Wild Cherries Pt. 1

March 13, 2012
By Mikkster BRONZE, Ventnor, New Jersey
Mikkster BRONZE, Ventnor, New Jersey
4 articles 0 photos 3 comments

“Ridiculous!” Hollers Carson as he steps into his jet-black Mercedes Benz outside his photography office. “How am I going to take close-up pictures of Luke Carmelo at what is supposed to be the craziest concert of the year? Carson Mumbled as he pulled out of the parking lot. Carson had received concert tickets from Charlie Pizagno, a restaurant owner and one of Carson’s dearest friends.

Once Carson had rolled into his driveway, he burst through the door and lied down on his bed. He took a deep breath and wondered how he was possibly going to get up-close pictures of one of America’s biggest sensation, Luke Carmelo. He took a look at his shady red wall. In a wooden frame was a picture of his father, one of Philadelphia’s most famous detectives.
“He would know what to do…” Carson thought aloud. He had to get ready, since the concert started at around 7.
He checked his watch. 5:57 PM. He rushed over to his computer when he set his Nikon to upload photos and get a clear memory for when he took the photos he needed.

The time had come around, and Carson ran out his door and into his black Benz. He peeled out of his driveway and speeded down his suburban road.

“Almost there.” Carson told himself.
He checked his watch. 6:40 PM. People were probably already there. He looked down at his passenger side seat. No camera. Carson careened swiftly to the side of the road. He searched frantically for his Nikon 1800 Camera. It had dawned on him that it was sitting on his desk next to his computer. Carson gave a frustrated shout and rushed back to his residence.

He burst through the door with blazing speed and quickly snatched his camera. Carson practically flew out the doo and dove into his car.
He checked his watch again. 6:52 PM. Carson’s tires screamed as he zoomed out of his house. No speed Limit could stop Carson now. In Carson’s mind, he had already wrecked two mailboxes, three lawn gnomes, and a hose. He could not make it going at this speed. He sped up once he reached the Philadelphia streets. He was only about 3 blocks away. The sun had set and he could see the lights of the concert. There was not much traffic since he was super late. He sprawled to find a parking spot, but once he saw one, a 93 year old woman cut him off with a wry smile. Carson looked awe-struck at the senior citizen and found a corner spot. He dashed to the edge of the hill. He was at the top. Below, at the bottom of the hill, were about a group of about 25,000 people. Not exactly the type of crowd that is good for trying to weave through. And after the giant glob of crazy teens and college students, there was a stage. And on that stage, was Luke Carmelo and The Wild Cherries, his band. The crowd was ecstatic. And in the midst of all that, Carson started down the hill.
About his first couple steps, he tripped over a rogue unnoticed beer can and tumbled down the hill. Immediately he covered his camera with his body to prevent damage. He felt his elbow get scraped. He dug his heels into the ground and weakly stood up. He was somehow at the bottom of the hill. He did not even care to look down at his body to check his injuries. He was quickly shoving people out of the way to get to the front. “Out of the way! Philadelphia Inquirer coming through!” He shouted above the blaring microphone. He finally got to the front. Carson felt great. He had finally gotten pictures. Just one last one… BANG! Luke Carmelo fell to his knees. Everyone in the audience screamed in fright. People were running here and there, up and down, side to side. Carson stood awestruck. He could not believe what just happened. Luke lies lifeless on the stage, his head in a puddle of blood. Cops surrounding the concert rushed in. Carson saw a swift black figure in the corner of his eye. And then there was darkness.

Cigarette smoke and talkative laughter. Carson shot his eyes open. He was lying on a couch, in what looked like some sort of waiting room. The walls were a sandy apricot. There was a door to his left and more chairs in front of him. He saw newspapers on a coffee table near the chairs. He shuffled over to them, and glared at the headline.
‘Luke Carmelo dead in fatal shooting’. Carson remembered the concert. The blood. That mysterious black figure. He heard a slam of a door closing behind him.
“I see you’re awake.” said the voice. Carson turned around to spot a man in a normal police uniform. “I am detective Dodsonn.” The man introduced.
“Carson…Carson McGraw.” Carson said. He felt his eyes droop slowly. Detective Dodsonn helped him onto the couch. And

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