“The Trophy Rack” and “I never liked you, anyway”
Gary sat alone in the dark, guitar in his lap, drink in his hand. It was how he spent most of his time. All really. Gary was a member of the Orefice family, and obvious drawbacks of the name aside, being a member of the Orefice family was both a blessing and a curse, in Gary
Adrian walked back in the start of a spring rain like she’d set fires in Chicago and knew she was getting away with it – chin bent slightly toward the pendant that dangled from her neck, hands stiff at her side and leaving footprints on the wet concrete.
The freshly stoked fire threw off a stifling heat and the flames licked the walls with eerie red shadow.
It was like a symphony – the river and what sounded like a flute…or a recorder. I couldn’t stand, so I crawled to the water’s edge, reaching out for the rock and walking my hands up the side so I could look at the shadow that played the music, but they were gone. All that was left was the…
Reginald Stark leaned back in his padded leather armchair with a contented sigh. These were his favorite moments. He had just finished writing his latest column, and he knew it would be another great success. Reginald was a very respected music critic, with a circulation he no longer bothered to calculate. All he knew was that millions of people were affected by his brutally incisive reviews of up and coming musicians, and he recognized himself as the gateway to the elite. Many careers were stopped short and dismantled by no more than one page of Reginald’s type; very few made the cut. The audience could not see the delicate intricacies that define true musical worth, so Reginald decided to show them.
