The Flow

A wide hot desert.


Rico Lamoureux


All Rights Reserved.


Brandon and his three bandmates were literally baking, the hot ankle-high sand

making it even more difficult to walk as they trekked through the vast open desert

playing their instruments. From the two guitars flanking him, rhythm and bass, to

the poor drummer at his back lugging a mobile set of drums strapped to his chest,

his comrades followed with such loyalty as he led them with his vocals and lead

guitar. Vocals that ached, boiled, gave voice to the suffocating torture they were all

experiencing, his sleek beautiful Gibson Angus Young SG taking all the fire, all

the fury of their journey through hell and helping express such through its

electrified scorch.

As the sweltering heat beat down on the four Brandon closed his eyes, trying hard

to imagine the pouring sweat falling from his brows being that of cool cascades of

water, but when that didn’t work he aimed towards another thought, keeping those

lids closed tight and picturing an air conditioner.

No luck, reality painting the image as nothing more than an ol’ beat-down hunk of

machinery with wires as fried as he felt.

One more try, just a slight breeze would mean the world…

A vintage fan, large metal blades locked behind a rusted cage. But they’re caked in

dust, giving a sign that the ol’ 1950’s style cooling device probably hadn’t been

functional since those good ol’ doo-wop days.

So on through the broil he trudged, wiping away, not all away, the sting in his

eyes, that unrelenting perspiration soaking him from head to toe, drenching his

clothes and making them heavier, coating both the mahogany of his Gibson and the

magnetized strings that ran across it.

It took all they had for the band to stay their course, digging down deeper than ever

before in hopes of reaching the promise land, where the infinite sands of the earth

would finally give way to a body of water so refreshing, so clear and sublime that

it would transform all who ingest into beings of enlightenment, gods of genius.

Or so they hoped…

But the more they fought on the more the roasting took its toll,

The devil’s breath, the grit between his teeth, the scalding of his seed as he

attempts to rape their beings. But the one thing he cannot get to, their will…

And so they push on, continuing to create while being cooked to the brink as they

use such anguish to forge, the power they wield through those Gibsons, that voice,

that beat, creating a masterpiece that metamorphosizes from Gold to Platinum,

Multi-Platinum to Diamond within its inception.

And oh how sweet it truly is, the oceans of sweat turning into floods of creative

juice, the long suffering for their art paying off with such euphoric flow!

And with the outro Brandon and his band mates are returned to their little box,

their oven, their tin can of a garage amidst the hottest day of the summer, having

completed the mega-hit that will serve as their ticket to rock god status, a journey

they had set out for so many years ago, now reaching its pinnacle after so much





      1. Exactly 😉 writers on some level are gods of their worlds. Artists in general. I wrote a piece on what I think an artist is if you want to read my opinion on the matter. I’m sure you have your own opinion on the subject. 🙂 it is interesting to see how writers see their role.

Leave a Reply