<p>Hi everyone, this is a short story/poem for a writing magazine to get me published. Please read through it and tell me what you think! The topic is Rock N Roll. This is just a first draft so its not perfect, but any advice is hugely appreciated! Thanks!!</p>
<p>Rock n Roll</p>
<pre><code> Creedence Clearwater Revival blares through the black grilles of the silver boom box. Some folks are born to wave the flag, Ooh, they’re red, white and blue. And when the band plays “Hail to the chief”, Ooh, they point the cannon at you, Lord! The raw electric guitar vibrates resonates the entire cabin. Wind gusts through empty window frames, drowning John Forgertys voice in the sheer power translated through decibels. Excruciating noise bleeds over the empty road. The beat is a quick, unforgiving, and electrifying, a determined thumping rhythm. The RAT-A-TAT-TAT of the percussion is simple enough, but deliberate and clean. Very sounds move people in rhythm, tapping their hands or fingers, stomping there feet, moving bodies like an earthquake moves buildings.
The pothole on the asphalt below the car, filed with lose mud and waste, shakes the chrome ashtray above it, stuffed with ashes and cigarette butts. Hot ash spills onto the rough maroon carpet lining the floor and give the vehicle a carefree rebellious odor. He takes another cigarette, shoves it in the silver cigarette lighter until it turns blazes into red heat, inhales its burning breath, sucking on it with his red cracked lips. Smoke floods the car, only to be whisked out by the gusting gales of warm thick Texas air.
The melody has faded away, replaced the famous crisp smooth bass rhythm and the harsh clarity of Jim Morrisons voice. Break on through to the other side. The infamous organ sings along with him, intensifying the high pitch of his voice. Break on through, break on through. As if inspired by these lyrics, the supercharged titan of muscle breaks through the oncoming wind like a martial arts expert breaks through a board of solid wood.
Power chord. AC/DC. See me ride out of that sunset on your color TV screen. The raspy blare of his voice is piercing the atmosphere. TNT! TNT! Watch me EXPLODE! The driver slams his food into the throttle, thrusting the car forward like a bat out of hell. The tachometer inside the instrument cluster reads 6000 RPM, forcing the needle in the speedometer past 130. 3rd gear. 4th gear. The carburetor drenches the thirsting cylinders with gasoline just before combustion. 5th gear. The monster powering this beast drowns out the song, leaving it an after thought. Two tons of American steel is forced through the air by the force of hundreds of horses. Thats why they call it the Mustang.
The driver slams on the brakes just as the song cuts off, drum brakes screeching gasping for fluid. The seatbelt tightens strangles his physique. Flying forward, the belt catches him from taking flight through the solid glass shield. The ignition dies abruptly and the driver steps out. The exterior of the mustang is vintage and classic; American and amazing. Goodyear letters circle around whitewall tires, housing 100 spoke wheels. A shiny metal rod is on the left of the hood, extending to the heavens and the technological world. Mounted on it, the symbol of everything good in the world, the red white and blue flag.
Her eyes bright blue, her hair a dirty blonde, her skin toned and tanned, and her body curvy and sexy. The vehicle catches her eye and she leans over it, checking out the vinyl brown interior laced with white stitching like a lion eyes its prey. She cant resist. He comes back, examines her stature, and invites her it. Her eyes light up like headlights, and she slides in the bucket seat. After passing a round of Budweiser to each of them, it is started. Big polluted exhaust fumes travel through the headers, out the mufflers and through the cherry-bomb duel exhaust system. The engine roars and howls, charged with power and passion. Powers majestic roar turns her on, she is cheering and jumping in her seat.
Robert Plant is singing the Stairway to Heaven. The bottles are snapped open. Glass clinks together, smiles stretch, and two sip on fresh cold American draft. The engine teases with another ferocious howl as the throttle is initiated. Threatening, it pulls out slowly, eying its prey: open asphalt.
Watch this baby!
His foot hits the floorboard, the tires wail out for traction. Fishtailing and swerving like an ice skater feeling for balance, white smoke clouds the entire area like a volcano. She is screaming in excitement, adrenaline flooding her veins. The American dream, hauling it on the freeway in a 66 mustang, a cold bottle nestled in his and a doll on his arm. The king of it all, Elvis Presley, jets through the speakers, musically arousing him and his voluptuous guest for the ride.
You aint nuthin but a hound dog! Top down, her bouncy curly hair frolicking through the wind, his gold-framed aviators painting the scenery with a smooth amber glow color. She leans over and gives him a peck on the cheek and the throttle is kicked yet again. Another sip of the cool carbonated amber liquid refreshes his tongue and cheeks. Elvis orchestrates his guitar solo with soul and passion. The blue suede shoes that will never be forgotten. Her eyes are batting, cute as a bunny, enticing his physical attractions. The wild horses in this car are unparalleled and unstoppable. America is unstoppable.
The sun sets, filling the desert with beautiful shades and tints of vibrant orange, brown, and pink. The giant ball of fire sinks into the ground bringing out the stars. The station changes and Jimi Hendrix shows off his guitar skills. Foxy Lady, Foxy Lady. The memorable chorus echoes. He gives his darling a smirk and a wink and she cant help but blush. Foxy Lady! The engine surges forward into the starry night, drowning out everything in the world except for Hendrix and the American V8.
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