“This town has no scene,” says Maddox as he slaps down the Arts & Entertainment Pullout. “Scene morkus est.”
“Almost positive that’s not Latin.” Tiscali flips it open: the only bands it lists are tour acts and tributes.
“We can’t run a label when all the local talent is… is skating! Or covering the Gin Blossoms.” Maddox pulls at his hair. “Where’s the Scotch?”
“You can have root beer,” says Tiscali, and thinks, the scene’s not gone. It’s just got no air. The sparks don’t die; there will be new bands–gasping, drowning, dying as they rise. The scene’s a phoenix underwater.
Wednesday, November 2, 2005
“I want you to make me a promise, Sarge,” chokes PFC Stumbo.
Vijay grasps his slick hand and nods. Stumbo’s hand is ancient and spotted; Vijay’s is soft and smooth, like any fifteen-year-old’s, but his eyes say this isn’t the first death he’s watched.
“You’ll be one of them before long,” says Stumbo. “Few years now.”
“Never,” Vijay grates. “I’ll die first.”
“Don’t forget that the young and the old have rights, can think–can–don’t let the Age War happen again, Sarge,” Stumbo heaves. “Don’t let.”
“I don’t want to grow up,” whispers Vijay, and closes Stumbo’s eyes.
Tuesday, November 1, 2005