I don’t think I’ve ever felt bad about one of my Friday Fictioneers stories before, but I guess I have about my last one. I didn’t go over it the 552 times that I usually do, which meant it had gaps.
So, I’m a bad person, but am greedily offering a second try. It’s called Adulation. Thank you for reading!
My big brother took me to the exposition. His band was playing.
I floated in gossamer dreams.
“This is my music,” he said, dissolving into poetic grunge.
Thirty years later, famous, he’s onstage, eyes webbed red, resembling a bloody gossamer dream. He cajoles me, “It’s part of the show.”
I can only believe him. I’m a kindergarten teacher. I teach kids how to draw a turkey by outlining their fingers.
His eyes belong to no one I know.
The dissolving grunge poet disappears behind an entourage.
The ambulance arrives.
I’m never close enough to grasp his hand as he fades.