The Rise of the Band Geeks, Episode 4: War Chant

The football players smashed into one another with the force of semi trucks, the sounds of their collisions drowned out by the pervasive screaming of fans.  Hal’s own throaty screech was lost in the chaos.  He wasn’t particularly loud, and his voice had gotten stuck at some point during puberty in the odd limbo between the voice of a boy and the sonorous, crisp boom of an adult male, subjecting him to frequent voice cracks.  His scream crackled now, and he could have been mistaken for fourteen or fifteen were he not a member of the marching band.

 

His right arm burned from the motion accompanying the excerpt from Temptation, commonly referred to as “Stands T” by the band.  Although he hardly felt it, the faint sensation was enough to distract him in the game.  He wasn’t much invested in it anyway, caring more about the stand tunes and watching halftime than anything else.

 

Why don’t we play a short version of W?

 

War Chant, the second half of the Michigan traditional duo that begins with Temptation, was just as musically robust and hype.  For the cymbals, it was a near-constant motion of pumping the arms up and down, interspersed with deep knee bends, 180-degree jumps (and one 270-degree jump), the infamous back bend, and, at the very end, a complex pattern of partner crashes that could literally kill you if you forgot to duck.  It was the perfect complement to the knee torture of Temptation, though W (or “Dubs,” as many people called it) contained knee torture, as well.

 

It is a universal truth that, when it comes to T + W, you can’t have one without the other…yet, in the stands, there was one without the other.  Hal had always been deeply saddened by this, as he loved both T and W, although they were grueling, especially when you were forced to do it inside the band hall with a mask on.

 

He always imagined a stands version of W drawing from the first part of the song, which involved a relatively complicated crash rhythm for the cymbals that alternated with eight-count drum features.  He’d never said anything about this to the band director or the drum instructor, seeing as he was a freshie reserve fresh out of a yearlong hiatus (though it might as well have been a punishment for something Hal didn’t do).

 

He swallowed as the play ended with the opposing team gaining three yards and prayed Stands W would become a real occurrence.

Leo the Mer-Guy! Chapter Nineteen (of Twenty): The Real Leo

When Leo awoke, he was no longer in the air bubble at the bottom of the pond.

 

He was lying on the pond floor, sand and silt settling into the crooks of his elbows and his collarbone. He felt it more than saw it. It was dark.

 

His head hurt, and the darkness and confusion set his heart to racing. He was breathing underwater–not using his nose or his mouth or his lungs, but something else on his neck, gills, they must be gills–and it was effortless, but he was afraid he’d forget how to do it, he’d let water into his lungs by breathing the wrong way, and then what? Then it was really the end.

 

His breathing turned to gasps.

 

“Leo, please calm down,” a voice said from the darkness.

 

Aristea. It was Aristea’s voice.

 

Leo’s memory of recent events flooded back to him. It didn’t slow his heart rate down. “Aristea?” he tried. He spoke from somewhere deep below his sternum, in that muted, bubbly way Mer people did.

 

“Put on a light,” Aristea said.

 

“How? Can you do it?”

 

“Hold your palm open,” Aristea said patiently, ignoring his request. “You’ll feel it in your veins. Let it bleed.”

 

Aristea’s instructions were just as vague as any elderly wizard on a magical quest, but Leo didn’t complain. He tried to calm the tremors in his hands, tried to breathe in and out slowly, and opened his palm toward the sky. Just like Aristea said, his veins started to itch, like something wanted to come out. So he let it, letting out a breath as little beads of light splintered out from under his skin and coalesced together in his hands like a party full of fireflies.

 

It was nowhere near as bright as the light Aristea had cast when he first fell down here, but Leo supposed there was a learning curve. It was bright enough to illuminate Aristea, and himself.

 

Himself.

 

Leo looked down at his body.

 

He was naked. His torso was angular and shimmery like the other Mer people’s, covered in scales and gills. His hands were webbed, his nails indigo blue. And, from the waist down, he was a fish. A big ole fish. From the looks of it, his tail was a deep, opalescent, seaweed green, with many small cilia at the fishtail base.

 

His chest was masculine, with small pecs. His arms seemed a little broader, too. He felt his face, realizing the bone structure had changed. He picked up an old, littered potato chip bag from the pond floor, squinting at his reflection in the aluminum packaging.

 

“Oh my god,” Leo breathed.

 

He looked like himself. His real self, the one in dreams and the one he doodled. The one he knew deep within his spirit.

 

“Your time is up,” Aristea said. “Mer people, when turned, experience their Mer forms, but unless it’s under one of the right moons, it won’t stay. You better swim up so you’re prepared when you turn human again. Oh, and here’s this.” Aristea handed him a plastic shopping bag tied tightly closed. He could tell by the shape of it that it held his clothes and his costume, which felt like something that had happened a lifetime ago. In a way, it had.

 

Just as Aristea said, Leo began to feel off. Vibratey, discordant with himself, in a way that suggested it would only build from here. Kind of pukey, too.

 

There was so much left to say, so much left to learn, so much he needed to do. For now, though, his lips were burning, his hands aching, so he gave Aristea a quick wave before power-swimming toward the surface faster than he’d thought possible.

 

Just as he broke the surface, light exploded from his hands, enveloping him in a swath of white, and warming him from the inside out.

The Rise of the Band Geeks, Episode 3: Temptation

Tungsten clouds flattened as they scraped along the dome of the stadium, the residual howl of their wind battling the sonic boom of the multitude for dominance.  Within the confines of the band section, instruments bellowed and slammed into the rattled air, stunning anyone unfortunate enough not to have earplugs, and shot their notes toward the field.  Cymbals smashed a vicious beat over the intricate, layered rhythms of the drums.  Fierce, dark waves from the trombones blasted forth in ominous fronts that seized the hollow wind and regurgitated it as menacing music.

 

And the TV station, as per usual, completely ignored them.

 

Hal chopped his arm back and forth to the explosive cymbal crashes, throwing his shoulder forth and thrusting his upper body toward the football players as though they would acknowledge him.  They were too far from the band, crouched as they were at the 45 yard line, and their backs were to the north end zone where the band gathered.  Of course, the chant wasn’t directed at the Michigan football players; rather, it was meant for the opposing team, who had just fumbled the ball in the most spectacular fashion.

 

Hal and the other drumline reserves were not allowed to chant along with the student section for a very specific reason, but nothing prevented him from singing along in his head.  The mantra was an adrenaline rush, a ferocious vocal tacked over an exhilarating spew of domineering energy and sound.

 

He unleashed his fury in the form of a scream that flooded his ears but was easily trounced by the band.  Primal, feral, in perfect time, it blended with the shout of the rest of the cymbal line, his one sheer thrill forgotten in the chaos.

 

He wished he was able to play along with the rest of the band, but the cheer was the closest approximation he could get this season.  A freshman in the cymbal line, he’d never really stood a chance to make the performance block this year, and he had only a small chance to make it next year.  He’d practiced incessantly, but he was inexperienced and not as strong as the upperclassmen, who performed advanced visuals with seemingly little effort.

 

Hal loved marching band immensely, loved the cymbal section (it was objectively the best instrument), the people in it.  Loved screaming and dancing in the stands every Saturday with his band friends.  But there was a tickle in his mind, a gnawing, nagging sensation at the back of his throat, the tiny demon that numbed his arms and chipped away his resolve.

 

At the moment, with his arm gouging the wind and his intense glare fixated on the football players pooling around the 45 yard line, he was a machine.  A maize and blue warrior launching an offensive against the wind and against silence, smushed between two of his fellow reserves who pummeled the air with similar malevolence.  All thoughts silenced except the two-word mantra and the swell of the trombones.  Tension building, building until it climaxed in a minor duo of notes, a final crash, and then–

 

Uproar.

Leo the Mer-Guy! Chapter Eighteen: The Bite

“Oh, uh, wow,” Leo said, mind racing  as he processed Alfia’s words. He could be a pond Mer. A mer-person. But not just any mer-person. A were mer-person. A were mer-person witch.

 

Who could shapeshift, look like anything.

 

Look like himself.

 

Leo understood, on a practical level, that this was a big decision. That this would change his life. That there would be problems–big problems. That it wouldn’t magically make his life any better or any cooler. That he would have responsibilities.

 

Leo had read his fair share of fantasy novels. He knew it was not a unicycle ride through a spring park.

 

Knowing all this, he still knew his answer, immediately, enthusiastically, and without reservations.

 

The answer was yes.

 

He’d always loved the water, he’d always been a dreamer, he’d always been queer. He’d always wanted to help people, stopped by a powerful loneliness and shyness. A powerful fear.

 

This was, in one sense, a purpose for Leo. A commitment.

 

He was crying, but it was underwater, so no one could tell. Still, his throat was tight, his chest burning. He didn’t deserve this gift.

 

“Yes,” he said. “You can do it. I want to help.”

 

Alfia grinned. They made some sharp, loud noise, like a dolphin at a rave, clicks echoing through the murky water. A half dozen mer-people showed up, forming a circle around Leo, including Aristea, who looked pumped, shaking and dancing in place.

 

“Are you ready?” Alfia asked.

 

Leo squared his shoulders, lifted his head, and nodded.

 

Alfia swam forward, coming close enough that Leo could see the glittering chips of green and blue in their eyes. “This may hurt.”

 

Using their webbed hands, Alfia tilted Leo’s neck, exposing the tan skin to the glowing light.

 

“I’m doing it in 3, 2, 1,” Alfia said.

 

Then they bit down, their sharp teeth piercing the skin of Leo’s neck.

 

Leo bit his lip, cutting off a pained groan. He’d had his blood drawn before, but this was way worse. The pain was sharp and unending, beating out a rhythm that felt like he was bleeding out, he was dying. Had he made a mistake trusting these people? Was this actually the end?

 

His eyelids fluttered, his fingers and toes going fuzzy. Just before he could pass out, he felt his body growing warm all over, vibrating and tingling through him like he was in a jet-fueled hot tub.

 

The whole world went bright, stadium-light white, then disappeared in a slurry of bubbles.

An Introduction

Hello, Micey here. My series Sketchbook Smashing will be my attempt to chronicle all my character designs and how they evolve through candid shots of my sketchbook and doodles. This is an introduction to the characters I draw the most and my character design goals, so it’ll be a bit longer than my usual posts.

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Leo the Mer-Guy! Chapter Seventeen: The Prophecy

Okay, Leo could get down with this. The knowledge that gender mattered here, too, that they looked at it differently, inspired Leo. This was no Harry Potter. “So what did you mean you’ve been expecting me?”

 

“Oh, there’s a kind of prophecy or something,” Aristea said. “Let me get my egg-parent.”

 

Aristea disappeared into the tealy gloom, out of reach of the orb of light they had summoned. A beat later, they came back with an older-looking mer-person who had a darker-colored tail and some scars across their shoulders.

 

“Greetings, Leo,” the new person said. “I am Alfia, keeper of the prophecy.”

 

“N-nice to meet you,” Leo said. “I’m Leo.”

 

“Yes,” Alfia said, “I know who you are. The prophecy speaks of a young human boy, misunderstood and unseen by his birth community, who will act as a bridge between worlds, connecting the mer-people to the witches on land.”

 

Leo swallowed, his ears going hot. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “You might have the wrong Leo. I’m just some kid. I have no idea how to do all that.”

 

Alfia’s green lips wobbled up into a slightly comical but no less genuine smile. “Oh, child,” they said. “You do not need to know anything. You just need to be exactly who you are.”

 

“Easier said than done,” Leo said weakly.

 

“We can help, possibly,” Alfia said. “I have an offer for you.”

 

Leo waited for the mer-person to continue.

 

“We are pond Mer. There are Mer in the oceans, in rivers and streams. We are all different from each other, but connected by our love for the water and what it gives us. Us pond Mer have a special ability. We can change our forms. 

 

“For this reason, we welcome our young ones, our tad-Mers, to experience and change forms as much as they like. It takes some energy, and can be tiring, but it has led to a community of people who deeply understand each other and value themselves. 

 

With one bite, I can transform you into a Mer person. However, it will not be as though you were born one of us. You will still maintain a part of your human heritage. This means that, under a full moon, a new moon, and a half moon, you will be Mer, but under other moons, you will be human. If you desire to spend your days in the water, with us, we can find a way to do that. So how does that sound?”