Fragment of Fiction: Galaxy Upside Down

Her anger rent the air in our booth like a shockwave, pushing me back into my seat, strangling me. Then, in a moment, the fury abated and it was pain and not evil burning behind her irises.

“Don’t judge him too harshly,” I told her. “He’s just another insecure young guy sucked into a business where fucking over kin for a couple of points is a rite of passage. Hollywood is like the Borg, he’s been assimilated, willingly, throwing himself into it, and trying to extract him will either kill him or make him wish he was dead.”

I paused. That was about as close to profound as I get.

And I waited, trying to remember what I just said, watching her.

She seemed to quiet. She took a deep, sobbing breath, let it out slowly like Lemaze. And smiled at me.

“Still mad,” I asked?

“Every fucking cell of me,” she said, smile widening.

“Good,” I said. “Because we are going to fucking kill him, that shit-demon he works for, and that gutter slut they’re casting as lead.”

From the story “Galaxy Upside Down” by David Wolf

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Sparks

My sixteen year-old, ever curious about music and especially my strange tastes in it, wandered into my lair when “Angst in my Pants” was playing and asked me to describe the 80’s dance band Sparks.

“Cross Cheap Trick with Laurel and Hardy,” I told him, “and drop them into the San Fernando Valley in 1979.”

He grinned.

Lord love the kid, he gets it.