulder, the spent casings of my heavy breathing beating like a carbon monoxide drum machine.
I sheared my hair, drowned it in blue, wore copies of Billy Corgan's "ZERO" t-shirt, raged like a rat in a cage instead of riding the lightning.
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Author's Note
When I was in my early teens, I was into metal and hard rock, Pantera, Metallica, Alice & Chains, and so on. I had long hair and lots of fear for my health, not a good combo for a metal head.
Other stories by J. Bradley
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Nice! I say it's okay to rage like a rat in a cage and ride the lightning. Horns up, up the irons, all that sort of thing!
This is one of my favorite titles. Drew me right in!
Cool. Yeah.
Nice. Especially like the last line. Set up well and a great close.