Deep down Louisiana close to New Orleans,
Way back up in the woods among the evergreens…
There stood a log cabin made of earth and wood,
Where lived a country boy name of Johnny B. Goode…
– Johnny B. Goode by Chuck Berry
He loved that song. He’d play it over and over in his head, day and night, year after year. It was him. Except that next refrain: “He never ever learned to read or write so well, But he could play the guitar like ringing a bell.” For him it was just the opposite. He could read and write perfectly, but hell if he could carry a tune or play a guitar. Not that he hadn’t tried when he was growing up, but something in him just wasn’t quite right for that sort of thing. He couldn’t put his hand on it, either. Most of it started with his sister.
He remembered the first time he’d had sex. It wasn’t quite what he’d expected of course. He’d always dreamed about those cheerleaders at the high school. Those short skirts they wore, and that little crease of flesh he could see when they threw them up so high. No. It didn’t happen that way at all. Cheerleaders thought he was a freak. Even the ugly girls stayed away from him. He’d learned to bide his time, stay to himself mostly. Then one day something happened to change all that.
Instead his older sister had stumbled in one night when Paps was out setting traps. She was drunk and higher than a kite. She rummaged around in the kitchen for a while, munching down on whatever she could find. Satisfied she started playing with herself there on the couch. When she got tired of that she got this funny smile on her face. The young man laying over in his corner of the cabin reading or pretending to read, watched on as she ambled over and undressed right there in front of him. He thought to himself, whether he should run or just sit there. He had no clue what she was up too. So he sat there and wondered at it. He had no feelings one way or the other.
She crawled up there in bed with him and said, “What you reading there, little Johnny?” Then she took that book out of his hands and said, “Why don’t you read me, little boy blue.” It wasn’t a question, more like an invite. She felt down where his manhood sat like a stone, unmoved. She twitched at it till suddenly something happened he’d never felt before nor since. It came alive at her touch.
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– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.
Comments are welcome and needed. This is my getting wet in noir, a first stab at this genre, and all the insight I can gather (likes, dislikes, whether its too sentimental, gritty, etc.) will help out. Obviously as I’ve said before this is a fast storyline mode for the first run through. Just getting the ideas and story down day by day. I’ll come back on the 2nd draft and start filling in details of character and setting, but for now the story itself is driving things. So if you’d be so kind drop me a comment, tell me honestly what you think.
Read more: Flowers for Lobelia – Noir Novel in Progress