Tag - Stories That Sing – 1980s
By Justin Mynheir “This is quite a pickle. Isn’t it, dear?” Dave leaned against the inside of the rusted cage. Down the cliffside, across an amphitheater of ancient stone ruins claimed by jungle growth, suspended over a bubbling pool of lava, Karen fidgeted in her rope bindings. “You think?!” “I think plenty, but even myRead it now
It was completely transforming the Moon, and I was the last hope of stopping it.
As I waited on the balcony of the one human-accessible building there, I stared out at the vast network of steel and silicon. It looked like the inside of a laptop, but on a monstrous scale. There were trains, ships, and satellites moving in a myriad of ways, spinning and whizzing and drifting, a jigsaw in perpetual motion. I felt dizzy and weak and had to turn away.Read it now
Standing atop a hill at least half a mile from the amphitheater, the distant 80’s classics thrum through my head. The band isn’t overly popular, but they’re free, so the place is packed. The outskirts are the perfect place for an introvert like me. This is shaping up to be an extraordinary evening.Read it now
I’d given up screaming. I was terrified and sick, but what was the point? No one could save me now. The descent seemed endless, like I was doomed to fall for eternity. The throb of my heartbeat in my ears had faded, and my nausea was subsiding, as though even my body had resigned itself.Read it now
The Queen lay awake long past midnight, tracing the lines on her face with her fingers. They were deeper than they had been yesterday. They turned to wrinkles and then to crevasses, stealing her youth and beauty.
The man sleeping beside her would say she was even more beautiful than the day he’d first seen her
We’ll have dinner soon, Buddy,” Babe insisted.
I couldn’t see what she was dicing on the counter. I sniffed. Beef maybe?
The phone rang. “Wait a minute. I’ve got to answer this.”
I groaned. I tugged at her arm, trying to remind her about our dinner, but she shooed me away. Babe liked to talk.
The salty smell of the harbor in Baltimore hit my nose and I know exactly where and when I am.
I trip over my own feet, still woozy from the jump, and catch myself on a newspaper stand. To my great and pleasant surprise, my hip doesn’t ache after nearly slamming into the sidewalk.
I haven’t killed anyone, I swear.
But everyone else thinks otherwise. Even my defense attorney isn’t sold. Now that I’m on the defendant stand, it feels like the whole world has turned on me.
“Blake Lawrence,” Judge McGrath booms, “you are on trial for the murder of your girlfriend, Lillian Torsten. How do you plead?”
No hesitation. “Innocent, Your Honor.”
Vera’s air lasted just long enough to finish the song, and then her throat closed. Wheezing, she dipped a curtsy to sparse applause. Before she could faint onstage, she pushed through the hazy gambling hall and escaped outside.
A gaslight supported her as she fought to catch her breath. At least she’d finished her set, unlike last night.
This should be easy. I am an assassin. He is my target.
Why is this not easy?
I stand in the shadows at the corner of the muddy alley, staring at him. He stands with his back toward me in the dark doorway of a wooden building. The alley drips with sparse raindrops.