6 July 1957. Terry was fifteen years old and like many boys that age he was still in bed at noon, daydreaming. He did that a lot. Thinking about girls; that or rock n roll. Terry had no experience with girls but he knew a thing about American music. He heard lots of records that came in through the port of his home city, Liverpool.
He was a bright lad and good at schoolwork, when he could concentrate, which wasn’t often. He had taught himself to play the guitar and desperately wanted to find others his age to be in a group.
He lay under the blankets, holding a well-thumbed magazine. Much as he wanted to pleasure himself he couldn’t silence the words forming in his head. He wanted to learn the words to every rock song there was and with confidence way beyond his age he had already written a few himself. Yep, he was certain about it: he would be the leader of a rock n roll band one day.
There was to be a village fete that afternoon. He’d heard about a skiffle band, The Quarrymen. The players were older than Terry but he thought he might go check them out and see if he could join. He might, but the cosiness of his bed was overwhelming and the luscious ladies in the magazine too tempting. He rolled over on his side and stayed there until tea time, blissfully unaware he had missed his date with destiny.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 