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Notes From the Underground

speculative-fiction

It is a good day to rock.

We end our final rehearsal and step away from our instruments. On the table in one corner of the dark studio sits the bottle wrapped in damp cloth. Jesse, Dickie, and I tie on our headbands. I open the bottle, wipe condensation off the neck and lip, and pour three glasses.

I lift my glass and say, “To music.”

Jesse and Dickie answer, “To life.”

We drink the peach wine, now cool and sweet. But I am the only one who can taste it.

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