This is the beginning of a story I wanna write and it is to my Muse that knows not of his work... Jack’s first impression of The Devil’s Shoestring wasn’t one that he got from his normal bars when he moved North. Back North it was all lights on poetic morons taking the mic and complaining about their luxury apartments and all the money they had. They acted like it was so horrible to have all that money. So horrible to be getting paid five or six hundred a night to sing one song at one club, once a week. Those assholes were the reason Jack left. The Devil’s Shoestring was different though. The tiny building out in the middle of Nowhere, Mississippi looked like if you so much as gave it the wrong look, it’s tin roof would cave in, turning it’s wooden walls into sawdust in the wind. So yes, the building looked like shit. It was stained a dark brown on the outside that would make any passing pregnant woman stop their car and move closer just to make sure it wasn’t chocolate. The tin roof was rusting something awful, even birds knew better than to sit on it. The front porch was made of the same ugly wood as the walls with the same chocolate stain. The only difference was that it had giant rusty nails sticking out of the floor boards, prepared to give tetanus to anyone who didn’t pay enough attention to where they were walking. There were only two windows and they were both in the front. One was boarded up and the other was covered in iron bars. It kind of made the place look like it was winking at you. The actual parking lot of the bar was big enough for about three pick-ups. See, the owner of The Devil’s Shoestring, James, he bought the land for the bar off a near by farmer. Now, James couldn’t buy much, so he made a deal with the farmer. That farmer told him that if he could keep a band in his bar, every night, playing their music loud enough to keep the animals out of his crops, that he would leave however much room James needed for parking. James started out with about three trucks in his parking lot. Over the next two years, he gained a football field sized chunk of land. Although the inside didn’t look near as bad as the out, it was still pretty bad. The floors were concrete, stained in blood and beer, giving it a nice orange glow. The wooden walls, bar, and shelves behind the bar holding all the liquor were stained the same chocolate stain as outside. The counter top and tables were stainless steal, making them stick out like a sore thumb. The ceiling was black with soot from cigarettes, and cigarettes only. Hell, no one in town was dumb enough to do any drug in that bar, cause if The Sheriff wasn’t there on his nights off, then they’d get their asses caught by old James himself, and it was a shit load of a lot scarier to get caught by James then a cop. ‘Cause if James caught you, it wasn’t jail time, it was getting the tar beat out of you and being kicked right out of the bar, never to return. That around that town was like being banished. The Devil’s Shoestring was the most social place you could go. In the very back of the bar was a stage. It wasn’t anything fancy, in fact, the whole stage’s electric was rigged. The Devil’s Shoestring was an accident waiting to happen, but the locals didn’t give a flying fuck. Every night, them locals, they’d line up at the door of the place just waiting. Just waiting for them to open. The moment that fiery ball in the sky fell beneath the horizon, the doors would open, like some kind of Hoodoo magic and the whole bar would fill up in minutes. Drinks would be poured, the grills in the kitchen would be turned to high, waitresses would be flirting with horn-dog men to get higher tips, bartenders would be taking more orders then they could handle and the locals would go to their designated spots they owned just by showing up every night. And every night, exactly thirty minutes after the doors shut, the curtains on the stage would fly to the sides, causing everyone in the room to hush and smiles widen across their faces. Everyone froze still, waiting for the band on stage to pull out their best song and knock them off their feet. And every night, no matter if this was the bands first night there, or their millionth, they all turned, exchanging worried looks until one of them smiled, usually the guitarist, and started their best song. Within the first song, anyone in the world could tell if the locals liked what they heard. It’s not that they were rude about it, fuck no! They were the nicest people you could meet, they’d dance and yell and scream to any music the band would play. It’s just that you could feel it in your bones, down to the very core, if they really liked the music. Hell, the musicians knew it too! In the five years that the bar had been open, not a single band was asked to stop playing, not a single band was kicked out, nor booed off stage. A band never stopped playing unless they felt it in their bones that it was time to stop. James booked one band a night and one only and if that band stopped playing early, then they just turned on that old radio in the back. But if got yourself a good band, and a really good band at that, hell, they’d play until sunrise and beyond. Every Open to Closing time sign in town said the same thing; "Open- 9 am or when The Devil’s Shoestring closes. Closes- 30 minutes before sundown." The whole town ran around The Devil’s Shoestring.
That's a good piece of descriptive writing, with flawless spelling and grammar. Next step is to develop a story line.
I got one! Jack is gonna fall in love with this blues singer Elegua and learn all about her life and then he is going to move down to Mississippi with her and it will be awesome.
