Fiction: Tell-Tale by Graham Wynd.

Happy new year: begin as you mean to go on 🍻

Punk Noir Magazine

satan s

The night they kicked me out of the band, everything fell apart. Yet we were grooving so well that night — in sync — and the audience (such as it was) had been right there with us, swaying and laughing and dancing and all, like we always hoped for and seldom got. It felt as if those two hard years of gigging non-stop were finally paying off.

Then there was the echo, or maybe it was feedback. I dunno. The reverb threw me off and then I couldn’t stop hearing the echo of my bass, every note doubled and fed back to me like it had bounced off the walls. I became so disoriented that I had to stop playing and catch myself up.

Stuart glared at me but kept strumming. Aimee looked concerned but never missed a beat. They went on without me, that was the thing — and…

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