He inserted Journey’s Escape cassette into the tape deck of his brother’s Camaro. “Put your hands back on the wheel!” his girlfriend warned. “I can’t believe you’re risking our lives for a few seconds of air guitar.”
“Not just air guitar,” he replied casually. “Neal Schon’s air guitar,” and began furiously shredding the invisible fretboard.
The sap on his hands turned out to be extremely helpful, assisting his grip as he navigated through the branches. He disregarded the withered and empty bird’s nest and continued his ascent.
He could see the entire farm upon reaching the top, and heard the faint echo of his mother’s voice, calling him for dinner.
The wind grew stronger out on the ridge. Wind-driven rain stung their faces like buckshot. They struggled to maintain their balance. The man in front turned and shouted something at the other man, then disappeared into a thicket of trees. The other man picked up four small stones, then moved toward the thicket of trees.
Why was it always so difficult to catch a cab around here after midnight? She didn’t come to this side of the city very often, and began to regret that one last drink.
An oncoming taxi slowed to a halt and she thumped into the back seat, studying the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
Were it not for the long black shoelace affixed to it, Ingrid would have never spotted the whistle in the snow. Cradling it in her hands, she wondered if the sound from such a tiny instrument could really make a difference. Its cold metal numbed her lips, and a piercing shriek reverberated off the ridge.
Anna continued to twist the tuning peg, all the while plucking the B string, intensely attuned to the whine emanating from her amp. She preferred to tune by ear, despite owning a perfectly good digital tuner at the head of her effects chain.
The string snapped loudly and whipped a faint sting onto her knuckle.