Member-only story
A short story
Just before you die the blood stops pumping to your brain. The last few seconds are like static from an old radio.
The afternoon is getting on, now. The sunset receding a little into the background. Any respite at all, I suppose. My skin cools. Not searing like before. I can rest easier in my seat. The needles fade…
I have been trying in vain to find something good on the radio.
The first one was modern R&B. You know. They pull some random jailbait from the school cafeteria and tell her she’ll be famous if she moans over a cheap drum machine. Mum won’t have to work two jobs. She’s really going for it too. Probably figuring if she fit enough notes in one single banshee wail they’d throw in some food as a bonus. Live the dream, right?
Next. Talk radio, the worst. Angry, conservative loudhailer. Takes calls from middle-class housewives who fall in love with the dulcet tones of his voice. Reminds them of Daddy. Talking about society going down the drain, whatever happened to real role models, the liberal media are in control and oh, I know! I know! It’s awful! Venting their frustration to their surrogate radio Dad, carefully ashing their cigarettes into their expensive glassware ashtrays. All of them dying all the same.
