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Short Stories

Welcome to Backroads - Short Stories.  

Please feel free to share your short stories on Backroads!  

New Music Management and The Music Mob

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The 1990's were a great decade.  We had fun.  We had joy.  We had seasons in the sun.  We had jobs.  We had affordable houses.  We had friends.  We had families that supported each other.  We had better music than the 80's :)  It seems the future was wide open to us.  We wanted to have children of our own.  We wanted to repeat the lives we lived in our childhood.  

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Two people from different backgrounds meet and fall in love.  Their differences blend in together and seem to work.  They are excited and ready to conquer their world.  One works the 9-5 office job, the other is in Sales.  Both do well but want more.  More in terms of digging in to the real life and not facing years and years of 'jobs'.  They want to do it on their own.  They want to have their own business which will bring them more freedom.  They each have their strengths and weaknesses in their jobs and talk it all through.  They come to understand each other. 

 

The 9-5er, it's decided, can keep on allowing a base of income to keep coming.  The mortgage can be paid, bills easily paid and life can still be good.  The other starts to explore ideas beyond sales, beyond a job.  Both have a huge interest in 'music'.  One who tried to play instruments and sing and the other who could actually play instruments and sing.  Both having a big appreciation for talent.     In the search for something beyond the job, one bumps into some local talent.  A bunch of guys who formed a band, played locally and they were good!  So they start talking.  Instantly there's a connection between the band and the one in search of more.  It's discovered the band has a need for 'management', a need to get their name out there, to record their original songs, to get gigs in and around the region but also further.  

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New Music Management is formed.  And everyone is excited.  Discussions on how to make this happen.  Going out often meeting people who had similar interests.  Nurturing the relationships between the band and the new management company.  Instinctively, the 'sales' guy knew he could sell this band and make money at the same time.  Not a lot of money to start, that was a given.  But the future looked very bright.  Solid contacts were formed as the management company got bigger and better shows for the band.  At the same time, the 'sales' guy took on other projects including selling frozen meat on the side for extra money.  There he met a contact whose son was just 15 years old but already displayed amazing guitar talent and that dad, being a big time 'business guy' wanted to launch his son into the music business.  He shared the challenges of what he saw as a compromised business model.  He knew the only way to climb up was to 'know someone'.  Talent aside, that was literally the only way.  He was  right.  

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Learning all about this side of the business was hard for the 'sales' guy but he also saw it as a huge challenge.  One he could take on and he set about meeting as many people in the business as he promoted the band.  He met a wannabe music producer who was thick with a 'millionaire' guy local to the area.  The millionaire guy had other businesses he ran and he also had a talented son - another guitar player with remarkable skills.  So he formed another company, this time a Record Label and set aside a ton of money to make it work.  The music producer, the millionaire and the new management company started working together.  The producer saw the band as something he could work with.  The millionaire trusted the producer and liked the management company.  And New Music Management signed the band with this Record Label and the producer and they all started working together.  

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First on the list was to gather other bands under the Label.  How exciting was that?!  The management company soon found two other bands with amazing talent, signed them to management agreements and then to the Record Label.  The millionaire kept his word and put a lot of money into producing new music and sending one of the bands out on tour.  It was understood that contacts in places like NYC were necessary and that those contacts cost a lot of money.  Trips were made there to nail those contacts down to bigger and better and more established Record Labels.  It was complicated and it was expensive.  And it was fun and it was exciting for everyone, even the millionaire guy.  Eventually there were 4 bands signed to the millionaire's Record Label and he supported them.  One of the bands (not the original one) rose to the top because of the talent and the drive they displayed - they really wanted it.  They gave up their lives to hit the road and tour around the US.   Contacts were formed outside of the region, outside of the country.  

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It seemed to go on for years but it didn't.  It was a relatively short time and the millionaire started complaining about how much money it was all costing.  At that time, the 9-5er was working for him, doing his books, sorting through his businesses and realized that several of his businesses apart from the Record Label were also leaking money.  Uh-oh.  But we hung on, for a while.  The millionaire then crashed.  He decided enough with the bands and this crazy business.  His talented son had joined a band who was actually rising up - not due to dad's money/business but because of the band he joined who did have connections that were developed.  He was launched.  The 4 bands under the millionaire's Record Label, not so much.  Suddenly they were all on their own but no one was ready to give up yet.  

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The Music Mob is formed.  Instead of a direct management company, now the bands and New Music Management worked together.  The idea was to find another millionaire, but one more established in the business, not one who was trying to promote their son.  Other contacts were established.  Two of the bands dropped out, two continued.  And everyone is working together with a lot more knowledge.  It's a challenge to be both good at 'music' and good at business.  The 'sales' guy figured it out and so did one other who was the most talented at writing and performing and together they worked on The Music Mob.  Gone was the base of money earned by the 'sales' guy who had done remarkably well at securing an income for himself through all of it.  The bands kept playing locally.  Some were bitter that the millionaire guy didn't do as much as he had promised.  But that's business.  No one could deny the excitement of those times.  No one could deny that is was working to some extent.  New Music Management had secured a gig opening for OLP in Toronto and playing stages throughout the city.  The other band had hit the road touring with a lot of success in small venues in the southern U.S. and were on the precipice of making it.  But when the millionaire guy pulled out, several of the talented players had to move on to 'jobs' to support their families and themselves.  Reluctantly of course but they had to do what they had to do.  

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The Music Mob never did make an income for the 'sales' guy and became secondary while he formed his own marketing company he was able to work from home.  After the intense challenges of New Music Management, working with the Record Label and The Music Mob, he chose an easier model for his income going forward and one that was extremely lucrative.  So much so, that he left the music business sorta behind him.  Sorta, because he would dip back in again once in a while.  One way was through Sellaband.  A website where talent would sign up and try to raise money for themselves.  The 'sales' guy found another amazing talent there and put some money into him.  They formed a great connection and partnership.  

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New Music Management and The Music Mob covered almost 10 years, the decade of the 90's.  Some look back at it as the most exciting time.  Some look back at it as sad that it never did 'make it'.  But it did.  It made it for those who were truly involved, truly interested, truly excited.  The 'sales' guy made an income all the way through it.  The bands maybe not so much.  The millionaire, well, he might have lost a good chunk.  But the memories can never be lost.  The good ones.  The hard ones.  The learning lessons.  The relationships that were formed.  Today, the really talented band members, the ones who really really wanted this to happen, they are still out there playing their music.  Producing music for others.  Being session players.  In cover bands working every week, earning way more money than in the 90's.  The son of the first contact the 'sales' guy made has and is doing really well with a solid career.  The son of the Record Label is now in L.A. with a very talented uprising band and a solid career.  Everyone came out of it with something to give, something to talk about and with memories that will last forever.  

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Love Story

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She woke up early like she did every morning.  And, as usual, first thing she did was look out the window up at the unending sky until she saw that tiny speck.  She focused on that tiny speck cause she knew it was him.  There you are, she thought, waiting patiently for me just like you would do on our walks.  She always lagged behind him and he pushed her through.  Both happy in their roles.  Him with the dog leash in his hands and her with the camera in hers.  She smiled to herself that morning as she thought about how many photos she had of his back, sometimes way ahead, sometimes just a bit ahead.   She followed his path.  She knew he was the one who forged their path and she was the one who happily followed it.  It just fit.  She didn't think of herself as only a follower or him as only a forger because they seem to blend into each other after a number of years.  She eventually was able to show him her path and he was able to follow it too.  And it just worked for them both.  They were comfortable in each other's skin.  She would support and defend him and he would do the same.  When they both got tired of defending their right to live life as they both clearly saw, they went ahead even if others couldn't or wouldn't understand.  The time was over for explanations.  

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All those thoughts went through her head on that early morning just before Christmas.  The sixth Christmas of searching and finding that speck.  She laughed softly to herself thinking would he want to be known as a speck?  Maybe.  He wrote a song one time about flying like a bird so yes, maybe.  She hoped that all who knew him when he was here on solid ground would give a fleeting thought to that speck up there.  A loving thought, whatever that may be to them.  He touched so many lives in his short time here.  He had passion about what he thought was real and he had the ability to express it in ways that would make sense to those he was in front of.  He hoped maybe they would think a little about what he expressed about life and maybe it would change each person for the better.  In his heart, he knew that didn't always happen.  And in the end of his time here, he realized even if it was just one person who was helped by his presence and his thoughts, than that was ok.  She thought in that early morning, that was the best way to think.  We all have a desire to make the world a better place and maybe that can only be done on an individual level.  They had always steered away from groupthink because they would feel lost in it.  Lost is not a good way to feel.  We all want to be found.  

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She cherished those thoughts in the early morning of the winter solstice.  Waiting for the darkness to leave.  Waiting for dawn to break.  The wind was howling outside.  She was safe and warm inside.  She didn't worry about him being 'up there' cause she knew it was safe and warm there too.  Safety and warmth are earthly things she thought.  The details of safety here were something to be aware of but not something to stress about.  She thought of all their earlier discussions on the possibilities of a changing world that was predicted.  She knew it was here now.  She also saw so many in denial of their own safely as this world changed.  As many have had to in the distant past, we have to change to fit in with what we can't control.  Sadly, she knew, on that early morning that she can't express it like they could together.  She had no one to talk it through.  No one who would be able to express herself to because when the passion comes out, they withdraw, thinking she's upset, don't upset her.  But she knew she wasn't upset.  She was real.  Just like they were together.  The Realness.  

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The Realness allowed them to talk about a future changing world.  It allowed them to make the changes they felt were consistent with ending their own days here in a positive productive way.  Happiness wasn't a factor.  She thought about that for a moment as dawn was starting to break.  He had always said he wasn't seeking happiness with others because there were too many disappointments.  And time and again, people would be disappointed in those around them that weren't following the happiness path.  Their happiness path.  So instead, they agreed, as they did on so many other things, that the pursuit of Realness was for them.  That Realness brought them joy and peace.  It brought them something better than fleeting happiness.  

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Love, true love shone through.  It grew stronger as the Realness grew.  She thought about their love on that very early morning, the shortest day of the year.  Well, she thought, it made sense because their true love was split on the longest day of the year as he forged ahead.  Sometimes, she thought, these days are longer than any she had experienced, these days without him here.  But somehow, just knowing he was that tiny speck up there, helped her through these long days.  She knew she would be joining him soon as she silently allowed the doctors to probe.  She knew she was ready and would go quietly hoping that was how she lead her life these last 6 years.  She silently asked for forgiveness for the times she did try to express herself and went further inside.  She knew in her heart it was time for the quietness.  The Realness had taught her that.  

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At the end of it all, she knew as he did that most important of all was their Love Story.  Wrapped in The Realness.  Their Love Story would last forever.  And if it touched a few souls here, that was a bonus.  Sadness is real and it's ok.  Love supersedes it all.  And she knew, as dawn broke on this morning of the solstice, that The Realness was their love story and she searched through the wind for that tiny speck up there with calmness and love.  And there he was.  She cherished their love story as he gently looked down giving her the courage he always did.  I can do this she thought.  Just like you did.  Peace and joy.  Peace and joy.  

Timeless

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Is there such a thing?  She wondered as she looked out the window at the ice storm that was creating cool looking designs on the deck.  She always thought of herself as timeless, just kinda floating through life not taking too much seriously but taking everything seriously.  She had wanted to live a life of no regrets.  A life full of love and peace.  And maybe she did.  As her life was starting to wind down, she thought about all the no regret times, the love times, the peace times.  The times that seemed to knit her life together in proper rows with a few stitches missing every once in a while.  She refused to look at the missing stitches with regret.  Instead of ripping the whole thing out, she just kept going.  The missing stitches were her crosses to bear and even though, it looked awkward in some places, it was just right for her.  

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Maybe, she thought, that was the key to being timeless.  Don't let the missing stitches drag a person backwards.  Everyone has them and it's all in how we deal with them.  That's what counts in the end.  Each of the missing stitches represented a time, a section of time  And did it really matter if that time was filled with things to do and people to see?  Not to her it didn't.  To others it might.  

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She realized on that icy night that it never bothered her what others thought of her.  And that bothered others.  She would often hear about how she was 'supposed' to do this or that.  But this or that went in one ear and out the other and she kept floating over.  She never doubted that was not accepted by most.  But maybe when one has experienced near death experiences, it makes one tend to float through life from that moment on.  She recalled her experience floating through the air when the car hit.  She remembered a floating sensation when the truck she was driving flipped over five times.  She remembered the floating feeling when she tried to pray in the hospital chapel after he floated into the sunrise.  She can feel the floating happening again as she wraps her head around her own time left here.    

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She knew in her timeless state she still got things done.  She thought about others who talk forever about things they want to do and she realized she just did them.  She kept her living space, herself, her car, her simple life clean and neat.  She kept to a good eating schedule.  She answered her mother's call every time and visited without complaining or making excuses.  Calmness and order.  That made her desire to be timeless even greater.  She had the time!  And she had the desire.  It all just fit.  She thought about the fact that if life were to end soon here, that would be ok.  She had no regrets and nothing left undone.  Floating, timeless and calm.  With peace in her heart, she was ready.  The signs will be there for those that look for them.  If no one does, that's ok too she realized.  

 
Facebook Post  - Author Unknown
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Last Tuesday, at exactly 7:00 PM, I decided to check out of life. My apartment was spotless, my debts were calculated, and the only loose end was Barnaby, my twelve-year-old Golden Retriever, and the grumpy veteran next door who hadn't said a word to me in three years.

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You wouldn’t have known I was drowning if you looked at my social media. I’m twenty-nine, a "digital nomad" working three freelance gigs just to pay rent on a shoebox apartment that smells like damp drywall. On the screen, I’m living the dream. In reality, I’m exhausted. It’s not the kind of tired a good night’s sleep can fix. It’s a deep, bone-weary exhaustion from running a race where the finish line keeps moving.

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The world feels so loud lately, doesn’t it? Everyone is screaming at each other. The news is a constant feed of doom—inflation, division, anger. I felt like a ghost in my own life, scrolling through photos of friends getting married or buying houses, while I was deciding which meal to skip so I could afford gas. I was isolated, surrounded by millions of digital voices but hearing absolutely no one.

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That Tuesday, the silence in my head finally got too loud. I didn't want a scene. I just wanted the noise to stop.

I packed a small bag. Not for me, but for Barnaby. I couldn't leave him alone in the apartment. I grabbed his heavy bag of kibble, his favorite chewed-up tennis ball, and his leash.

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I walked down the hall to Apartment 1B. Mr. Miller’s place.

Mr. Miller is a relic. He’s somewhere in his late seventies, built like a brick wall that’s beginning to crumble. He spends his evenings sitting on a folding chair on his porch, staring at the street, a generic can of domestic lager in his hand. He doesn't look at his phone. He just watches the world turn. In three years, our interactions were limited to me nodding and him grunting.

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I knocked on the doorframe. The porch light buzzed, attracting moths.

"Yeah?" His voice sounded like gravel crunching under tires.

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"Mr. Miller?" I tried to keep my voice steady. "Sorry to bother you. I... I have to go on a trip. A last-minute work thing. California. It came up out of nowhere."

The lie tasted like ash in my mouth. "They don't allow dogs at the corporate housing. I was wondering... I know this is a huge ask, but could you watch Barnaby? Just for tonight? The shelter opens at 8 AM tomorrow. I’ll leave a note for them to come get him. He’s a good boy. He sleeps most of the day."

I held out the leash. My hand was trembling.

​

Mr. Miller didn't take the leash. He took a long, slow sip of his beer, his eyes fixed on Barnaby. Barnaby, being the traitor he is, wagged his tail and rested his graying muzzle on the old man’s knee.

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"California," Miller said. He didn't ask it as a question.

"Yes, sir. Big opportunity."

"Bull," Miller said.

I froze. "Excuse me?"

"I said bull." He set the beer down on the railing. He turned those steel-gray eyes on me. They were sharp, intelligent, and terrifyingly clear. "You ain't going to California, son. You’re wearing the same sweatpants you’ve worn for three days. Your eyes are red. And my wife... she had that same look. The look of someone who’s done fighting."

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The air left my lungs. I took a step back, ready to run. "I don't know what you're talking about. I just need someone to take the dog."

"Sit down," he commanded. He kicked a plastic crate toward me.

"I can't, I have to—"

"Sit. Down."

I sat. I don't know why. Maybe because for the first time in months, someone was actually looking at me. Not looking at my profile, not looking at my productivity, but looking at me.

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Miller went inside and came back with another cold beer. He cracked it open and handed it to me.

"Drink. It's cheap swill, but it's cold."

We sat in silence for ten minutes. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic and Barnaby panting softly at our feet.

"You know what the problem is with you kids?" Miller asked, breaking the silence. He didn't say it with malice, like the pundits on TV. He said it with a strange kind of sadness.

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"We eat too much avocado toast?" I shot back, a weak attempt at defense.

Miller chuckled. A dry, rasping sound. "No. The problem is you think you're alone. You got that whole world in your pocket," he pointed to my phone, "but you don't know the name of the guy who lives ten feet from your head."

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He leaned back, looking up at the smoggy sky where a few stars fought to be seen.

"Back in the day... and I know, you hate hearing 'back in the day,' but listen. We didn't have much. My dad worked at the plant, mom stayed home. We were broke half the time. But if my dad’s truck broke down, the neighbor, Jerry, was over with his toolbox before the engine cooled. If someone got sick, there was a casserole on the porch by sunset. We fought, sure. We disagreed on politics. We yelled. But we showed up."

He looked at me. "We’ve traded community for convenience, son. And it’s a bad trade. You’re sitting there thinking you’re a burden. That if you just disappear, the ledger balances out. Zero sum."

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I gripped the cold can, fighting the tears that were stinging my eyes. "I'm just tired, Mr. Miller. I'm so tired of trying to keep up."

"I know," he said softly. He reached down and scratched Barnaby behind the ears. "I lost my Martha five years ago. Since then, this porch is the only thing I got. Some days, the silence in that apartment is so heavy I think it’s gonna crush my chest. I sit out here hoping someone will stop. Just to say hello. Just to prove I’m still here."

He looked at me, and I saw it. Beneath the tough, veteran exterior, he was just as lonely as I was. We were two guys from different universes, suffering from the same modern disease.

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"The dog knows," Miller said. "Look at him."

Barnaby was pressed against my leg, whining softly. He wasn't looking at the treat in Miller's hand. He was looking at me.

"You leave tonight, that dog waits by the door for a week. He don't understand 'California.' He just understands that his pack left him." Miller took a swig of beer. "And me? I gotta be the one to call the shelter? I gotta be the one to watch them take him away? That’s a hell of a thing to do to a neighbor."

The guilt hit me harder than the sadness.

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"I can't keep doing this," I whispered. "I don't have it in me."

"You don't have to do it all at once," Miller said. "You just gotta do tomorrow."

He stood up, his knees popping audibly. "Tell you what. I can't walk good anymore. My hip is shot. But this dog needs walking. You keep the dog. But every morning at 7:00 AM, you bring him here. We drink coffee on the porch. I watch him while you go to work, or look for work, or whatever it is you do on that computer. Then you come back, we have a beer, and you tell me one thing that happened in the world that isn't bad news."

I looked at him. It wasn't a solution to my debt. It didn't fix the economy. But it was a tether. A thin, sturdy rope thrown across the abyss.

"7:00 AM?" I asked.

​

"7:00 sharp. If you're late, I'm banging on your door. I'm an old man, I wake up early, and I get cranky."

He held out a hand. It was rough, calloused, and stained with engine grease. I took it. His grip was iron.

"Go home, Jason. Unpack your bag. Feed the dog."

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I walked back to my apartment. I didn't fix my life that night. I didn't suddenly find a pot of gold. But I unpacked the kibble. I put the leash back on the hook.

I set my alarm for 6:45 AM.

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The next morning, I was there. We didn't say much. We just drank black coffee while the neighborhood woke up. But for the first time in years, the morning didn't feel like a threat. It felt like a start.

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To anyone reading this who feels like they’re shouting into a void, who feels like the world has moved on without them: You are not a burden. The isolation you feel is a lie sold to you by a system that wants you disconnected.

We are not meant to do this alone.

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Look up from the screen. Knock on a door. Sit on a porch. The courage isn't in fighting the whole war by yourself. The courage is in turning to the person next to you and saying, "I'm not okay, can we just sit for a minute?"

Hold on. The world is a mess, but it’s still better with you in it. See you at 7:00 AM.

Milton Hershey's Story

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He built a mansion for children who would never arrive. Then he gave away an entire chocolate empire so that empty rooms would never stay empty again.
Hershey, Pennsylvania.


Milton Hershey stood in a stone mansion designed for a family he and his wife would never have. He was forty-three years old. A self-made millionaire. The founder of a booming chocolate company. The architect of a town that literally bore his name.
By every measure of success in early-20th-century America, he had won.
Except at night.


At night, Milton and his wife Kitty walked past bedrooms that were never slept in. Past staircases meant for children running late. Past gardens built for laughter that never echoed. Their home was beautiful, orderly, and profoundly quiet.


Kitty could not have children. Complications from illness made pregnancy impossible.
In 1909, that was supposed to be the end of the story. Wealthy couples did not adopt. Especially not publicly. Especially not in numbers. The expected response was acceptance. Focus on business. Leave money to distant relatives. Build monuments. End quietly.
Milton Hershey had never followed expected scripts.


To understand why, you have to understand failure.
Milton Hershey failed repeatedly and publicly before success ever found him. His first candy business in Philadelphia collapsed completely. His second venture in New York failed even worse. By the age of thirty, he was deeply in debt, living with his parents, and considered by many to be a cautionary tale rather than a future success.
Most people would have stopped.
Milton did not.
That refusal to quit shaped everything that came next.


By the early 1900s, his chocolate company finally succeeded beyond imagination. Yet the more wealth he accumulated, the more obvious the absence became. Money filled the bank. It did not fill the house.


So Milton and Kitty made a decision that stunned their peers.
They would open a school.
Not fund one. Not donate to a charity. Not place their names on a building.
They would create a home.
In 1909, the Milton Hershey School opened its doors to orphaned boys. Children who had lost parents. Children who had nothing. Children society largely ignored.
From the beginning, Milton made one thing clear.
This was not charity.
This was family.


He greeted the boys personally. Spoke to them at eye level. Made sure they understood they were not guests. They belonged there. Kitty visited constantly. Learned names. Checked homework. Asked about dreams. Asked if they felt safe.
She was not acting. She was mothering.
For six years, the school grew alongside their sense of purpose. Wealth no longer felt abstract. It felt useful. It felt alive.
Then, in 1915, Kitty died suddenly at forty-two.
Milton was devastated.
Many assumed the school would fade away with her. That it had been her dream. That grief would send him back to business alone.
It did not.
The school continued.


And then, in 1918, Milton did something almost no industrialist in history had ever done.
He transferred majority ownership of the Hershey Chocolate Company into a trust.
For the school.
Not a donation. Not a percentage. Control.
The entire company now existed to fund the lives of children he would never biologically have.
Friends warned him. Advisors protested. What about your legacy. What about your wealth. What about risk.
Milton’s answer was simple.
“This is my family.”
From that moment on, the school was guaranteed forever.


Milton gave away the mansion. Converted it into a school building. Moved into modest quarters. His wealth no longer served him. It served children.
He lived long enough to see hundreds of boys graduate. To see them become adults with stability, education, and purpose. He died in 1945 at eighty-eight, not surrounded by luxury, but by photographs of students.
That should have been the end.
It was not.


Today, more than 2,100 children live at Milton Hershey School at any given time. They receive housing, food, clothing, medical care, counseling, education, and support. Completely free.
The trust Milton created now manages more than seventeen billion dollars.
Every Hershey bar. Every Kiss. Every Reese’s Cup continues funding childhoods that would otherwise be lost.
Over 11,000 alumni have passed through those halls.
Milton Hershey never met most of them.
But they are his legacy.
There is a statue on campus. It does not show him towering. It shows him kneeling beside a child. Eye to eye. Hand on shoulder.
Father to child.
Milton Hershey had no biological children.
So he left everything to children who had nothing.
That is not charity.
That is love, stretched across generations.

©2025 by TriDav Partners​

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