Silver Vein

The rain lashed against the windshield in a relentless torrent, blurring the neon glow of the city lights into hazy halos. Wind howled like a banshee, a relentless assault that rattled the windows and sent shivers down my spine. Even the normally steady Shelby seemed to fight the elements, the engine sputtering and coughing with every gust, the steering wheel slick and cold under my tense grip. It was a homecoming I wasn't looking forward to, and the temperamental classic beneath me wasn't exactly inspiring confidence.

Straining to see through the rain-streaked windshield, I spotted a young woman on the side of the road. In the harsh glare of my headlights, she was a wraith of a figure, clothes plastered to her shivering form. Each gust of wind seemed to threaten to knock her off her feet. A pang of guilt stabbed at me. Unlike this poor soul, at least I had a destination, a place to escape the relentless downpour. The thought of a steaming mug of cocoa and a crackling fire in my fireplace sent a wave of longing through me. But the temperamental Shelby beneath me sputtered its dissent with a cough and a shudder, reminding me of the precarious nature of my own homecoming.

With a sigh, I nudged the temperamental Shelby to the side of the road, its tires sending up a spray of dirty water. The woman flinched at the sound, then slowly turned towards the car, her face a mask of surprise and maybe even a flicker of fear. For a long moment, our eyes met through the rain-streaked windshield. Hers were a dark, stormy blue, mirroring the weather outside, and held a guarded expression. Finally, I silenced the engine, the sudden quiet broken only by the relentless drumming of rain on the roof. Leaning closer, I shouted over the wind, "Hey, are you alright out here? You look like you could use a ride."

Her reaction was a mix of surprise and unease. A flicker of something akin to hurt crossed her features for a fleeting moment, like I'd just offered her an insult instead of help. Maybe it was the way my question hung in the air, punctuated only by the relentless drumming of rain. Perhaps the deserted road and the anonymity of the storm made her wary. Whatever the reason, her hesitation was clear. She studied me through the rain-streaked window, her dark blue eyes searching mine with a guarded intensity. "A ride?" she finally spoke, her voice barely audible over the wind. It was a question, laced with a healthy dose of suspicion. 

Under her watchful gaze, I felt the weight of society's anxieties pressing down. In this storm-wracked world, kindness itself could be suspect. I forced a smile, hoping it would disarm her. "Seriously," I reassured, my voice warm despite the chill seeping through the car windows. "The weather's horrible. You look like you could use a lift. Where are you headed?" My question hung in the air, a plea for trust amidst the howling wind. Her eyes, a stormy blue that mirrored the downpour, never left mine. Would she see the sincerity in my offer, or would the rain continue to wash away any hope of connection? 

Towering over the situation at six feet, I must have looked like a looming giant to this woman. She barely reached my shoulder, a drowned sparrow of a figure in a rain- plastered shirt clinging desperately to her slim frame. Soaked brunette hair plastered itself to her face, and her black and white sneakers squelched with every hesitant step. The sight of her shivering form, dwarfed by the storm and my own imposing stature, twisted a knot of concern in my gut. Could I convince her to take a chance on a stranger offering help in this desolate landscape? 

At six feet tall, I couldn't deny my imposing presence. Rain slicked back my brown hair, and the dim glow from the dashboard highlighted my chocolate brown eyes. Maybe in another life, or perhaps even in drier circumstances, I could have passed for a model. But here, under the relentless assault of the storm, I was just another face behind a rain-streaked windshield. The woman, barely reaching my shoulder, was a shivering wraith in a plastered white shirt that strained against her slim frame. Her dark hair clung to her face like a sodden curtain, and her black and white sneakers squelched with each hesitant step. The contrast between her vulnerability and my own physical stature was stark. Would my looks work in my favor, or would they only heighten her apprehension on this deserted, storm-wracked road? 

"I'm fine," she said. "But thank you for the offer."

"I'm fine," she said, her voice barely audible over the wind's howl. Though the words were firm, a flicker of vulnerability crossed her eyes, a storm brewing beneath the surface that mirrored the one raging outside. My smile faltered, a flicker of disappointment crossing my own face. Despite the rain drumming a relentless tattoo on the roof, the silence inside the car felt heavy. "Are you sure?" I pressed, my voice laced with concern that couldn't quite mask the sting of rejection. "This weather is brutal. Where are you headed anyway?" Maybe a shared destination could ease her apprehension, bridge the gap between hesitant stranger and someone in desperate need. 

She hesitated for a moment, a considering frown creasing her brow. Her gaze darted from me to the car, then back to the endless stretch of rain-soaked road. Was the risk of trusting a stranger worth escaping the relentless downpour? A single bead of water traced a slow path down her cheek, mirroring the tear she might shed if she braved the storm on foot. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the drumming rain, until she finally spoke. 

I knew I couldn't pressure her, but the sight of her shivering form tugged at my heart. "Look," I began, my voice gentle, "I understand if you're hesitant. But this weather is brutal, and you look exhausted. Where are you headed? Maybe we can at least find a place to get you out of the rain for a bit?" 

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the drumming rain. Just when I thought she might bolt, she spoke. Her voice, barely audible over the wind's howl, held a surprising edge of defiance. "Are you some kind of rapist or serial killer?" The question struck me like a bolt of lightning, sharp and unexpected. I stared at her, momentarily speechless. The accusation hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the dangers that lurked not just in the storm, but in the world itself. 

I paused for a minute, the weight of her question settling on me like a familiar burden. This wasn't the first time someone had eyed me with suspicion, especially on a night like this. But her fear, it wasn't a joke. 

This isn't the first time I have been asked this question.

Answering this question wrong is like stepping on a land mine. I have to ask about her state of mind! I mean is she joking? If so she has a very twisted sense of humor. If she is serious then that too is a whole ‘nother rabbit hole. I mean I must then ask myself, what led her to feel so unsafe and suspicious? Has she had past experiences that shaped her perception of strangers, particularly men?

Something so simple as trying to help a stranger had turned into something far more complex. A simple question, yet loaded with suspicion. I wasn't the only man who had ever been asked this, and a pang of sympathy shot through me for all of us. What was she hoping to achieve by this pointed accusation? 

I mean what is she hoping to achieve by asking such a charged question? Does she genuinely fear for her safety, or is there something else at play, like anger, manipulation, or even a cry for help?

When a woman asks a man this question he must wonder is she even aware of the potential impact of her question has on the man? Does she have any internal struggle between her fear and the potential consequences of her accusation if it were even such?

I mean I could simply choose not to answer.拒绝回答等 (jùjué huídá děng) is a Chinese phrase that means "refuse to answer, etc." But in my silence surely guilt would be inferred. So "无法回答 (wúfǎ huídá)" which translates to "unable to answer" in Chinese is not an option.

A simple, "No." won't do here.

"I glanced down at her again. The rain plastered her clothes to her slim frame, turning her black shirt into a clinging funeral shroud. Her black and white sneakers, designed more for sunny days than a downpour, squelched with every hesitant step. Despite her defiance, a tremor ran through her, barely perceptible but undeniable. She was cold, undeniably cold. As I thought about how best to give answer." 

"As she stood there, shivering and soaked to the bone, a strange dissonance played out. Her question, laced with suspicion, was at odds with the vulnerability etched on her face. Maybe the accusation was a shield, a defense mechanism against a situation that scared her more than she cared to admit, even to herself." 

Taking a deep breath, I met her gaze directly. "Look," I began, my voice calm and sincere, "it's a fair question. You don't know me, and offering a ride to a stranger during a storm can seem crazy." A beat of silence followed, the only sound the rain drumming a relentless rhythm on the roof. "But I can assure you," I continued, my gaze unwavering, "the last thing I want is to make you feel unsafe." I gestured towards the downpour.

I paused for a moment as she considered her options. 

"Honestly, the weather's brutal. The only thing I'm after is a way to get out of this myself, and maybe offer some help to someone in need." 

"I'm trying to be more Christian these days. I saw you and figured you must be getting hypothermia walking out here in the wind and rain with your clothes soaked." I further explained.

"I am sorry if I gave you the wrong impression and frightened you. I apologize. I will just go on about my way now and quit bothering you. Sorry that I inconvenienced you." I ended.

She stood and thought for a few seconds as I started the car back up and was reaching for the shifter on the console.

"Okay," she said. "I guess I could use a ride."

A smile tugged at the corner of my lips, a weak attempt to lighten the mood. I turned off the ignition and I climbed out of the car, the rain a cold shock against my skin. Somewhat startled she hesitated a moment, her eyes searching mine. Finally, with a small nod of understanding she moved towards the passenger door as I did my best to shelter her small figure from the wind wind with my body. 

With a practiced ease born of countless nights like this, I reached out placing my hand on the handle and pressed the release button. A faint click, almost swallowed by the storm's roar, signaled the lock's surrender. The door yielded with a soft creak, a sigh of weary hinges that had seen many a passenger come and go. 

She climbed in, her wet clothes clinging uncomfortably to the worn leather. I shut the door with a solid thunk, the sound momentarily breaking the relentless drumming of the rain. A warm glow emanated from the dashboard, casting dancing shadows across the interior, a cluttered haven filled with worn maps, faded photographs tucked behind the sun visor, and a well-loved steering wheel with the faint scent of old leather. 

I watched for a moment as she settled in, the tension slowly draining from her posture. With a deep breath, I circled around the car, the rain a relentless curtain soaking me to the bone. 

Through the rain-streaked windshield, she watched me. The headlights, cutting through the downpour, briefly illuminated my figure as I rounded the car. She could see the rain plastering my hair to my forehead, the water dripping relentlessly from the brim of my hat. Suddenly, a blinding flash of lightning split the sky, momentarily turning night into day. The thunder that followed wasn't a distant rumble – it was a deafening crack that shook the very core of the earth, vibrating through the car and making her jump. 

Heart pounding from the sudden jolt, I scrambled for the driver's door, the wind whipping the rain into a stinging fury. Yanking the door open, I practically fell into the car, slamming it shut with a force that rattled the windows. Catching my breath, I glanced over at her. Her face, pale in the faint glow of the dashboard lights, was a mask of surprise and something else... maybe a flicker of fear that mirrored my own. 

A gust of wind howled, momentarily whipping the rain sideways and forcing me to pause for shelter beneath the car's overhang. The handle, slick with rainwater, was a cold surprise against my palm. The rain drumming a steady rhythm on the roof echoed the frantic beat of my heart. Slipping behind the wheel, I shut the door with a solid thunk, the sound momentarily breaking the relentless drumming of the rain. 

Taking a deep breath, I fumbled for the keys in my pocket and jammed them into the ignition. The engine coughed to life with a robust rumble, a familiar sound that vibrated through the car and seemed to promise a break from the storm's fury. A flicker of surprise crossed her face as the sound filled the car. Then, a small, shaky laugh escaped her lips. "Well," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "that was certainly a welcome." 

The thunder's echo slowly faded, leaving behind an eerie silence. She stared at me, her wide eyes reflecting the faint flicker of the lightning in the rearview mirror. For a moment, the only sound was the relentless drumming of rain on the roof. Then, a small, shaky laugh escaped her lips. "Well," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "that was certainly a welcome." 

A flicker of a smile played on my lips in response to her laugh. The tension seemed to ease a fraction in the car's warm glow. "No problem at all," I replied, my voice low and calming. "We can't exactly leave you stranded out there in this weather." 

I gripped the shifter, its worn leather cool and familiar beneath my palm. With practiced ease, born of countless nights like this, I nudged it into gear. The car lurched forward slightly, the sound of the rain now a dull murmur against the thrum of the engine. Her eyes flickered towards me, a question lingering in their depths. 

I started driving. The rhythmic drumming of the rain became a steady white noise against the soft thrum of the engine. An awkward silence settled between us, punctuated only by the occasional hiss of the tires on the wet pavement. I stole a glance at her in the rearview mirror. Her face, pale in the dashboard light, was etched with a mixture of exhaustion and relief. Her hair, a cascade of damp brown hair, clung to her shoulders in dark strands. But it was her eyes that held my attention for a moment. Wide and a startling shade of blue, they reflected the faint glow of the dashboard lights like sapphires. 

I wanted to say something but I waited on her to go first. This is how the game is played. Whoever goes first loses! We drove in silence for a few minutes. She looked out the window at the rain, her damp brown hair plastered to her forehead. Despite the exhaustion etched on her face, she looked young. She seemed to relax a little with each passing mile, the tension slowly draining from her posture. 

We drove in silence for a few minutes. She looked out the window at the rain. She was starting to feel a little bit better. The driver seemed nice, and she was glad that she had accepted his ride.

I cleared my throat, the sound echoing unnaturally in the enclosed space. Maybe I should offer her a towel? Or some dry clothes, if I have any spares? 

After a long few minutes, she spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "Thank you." 

"You are quite welcome," I replied, genuinely happy to help. A pause followed, and I decided to take the plunge. 

A flicker of a smile touched her lips, a tint of amusement dancing in her startling blue eyes. "My name is Velda." She surprised me then. Instead of reaching across the seat, she lifted her left hand from her lap, offering it for a handshake. 

My hand instinctively reached out on the right, the steering wheel momentarily forgotten. But to properly shake Velda's hand, I'd need to be a contortionist. Gripping the wheel with my left hand felt awkward, leaving my right dangling uselessly in mid-air. 

I glanced down at her hand, suspended in offering. Then, I looked up to meet Velda's gaze. A flush crept up her neck, and her blue eyes, wide with a mixture of amusement and something akin to mortification, darted between my hand and her own. It dawned on me then – she'd extended her left hand, likely on autopilot, not realizing the awkward situation it created in the cramped car. 

A smile tugged at the corner of my lips. No need to make things more uncomfortable. Without a beat, I mirrored her action, reaching down with my left hand. "Sorry for the fumble, Velda…?" I said, my voice light. "Looks like a lefty handshake is in order." 

Velda's grip was firm and surprisingly warm, a welcome contrast to the cold rain outside. "Pleasure to meet you, Dean," she replied, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "People call me 'Dean'. You may do so as well, of you like." 

"So, where are you headed?" I asked.

"I'm going home," Velda answered, a flicker of doubt in her voice. 

"Really?" I said lightheartedly. "That's a coincidence, isn't it? I just happen to be going that way too." I made a little jest, to ease whatever remaining tension there may yet be hoping she would lower her guard down a little more. "Really?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. "That is a strange coincidence…"

“Just a little joke...” I offered.

Velda laughed and I must say it is a pleasantly cute, almost musical, laugh. Although it was a guarded laugh, as I could tell from the unease in her voice that she just did not know for sure if it were a joke.

I offer a friendly smile. 

"Seems like you've had a rough night," I said gently. 

Velda sat there in silence, her gaze fixed on a singular raindrop rolling down the passenger side window. 

She was deep in thought, I wondered what she was thinking. 

A shadow of sadness flickered across her face, and it settled deep in her eyes. "Maybe this is not a coincidence," she thought, lost in a distant memory. "Maybe this is exactly where I'm supposed to be..." Her shoulders slumped slightly, and she bit her lower lip, a silent tear threatening to spill. I cleared your throat softly, the sound barely audible over the drumming rain. Unsure if you should interrupt her thoughts, I hesitated. 

"Where may I drop you off at? I ask gently. “I could take you to someplace nearby, a gas station or grocery store perhaps if it makes you more comfortable."

The rain continued its relentless drumming on the windshield, mimicking the nervous beat of your heart. I glanced over at Velda, still lost in the depths of her thoughts. The raindrop that had captivated her earlier had long since traced its watery path down the window, leaving behind a glistening streak. Now, her gaze was fixed on some unseen point beyond the blurred scenery. A crease appeared between her brows, a testament to the weight of whatever burdens her mind. 

I waited on her a moment respecting her silence. The storm's relentless drumming had softened to a steady patter against the windshield. Taking a deep breath, I glanced out at the passing scenery. Sturgis, usually bustling with biker activity during the day, appeared subdued under the cloak of rain. Streetlights cast a warm glow on the deserted main street, highlighting the storefronts adorned with neon signs and Wild West memorabilia. A lone tumbleweed skittered across the empty road, a fleeting echo of the town's rowdy spirit. Despite the dampened atmosphere, there was a certain charm to Sturgis after dark. The city lights, though fewer than usual, twinkled like scattered jewels against the inky canvas of the night sky. 

Maybe the storm's letting up a bit is a good sign. She seems lost in thought, poor thing. Still, I should get her where she needs to be. 

"So," I said gently, trying to gauge her reaction, "which part of town are you headed to?" A beat of silence followed, then I added tentatively, "If you'd rather not go straight home, you know, we could grab a cup of coffee somewhere. Maybe a hot drink would help chase away the chill, both inside and out." 

"Huh?" she said, "Sorry;...I was just deep in thought. Did you say something?" 

"No worries at all," I reply with a smile. "Deep thoughts can be pretty captivating, especially on a night like this. Actually, I was asking which part of town you're headed to. Unless of course, you'd rather not say." 

Taken aback by my question, she raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you may drop me off at the Butte Ridge Apartments” she said without hesitation. 

A flicker of surprise crossed your face at her response. You'd seen an advertisement for Butte Ridge Apartments recently – it wasn't exactly luxury living, and you knew it had income restrictions. But mentioning that now felt intrusive.

"Butte Ridge Apartments, huh? Interesting. I actually saw a listing for those recently. Nice place?" 

Velda let out a short, humorless laugh. "Define 'nice,'" she says, raising an eyebrow.

Velda sighs softly. "It's not the Ritz, that's for sure," she admits. "But it's all I can afford right now, and it's close to my new job. Just gotta get back on my feet, you know?"

"Actually, I live with my elderly mother Marianne," she said. "I just moved back to Sturgis." A flicker of understanding dawned on you. Maybe the income restrictions at Butte Ridge made more sense now. Taking care of an elderly parent could definitely limit housing options. "I see," you said gently. "That makes sense. It's good you're there for her."

"Well, sure thing I can get you there," I say, turning on your blinker to signal a lane change. "Butte Ridge Apartments coming right up."

As the car heats up, chasing away the chill of the rain, a subtle shift occurs in Velda. The dampness in her clothes begins to evaporate, a faint wisp of steam rising from her hair. Her posture relaxes slightly, the tension easing from her shoulders. However, a flicker of something else crosses her face for a brief moment – a hint of regret, perhaps, or maybe even a touch of longing for the conversation that's about to end.

"Did you grow up here in Sturgis?" you asked cautiously.

Velda seems to me to be relieved that we are nearing her destination. There's a subtle shift in her posture, a lessening of the tension that had been gripping her shoulders. As the car heats up, chasing away the chill of the rain, I notice a subtle shift in Velda. As the dampness in her clothes begins to evaporate, a faint wisp of steam rises from her hair. She let out a long breath, the tension easing from her shoulders. The sensation of warmth returning, she reaches for the seat lever and reclines back gently, seeking a more comfortable position. However, a flicker of something else crosses her face for a brief moment – a hint of regret, perhaps, or maybe even a touch of longing for the conversation that's about to end. 

Velda turns to me fully, her gaze meeting mine for the first time. Her expression softens slightly, a hint of vulnerability replacing the earlier hardheadedness. I notice her petite frame curled into the seat, the damp clothes starting to cling to her form in a way that accentuates her small stature. 

The car's interior, while not spacious, offered a surprising sense of comfort for her. The black upholstery, accented with warm wood grain trim, gave it a classic feel, like a well-worn leather jacket – familiar and inviting. In this unexpectedly roomy yet cozy space, Velda seemed even smaller, dwarfed by the broad seats and expansive dashboard. Yet even in this expanse of a car she seemed to be at home as if it were a familiar space to her.  

"Yes, I did up until I moved in with my brother, Vernon," she explains, her voice regaining some of its earlier warmth. "He lives in Rapid City. House painter, that's him. Used to paint houses with him myself, back in the day." 

A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she reminisces, but it fades quickly. Even in her damp clothes, a hint of Velda's unique style shines through. A faded black Aerosmith t-shirt clings to her petite frame, the gold band logo catching the light despite the water stains. A worn, distressed jean jacket hangs loosely over her shoulders, adding a touch of rock-and-roll edge. Layered silver necklaces with mismatched charms dangle from her neck, one glinting with a tiny turquoise stone. Black and white sneakers peek out from the damp hems of her jeans, completing the look.

"You mentioned the apartments were closer to your job," I continued. "Do you still paint houses or...?" my voice trails off, hesitant, unsure if I am crossing a line by asking about her current job. 

Velda seems surprised by my question, then offers a small, self-deprecating laugh. "Oh, house painting? No way," she says, shaking her head. "Not anymore. My back wouldn't survive it these days. Actually, I work at Pizza Ranch – you know, the one on Lazelle Street?" 

"Pizza Ranch, huh?" you reply with a smile. "Great place for a buffet. They have those amazing cinnamon rolls, right?" I inject a bit of lightness into the conversation. 

"That's great," I said. "I am a music producer."

Her eyes widen a little. "Wow, a music producer, that's amazing! What kind of music do you work with?" Her voice carries a mix of curiosity and maybe even a hint of excitement. 

I take a deep breath, unsure how she'll react to your specific genre.

"Christian...well, Nu-metal Christian," you finally admit. With a touch of hesitation in my voice, as I wonder if this niche genre might be a turn-off. Not everyone is open to Christian music. 

Her eyes sparkle with genuine interest. "Nu-metal Christian? I haven't heard of that, but it sounds interesting!”

"We're just about there," I interrupt, glancing out the windshield. "The Butte Ridge Apartments are up next on this street." 

I flick the lever to signal the turn and the car leans into the turn, the apartments are a near pastel blue, the complex resembles most other apartment complexes. The rain has stopped, and the faint glow of a streetlight casts an ethereal light on the buildings. 

She seems to be relieved to be nearing her destination.

"Alright," you say, turning the corner into the dimly lit parking lot. "Do you have a preference for which building you'd like to be closer to?" 

"Actually," she says, pointing towards a specific building, "the one on the far left, building ‘C’, if that's alright. It's closer to the street."

"Building C, perfect," you say, a sense of satisfaction washing over you. Reaching her stop feels good. "Well we arrived." 

I pull into an empty parking space with a soft hiss of the tires against the damp pavement. I turn the key back to the off position, and the engine sighs, a whoosh of air escaping before falling silent – almost. The engine ticks contentedly as it cools, a rhythmic pulse settling under the hood. A single, determined tick persists, a tiny hammer insistent on one last beat. I quirk a smile, awe the familiar defiance of the American muscle car engine. This old friend sometimes throws a little tantrum on shutdown, the spark plugs holding onto a phantom warmth for a moment too long. Sure enough, after a second of that lone tick, the engine finally surrenders, and a blissful silence descends. 

"Alright, well this is it," I say, turning off the engine. "Thanks for riding with me. I enjoyed our conversation." 

I get the sense she wants to keep talking.  

"Hey," I say, glancing over at her. "Since we were talking about music, would you be interested in hearing a sample of what Nu-metal Christian sounds like?”

She is intrigued, “I have heard of Christian music before but I don’t think I have ever really known of any Nu-metal Christian bands.”

“If you would like I could tell you more about the genre?” I question.

“Sure! Please do.” she responds with a slight hint of eagerness in her voice.

"It's a blend of heavier metal sounds, like distorted guitars and powerful vocals, but with lyrics that focus on faith." I explain. “Its blend of heavy metal influences with Christian themes.” I pause to see her reaction and she leans in closer to hear. "Yeah,” I continue, “it's a pretty unique genre. Think harder rock sounds with positive messages, you know?"

Have you heard of bands like Korn or Linkin Park?” I ask.

She nods seemingly eager to hear more.

“Well it is like that but with themes of hope, redemption, and overcoming challenges." I let her soak in this and pause for a breath.

She contemplates this for a moment.

"Oh,..." she says, a hint of wistfulness in her voice.

"But hey, enough about me," I say with a smile, “The real question is, would you like to try a taste of Nu-metal Christian? I have a demo on my phone. Would you like to hear it?”

"Sure, I'd be interested to hear it," she replies with a hint of curiosity.

"Great!" I say, pulling out my phone. "This is a track I've been working on. It's called 'Silver Vein'." 

As I pull out phone to share my music, Velda expresses her hidden desire:

"I sometimes think about what it would be like to be the lead singer of a band."

As I open the Spotify app and navigate to a band page and select a song.

She continues to relate, Velda opens up about her past musical experience:

"When I was going to school at Sturgis Brown High School, I took choir and I enjoyed it. But I just don't know if I have the confidence to actually get up on stage and perform. It can be intimidating, being up there with all those people."

"Yeah, I can totally understand that," I reply with empathy. "Stage fright is a real thing, even for people who love music. Honestly, the first time I performed live, my knees were knocking so hard I thought they'd break the stage."

"But you know," I continue, a hint of a smile playing on your lips, "the adrenaline rush you get when you connect with the audience, that's pretty incredible. It makes all the pre-show jitters worth it."

"Maybe Nu-metal Christian could be a way to ease back into performing," I suggest, searching through my phone's music library. "There's this amazing female vocalist named Lacey Sturm. She used to be the lead singer for a band called Flyleaf. Her voice is powerful, but she also has a really emotional range. You might like her style." 

"Or hey," I add, "if you'd prefer to browse a wider selection, I can show you some Nu-metal Christian playlists on Spotify. There's a lot of great stuff out there."

She thinks on this but doesn’t give an answer right away and I press play not waiting on her response quite happy to share the good news with her.

The music begins playing. 

The music fills the car. 

The vocals come in and the words flow:

Silver veins run through my skin,

A map of my life,

A journey of love and loss,

Of joy and pain.
 

Silver veins are a reminder,

That I am alive,

That I have felt the sun on my skin,

And the rain on my face.
 

Silver veins are a promise,

That I will keep going,

That I will never give up,

That I will always find my way.

To the heart of gold.

The song fades, leaving a contemplative quiet in the car. Velda sits there for a moment, a thoughtful expression on her face. Then, she turns to you with a hint of surprise in her voice.

"Wow," she says, "That's... beautiful. It's not what I expected at all, but it's really touching. What's the name of the band?"

"The band is actually called Silver Vein," I reply with a touch of pride. "It's a project I've been working on for a while now." 

“Oh that is an interesting band name. What does it mean?” she inquires.

"The name 'Silver Vein' has a couple of layers to it," I explain. "On a literal level, it can refer to the veins in our bodies, carrying lifeblood throughout our system. But I also like the idea of silver being a symbol of strength and resilience. We all go through challenges in life, but we come out stronger on the other side." 

"You know, 'Silver Vein' always felt a bit poetic to me," I say with a thoughtful look. "Silver can represent hope, or maybe even a hidden strength you might not even know you have. And a vein... well, that's what carries everything throughout your body. So maybe it's about finding that inner strength and letting it guide you."

The bands a motto is, “Follow the ‘Silver Vein’ to get to the ‘Heart of Gold’.” is an old saying that the Miner Forty Niners used to use when chatting it up in the at the Saloon No. 10 of the popular mining camp known as Deadwood; they would load up on drink and talk amongst each other of dreams of striking it rich while making a gamble at a hand of poker cards as the dancing girls worked hard to relieve the miners of their money to the rag time tune the parlor player played during the Gold Rush saga era extravaganza of the Black Hills of South Dakota.” I take a breath.

“Many a many peoples from all over the world had migrated to the small mining camp in those days with high aspirations and dreams as big as the sky and wide as the canyon.” giving moment for Velda to soak it in.

She appears to be wanting to speak but is hesitant to do so, I give a slight nod and turn to look through the windshield and I notice glints of street light reflecting on each drop let making it appear as though the windshield is dotted with hundred of tiny stars. I go on after a pause and a breath, placing my hands on the steering wheel feeling the wood grain underneath my fingers tips “The deeper hidden meaning is the search for truth. And according to Christian Gospel - Jesus is the way, the truth, and the light.” I explain. “Silver Vein means surrounding yourself with positive people, people who will encourage you to be the best you that you can be, so that one day you yourself might find your own heart of gold.”

“To me though it means that in life there is always an adventure waiting and every path leads you to new paths where new and exciting things are waiting to be discovered.” I end.

"Wow, that's amazing! I can't believe you wrote that yourself," Velda says, her eyes sparkling with genuine admiration. "It's so personal and hopeful. You have a real talent for songwriting."

"Thanks so much, that means a lot to me," I reply, a grin spreading across your face. "The lyrics are really important to me, and I'm glad they resonated with you."

"You mentioned being in choir, did you ever think about writing your own songs?" I ask.

"Actually, I used to write a little bit in high school," she admits with a shy smile. "Mostly just poems and stuff, but never really music... but I don't think that it is...something that people would actually want to hear, I don’t think it is..." She trails off, unsure how to complete her thought.

"That's awesome, Velda! Poems can be incredibly powerful," I say with genuine enthusiasm. "They can paint vivid pictures with words and evoke strong emotions. And hey," I lean in a little closer, "who knows, maybe some of those poems could be turned into song lyrics!"

"Sometimes the best songs start as poems," I explain. "Think about artists like Leonard Cohen or Bob Dylan. Their music is basically poetry set to music. The raw emotion you put into your poems could translate beautifully into lyrics." 

"I understand where you're coming from though," I say gently. "Putting your creative work out there can be scary. You never know how people will react. But hey, if you don't try, you'll never know, right?"

"Honestly," I continue, "the best art often comes from a place of vulnerability. Sharing your voice, even if your voice shakes a little, can be incredibly powerful and connect with people on a deeper level."

She nods in understanding and agreement.

"Would you like to hear another song?" I ask. "It's called 'Chopped and Screwed' and it explores ideas like overcoming challenges, finding your inner strength, and not letting other people define you as a person."

"Sure," she says, "but then I must go inside soon as it's getting late and my mother is waiting on me, she might be getting concerned. She checks up on me a lot. She worries, you know…!"

"It sounds like you have a great connection with your mom, and I wouldn't want to keep you any longer," I reply with a smile.

I pull up the song and hit play. The music fills the car. As the song progresses, you watch Velda to observe her reaction:

The music begins with a power surge. A wall of distorted guitars slams into the car, a low rumble that vibrates in your chest. It's heavy, but not chaotic – the rhythm section lays down a solid foundation with a drumbeat that punches like a heartbeat.

The song grabs Velda's attention right from the start. 

Then, the vocals kick in.

When I look into your eyes I see the things that are wrong with me
I see nothing but shame
I see the way you look down on me
It pains me so bad
It hurts me to know that you think of me in that way

I'm caught up in my feelings thinking about the past
I'm beaten and battered
Lookin' back on the troubles that I've seen 
In all the years before the here and now

You said it
How messed up was I to think that I could be somebody someday

Velda leans in, captivated. 

You said it is not possible to keep my feet on the ground
What you said to me is a crime

I worshipped you
You were my idol
The golden calf upon which I prayed
To me you were the one
To me you were everything
Such a disgrace
Such a fool
I thought we were friends
What the hell happened
What the hell went wrong
Now I'm left all alone with these thoughts

They're not the typical aggressive screams of some metal, but a powerful, impassioned delivery. 

Chance put us together
Chance tore us apart
Too late for apologies
Too late for goodbye
To think of it all makes me cry

Why couldn't I just listen to reason
Why couldn't I just give up on my dreams
Sell myself out for a small amount of change

Me 
I've got a passion
I've got a drive
If only to show you just how wrong you are about me
Well I am doing fine
I am living my dream
The measure of my success
I have already been
I am

The singer's voice soars above the guitars, laced with a hint of raw emotion, delivering lyrics that are clear and impactful. 

Meanwhile you
Your still caught up in your ways
Still spinning in circles
Caught up in the insanity
I hate to laugh because it isn't funny
But I do
How about you
Do you laugh at yourself sometimes
You should
It helps with the clarity
So that you could see
Just how cynical that you can really be

The words aren't shouted, but they carry a weight and conviction that resonates in the small space of the car.

Me
I pity you
You didn't have to be so mean
You didn't have to be so cruel
But you were
You gave up on us
You quit too soon
We could have been partners
We could have been a team
Together we could have tackled this dream
Such a sad circumstance
Such a sad case
How deliberate you were in your judgments
So sure you were that I would fail
Sadly this is the way it all went down
Now look at you
You are the clown

As the song progresses, the music builds and ebbs. There are moments of explosive energy, guitars shredding with a fury that's almost exhilarating. But then, the song breaks into a bridge, a more melodic section with clean vocals that offer a moment of introspection.

Me I feel sorry for you.
Cause your the one without a dream
How miserable you must be
Disappointed
This word describes your whole existence

The lyrics speak of hope and overcoming challenges, a message underscored by the music's shift in tone.

I am sorry
Sorry that you couldn't just love me instead of trying to change me
Sorry that you are not happy with yourself
So that you have to degrade me

The final chorus hits with renewed intensity, the guitars and drums pushing the song to a climactic finish. 

I am sorry
Sorry for you

As the last note fades, there's a moment of silence before the car is filled with Velda's youthful voice.

"Whoa, that's not what I expected at all," she replies, a thoughtful look on her face. "The music is intense, but the message... it's really powerful. It's about not letting anyone define you, right?"

A beat of silence hangs in the air, then her voice softens, hushed with awe. "That was incredible," she says. "The energy... the lyrics... it all hit me right in the feels. It's like you took the words right out of my head. It reminded me..." She hesitates, a shadow flickering across her face. "It reminded me of something I shouldn't have forgotten. Something buried deep within..." 

"Exactly! The song is about owning your own voice and not letting anyone else tell you who you are," I reiterate.

"Amazing," she whispers. "Thank you for sharing that with me."

"Wow," she says, her voice trembling slightly. "That song... it's like you crawled into my head and wrote it down. Remember when I told you I wanted to be a musician? Inspired by something Steven Tyler of Aerosmith had said, 'Seems like the light at the end of the tunnel may be you.' That's when I decided I wanted to be in a band. My dad... well, he doesn't exactly think girls belong in a band. He thinks it's for the 'loudmouth boys' and that I should focus on 'more appropriate' things." 

"Isn't that a line from their song?" I said with a smile.

"Yes it is," she replied with a knowing smile, surprised perhaps at the recognition I showed. "It's from 'Amazing.' It's one of my favorites."

"I completely understand," I reply, placing my hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture. "The song was actually inspired by a similar situation. There was someone in my life who constantly doubted my dreams, who told me I wasn't good enough to pursue music."

"That's exactly what the song is about," I reply, squeezing her hand gently. "Following your dreams, no matter who tries to dim your light." I can feel the frustration simmering just beneath the surface of her trembling voice.

Steven Tyler may have been the spark, but it's clear the fire within her burns bright. It's a shame her dad doesn't see it, but that doesn't have to extinguish her passion. Maybe the song can be the lighter fluid she needs to reignite that flame.

"It took me a long time to break free from that negativity, to believe in myself even when others didn't. That's what 'Chopped and Screwed' is all about – defying expectations and carving your own path."

"Thanks," she says, wiping away another tear. "I don't know why, but this song... it feels like a sign. Maybe I try my hand at songwriting after all. Just to prove him wrong."

"Hey," I say with a smile, "if you ever hear of any Christian metal bands looking for a producer, you let me know." I nudge her gently, sharing a lighthearted moment.

"I don't want to keep you any longer," I continue, noticing someone peering through a window curtain. "I see your mom might be getting a little worried." A wry smile crosses your face. "This has been a great way to end a rough week for me, by the way. Thanks for listening, Velda. It really meant a lot to me that you were open to hearing my music."

"No, thank you," she says, wiping away another tear, a newfound determination in her eyes. "This song... it was exactly what I needed to hear. And hey," she adds, a spark of inspiration replacing the sadness, "maybe you could give me some pointers on songwriting sometime? I'm starting to think I might have a story or two to tell."

A surprised smile spreads across my face. "Are you serious? Absolutely! I'd love to help in any way I can. Here's my card – it's got my contact information and a link to my Silver Vein project, in case you want to hear more of my stuff."

Velda takes the card, her fingers brushing against yours briefly. A spark seems to jump between her and I, a connection forged through shared vulnerability and a love of music.

"Maybe I'll catch you at a show sometime," she says, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Who knows, maybe you'll even hear one of my songs on the radio someday." She steps out of the car, a newfound determination in her stride.

The rain has stopped, and a sliver of moon peeks through the clouds, casting an ethereal glow on the scene. I watch as she goes, a sense of satisfaction mixed with unanswered questions. I had delivered Velda safely to her destination, shared my passion for music, and established a connection, however brief. The night holds a touch of mystery, but also the promise of a future encounter, fueled by music and shared curiosity. Perhaps we will cross paths again at a local music event, both chasing our dreams, the melody of "Chopped and Screwed" a silent reminder of the night we found solace and inspiration in each other.